As if he has spotted my gawk, he yanks his cell phone away from his ear so his narrowed gaze can scan the street. He stops seeking me when the lady he greeted in the restaurant stands beside him. When she lifts a cigarette to her mouth, Isaac lights it for her with a gold lighter.
Isaac’s date is attractive, mid-thirties, with shiny black hair cut into a fierce bob. Her body is fit, well-groomed and covered in a feminine, designer black pantsuit. Ignoring the pang of jealousy forming in my chest, I raise my phone to snap a picture of her. This may be the FBI’s only opportunity of capturing her face.
In the silence of the morning, my camera click is easily audible.
Shit!
I splay my back on the wall, the roughness of the brickwork scratching my delicate skin. Softly, I curse over my stupidity.How could I have forgotten to turn the sound off on my phone during surveillance?My heart flips as my panic surges, confident they heard the clicking noise.
After many deep breaths—and a few more expletives—I peer back around the corner. Isaac's black Mercedes Benz is parked at the front of the restaurant. His acquaintance is already seated in the back passenger side seat. Isaac places one foot into the car before turning his eyes in my direction. I'm confident he has spotted me spying on him through the green hedge, but I can’t tear my gaze away. I'm trapped, captivated by his entrancing eyes.
Several tension-riddled seconds pass before he shakes his head and slides into the back of his car. The instant his shiny black vehicle glides down the street, I crumble onto the concrete sidewalk, knowing without a doubt that I am in way over my head.
That wasn’t just thrilling; it was highly addictive.
7
Isabelle
Aloud gasp parts my lips as I dive for the computer mouse. I click anywhere and everywhere on the monitor, praying my manic clicks will stop my personal photos being uploaded to the FBI database.
Realizing my excessive clicking isn’t alleviating the situation, I use my hands to cover the flurry of images flicking across the monitor, meaning only tiny portions of my bare skin are on display for the world to see.
“I’m so sorry!” I apologize, mortified.
Alex’s expression remains neutral except for a rare grin tugging his full lips high. Brandon’s response isn’t as reserved. I kick him in his shins when he attempts to pry my fingers away from the screen, hoping for a more in-depth preview of my raunchy vacation snaps.
“I had a two-week vacation at Del Mar before I arrived here,” I inform them, giving them any excuse I can as to why there are several photos of me in a very skimpy bikini being uploaded onto the FBI’s database.
Darn selfie sticks have made it too easy to get full body shots when vacationing alone. Although, I do love that bikini. I shouldn’t, though. It took months of grueling workouts for me to feel confident enough to wear a bikini like that.
After a few margaritas and a stern lecture on body image, I slipped into the scraps of material society classes as a bikini. Knowing I'd probably never wear it again, I got a little excited about taking several photos from multiple, and, I was hoping at the time, appealing angles.
“It was hot in Del Mar,” I murmur when neither Brandon or Alex reply to my admission.
A genuine smile morphs onto Alex's face. Although I despise him, and call him several crude and entirely accurate names under my breath multiple times a day, my heart still skips a beat when he smiles.
“That wasn’t the onlyhotthing there.” Brandon playfully tugs on the collar of his shirt.
I try to hide my gratitude at his compliment. Only the smallest smile creeps on my face, but it is enough of a reaction for Brandon to notice.
“No,” I inform him delicately, stealing his chance to ask me on a date for the tenth time the past two weeks.
“Who said I was going to ask you out?” Brandon asks facetiously.
Arching my brow, I glare into his hazel eyes that are a little greener today than usual.
Brandon’s composure remains calm for all of two seconds before the biggest smile stretches across his face. “One date won’t kill you.” He once again tries to pry my fingers from the computer monitor.
Brandon is cute, but our personalities are too similar for us to become a couple. I don’t agree with the whole opposites attract notion, but I do believe your partner should bring qualities to a relationship you don’t already have. If you like sweet foods, they should like sour. If you're a “live your life on the edge of your pants” type of person, they should be more reserved and prefer taking their time to consider their options. That way, over time, you eventually get a perfectly balanced relationship.
Well, that has been my logic. I could be wrong since my theory has yet to be proven, considering I’m single and living with an old flame of my uncle and her two cats.Oh god.I’m going to become one of those crazy, dressing gown-wearing, chain-smoking, hair-a-ratted-mess cat ladies.
“Our next weekend off, we should go out,” I suggest to Brandon.
Brandon’s glowing eyes dart to mine.
“Only as friends, though. And just drinks; no dinner or movies, just drinks.”
