Once again, she’s quick to shut down the disappointment on her face. She just isn’t quite fast enough for a man with my level of astuteness. “Are you sure there isn’t something else I can get you?” she queries after placing down the mug brimming with freshly prepared brew onto my new table. “We have a selection of celiac products if you’re gluten-free.”
I toss my head back and laugh, doubling the number of patrons in her establishment within the blink of an eye. I’m not laughing at her assumption that I’m on a gluten-free diet. I’m chuckling at the way she screws up her nose while mentioning the gluten-free range of products she has for sale. She has the same look of disgust Isabelle had when we were served roast pumpkin, spinach, and feta salad during our flight.
Once my laughter settles down, I say, “I’m not celiac. I am waiting for someone to arrive.”
“Oh.” She looks on the verge of peeing her pants with excitement. “Okay. Great. Well, if you need anything in the meantime, shout my name.” She pushes aside the long ponytail draped down one side of her chest to reveal her name tag. “My name is Harlow.” After sheepishly waving her hand around the no-longer dormant space, she adds, “I kinda own this place.”
“Kind of?” I reply, curious. Her name is on the door, her products are in the cabinets, so why isn’t she claiming ownership as she rightfully should?
After placing down my bill that shows I owe a whooping three dollars and fifty cents for my coffee, she mumbles. “I inherited the bakery from my aunt. I’ve been trying to wrangle it out of the red since then, but I’m not quite there just yet.”
“All businesses take time,” I say before I can stop myself. Even withhaving no patience, I’m as generous with my knowledge as I am my bank accounts. “Has a financial advisor looked at your books?”
Her first downfall is exposed when she sheepishly shakes her head. Those who despise talking about money usually don’t have any.
“My financial advisor isn’t taking new clients at the moment, but if you tell him I sent you, he may squeeze you in.” After digging a business card for Jeremy Klost out of my wallet, I hand it to Harlow. “But be warned, you can frost up the books as much as you like to make them presentable, but Jeremy will see straight past it. If this ship is sinking, he won’t suggest you buy an oar. He may tell you to jump ship.”
It’s sporadic for me to admire a stranger. Still, I do Harlow when she raises her chin while saying, “Even a man with a $2.325 millionSerpico y LainoGoldPatek Philippewristwatch knows the captain always goes down with the ship.”
With a smile that exposes she appreciates the shock on my face, Harlow pivots on her heels and stalks away. My watch is so exclusive, not even Regan could guess the closing price when I purchased it at a Christie’s auction last year, so I’m stunned a humble baker would be aware.
After forcing the sleeve of my suit jacket over my expensive timepiece, I unfold the newspaper Harlow placed next to my coffee before immersing myself into a world of politics and financial stakes that would make most men’s eyes water. I even skim past the entertainment section to see if Nick’s band has scored a mention. Since Delilah’s focus is no longer directed at derailing the bandmates’ personal lives, Rise Up has gained a dedicated group of fans the past two weeks.
I’m so deep into a sports article about a local fighter climbing the UFC rankings, it takes me a few seconds to realize the rush of adrenaline sluicing my veins isn’t from recognizing the fighter’s name. It’s solely centered on Isabelle’s thirty-minutes-late arrival at the bakery.
Even peering at her through a single pane of glass didn’t do her unique features justice. Her lips are plumper in person. The heavy tint on the glass doesn’t weaken the richness of her eyes, and the hue that adorns her cheeks when she realizes she has captured my attention wouldn’t have occurred if I were still watching her from afar. She is truly fascinating, and she has my shrewdness precariously dangling on a cliff edge.
As the customers filling almost every inch of the bakery floor soak up the current teeming between us, I fold my paper in half before placing it next to my now-empty coffee mug. I watch Isabelle’s exchange with Harlow, curious if things are strictly business between them. They appear friendly, but Harlow seems like the type who’d be friends with anyone, so my assumption could be inaccurate.
Once Isabelle has a mug of coffee in one hand and a grease-laden bag in the other, I gesture for her to join me. She takes a moment to drag her eyes over the group of people eyeballing our exchange with hungry, shameless gawks before she pushes off her feet with a sigh. Since it was only half the strength of the ones she released before sprinting away from my nightclub her first month in Ravenshoe, I act as if I didn’t hear it.
As Isabelle pads my way, I drink in the features I’ve been denied the past two weeks. The mesmerizing bounce of her curves reveals what I’ve always known. If she weren’t on her period, I would have claimed her in that washroom thirty-thousand feet in the air. But it also has me curious where we’d be now if womanly issues didn’t place a massive barrier between us. I have never acted as imprudent as I have the past six weeks—not even when I was chasing Ophelia, so is that an indication I’m seeking more than a handful of nights beneath the sheets?
When Isabelle stops at my side, I greet her with a smile. “Hello, Isabelle.”
My tone comes out snappier than intended. It has little effect on the jolt of pleasure that darts down Isabelle’s spine from her name rolling off my tongue with a purr. “Hi.”
Morals my father instilled in me from birth are brilliantly showcased when I stand from my seat to assist Isabelle onto hers. The smile she struggled to rein in during our greeting creeps across her face when she slips onto her chair. It’s as ravishing as the spark of lust that bolts through her eyes when I slot into the seat directly next to hers instead of across from her.
I’ve watched her from afar for weeks. My patience is too thinly stretched to continue perusing her from a distancewhen she’s mere inches in front of me. The thrill of a chase is addictive. Nonetheless, it hasnothingon the unknown. I can implement strategies to ensure I never fail, exceptwhen it comes to relationships. There, I’m flying blind.
After dumping her hideous satchel on the floor next to her feet, Isabelle exposes the real reason she runs miles every morning. Her sandwich is the perfect heart attack combination. It’s greasy, overloaded with calories, and smells almost as delicious as her.
Acting oblivious to my indiscreet watch, she swallows down the lump in her throat before taking a generous bite of her grilled cheese sandwich. My thoughts are already improper, but they become downright immoral when she moans about the cheesy goodness swamping her tastebuds. It’s a husky, throaty groan that inspires the yearning deep in my stomach to rumble its way up my chest.
Upon hearing my hungry growl that has nothing to do with food, Isabelle darts her eyes to mine. Her cheeks bloom with heat when she notices my prolonged gawk of her lips. A piece of string cheese is stuck in the corner of her delectable mouth, and it’s taking everything I have not to force it down her throat with my cock. I’d even settle on using my thumb if it assured my hands would be on her in some way. That’s how insatiable my needs are. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life, and quite frankly, that frustrates me even more than the frantic bite of my zipper to my cock.
I begin to wonder if Isabelle has mindreading capabilities whenshe breaks our intense gray-eyes-versus-brown-eyes stare down. After shoving her barely touched sandwich back into its packaging, she leaps to her feet. “I have to go. I… ah… forgot an important deadline.”
As shocked by her abrupt race for the door as me, Harlow shouts to a rapidly retreating Isabelle,“Do you want me to pour your coffee into a takeaway cup?”
The brisk shake of her head doesn’t slow her down in the slightest. She’s out the door in an instant, and even quicker than that, I’m chasing her down. I’m at a loss on what I plan to do when I catch her. I just know I can’t let her race away from me for the second time with tears damming in her eyes.
With Isabelle heading straight for the blue surveillance van I thought I had lost, I seize her elbow in a firm grip before guiding her toward one of the many businesses Cormack bought out the prior three years.
Once I have her trapped into the alcove of an old watering hole that went out of business after Bronte’s Peak was built, I stray my eyes to the street. When the blue van darts past the alleyway we’re camped in, I redirect my focus to Isabelle. My anger is boiling, and although not all of it belongs on Isabelle’s shoulders, I can’t help but take out my frustration on her. “I assumed you must have left town when you failed to arrive for our date, but lo and behold, here you are, months later.”
I begin to wonder if the woman I met with on the plane was switched with a doppelgänger when Isabelle remains as quiet as a church mouse. She has the traits of a submissive, but she is far from a pushover, so why is she portraying one?
