I haven’t laid my eyes on her in person since our kiss. The desires I’ve struggled to rein in the past several months didn’t wane because of our kiss. They’re more furious than a wildfire. My time has merely been utilized fixing the injustices I made so there will be nothing standing in my way when it is time to make her mine.
My bed.
My house.
My rules.
Mine.
She will be mine because I’m too ruthless to accept any less.
While stepping off the curb, Isabelle says, “It was very sweet of you, but after only five days, the struggle to squeeze into my jeans is already real.”
My lips arch into a smile when the lowering of my hooded gaze to her snug jeans causes her knees to curve inward. Isabelle has sexual appeal by the bucketloads, but the fact she is unaware of how appealing she is makes her even more striking.
After clearing the yearning from my voice, I say, “That just means there will be more Isabelle to explore.”
As I touched on earlier, the morning following Isabelle’s birthday, I visited Harlow’s bakery. Although Hugo’s constant berating about me leaving the restaurant with Isabelle before she could sample her cake was frustrating me to the point of cracking, his riling didn’t fuel my motives that morning. I made mistakes the night of Isabelle’s birthday—many of them—and I am brave enough to admit that. Organizing for her to be gifted a personally crafted cupcake every day for a year was the commencement of fixing the erroneous errors I’ve made thus far. The remaining items on my rapidly growing list will be far more extravagant. It’s the least I can do after making her cry on her special day.
For a woman tossed away and discarded like a broken doll, Isabelle’s smile when my compliment sinks in is immensely coy. Her uncle either succeeded in raising a well-adjusted woman or Isabelle is well-versed in keeping her guard up.
I’m not bothered on which one is a more accurate portrayal of her personality. I can break through either of them, or both, if necessary.
Just as Isabelle’s lips twitch, we’re interrupted by a snarky yet trying to sound anything but a snarky voice. “Isaac, honey, are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Clara’s term of endearment isn’t new, but her public display of affection most certainly is. My jaw spasms when she cozies up to my side before resting her chin on my shoulder. She is usually a couple of inches shorter than me, but the pretentiously high stilettos she’s wearing make us almost the same height.
After working my jaw side to side to ensure my words come out with the clipped command they generally yield, I offer an introduction. “Isabelle, this is Clara. Clara, this is Isabelle Brahn.”
I use Isabelle’s surname to remind her that superiority comes in many forms. Clara may be dressed to the nines, and the diamonds on the tennis bracelet circling her thin wrist could fund Isabelle’s retirement decades earlier than necessary, but a woman’s value isn’t appraised by what she wears. It is how she makes those around her feel.
No one is above anyone.
No one is below anyone.
We all stand side by side.
Isabelle believes that. Clara isn’t close to understanding the metaphor. Just the spike in her pulse from staring at Isabelle is extremely telling, much less her delay in finalizing my greeting.
She initiated the greeting, so shouldn’t she finish it?
It takes me nudging Clara with my elbow for her to recognize she is the cause of the stuffy rigidness of our exchange. She swallows to clear her throat before extending her hand to Isabelle in greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Isabelle.” Her tone is as regal as she thinks she is. The McGregors aren’t royalty, but the funds in their multiple bank accounts could purchase them more than a few castles.
After an awkward handshake and an even more uncomfortable bout of silence, Isabelle says, “Well, I better get going.” She swivels on the spot before locking her eyes with mine. They’re brimming with unease, but there is something much more significant than nerves keeping them lit. It could be playfulness, tranquility, or lust. I can’t pick between the three. I settle on happy when she adds, “I just wanted to thank you for the gift, although it was completely unnecessary.”
Her smile assures me she would have been just as grateful to have received a handmade trinket. The thought makes me smile. Since it is a rarity these days, Isabelle isn’t the only one taking notice. If Clara gawks at me any more rigidly, her vision will suffer irreparable damage.
Unlike Clara’s greeting, Isabelle’s farewell is far more amicable. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Clara.”
Never one to back down from what she wrongly believes is a fight, Clara impedes Isabelle’s wish to flee with an invitation. “Oh, don’t go. Can’t you join us?”
When Isabelle spins back around to face us, Clara silently begs for her to deny her offer, to deny me. I do the exact opposite. I’m fascinated to see how she will thrive outside of the norm, but I want it to be via her own choice. From what I’ve learned of her family the past five days, I doubt many things she’s done have been of her own accord.
I wipe the yearning expression from my face before Clara can see it when Isabelle replies, “Thank you for the offer, but I’m slightly underdressed.”
When she glides her hand down her skin-tight jeans, I permit my eyes to follow its descent. I don’t stop at her jeans, though. I drink in her fitted blouse with the top two buttons teasingly undone, the thin necklace on her delicate neck, and the slightest hue of pink on her cheeks my wanton gaze caused. She is ravishing, and I’m not a man who holds back a deserved compliment.
“You look perfectly fine.”
