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“So I guess Tristan and I aren’t going to connect over music,” she croaked, hating to break the mood by mentioning another man but she kind of had to.
Isaiah flinched and jackknifed up to a sitting position as if he’d forgotten the real reason they were here, which shattered the vibe instantly. “Oh, yeah, probably not. We’ll find something though. What else do you like?”
You. She almost said it out loud. She and Tristan could share a friend, right? Surely that meant they’d have something in common since they both liked Isaiah. But she couldn’t seem to get that out around the big lump in her throat. Best thing would be to keep her thoughts to herself in case he misunderstood the comment and made it out to be something it wasn’t.
She had a huge crush on Tristan. Ask anyone. She’d practically turned it into an art form. It was absolutely imperative that she get him to notice her for a number of reasons, not the least of which was winning the bet. But also because it meant something if he did—that Aria was good enough, special enough, and important enough to for someone like him to believe it. Then maybe her sisters would see it too. And no one would ever leave again.
The real trick was how she’d convince herself of that when people who should have been in her corner never believed it either. It would be so much easier to forget the whole bet and hang out with Isaiah instead. He was funny and sweet and so unexpected, drawing her into his circle easily, almost as if they’d always known each other.
Except he’d never have invited her up to his rooftop refuge without the bet. She was on borrowed time and not as brave as he’d claimed, which had the odd effect of making her want to prove him right.
She could do this. She had to.
Six
“Maybe it would be easier to tell me what Tristan likes,” Aria said in response to his question after a long enough pause that Isaiah had started to wonder if she’d heard him. “Instead of trying to shoot in the dark by talking about what I like.”
Sure. That made sense. But he already knew everything about Marchande. It was Aria who’d intrigued him so unexpectedly that he still hadn’t quite figured out what had hit him. Which didn’t make his sudden fascination with her okay, especially not when she’d come to him expressly with the goal of getting his friend to ask her out. She’d trusted him with this task, yet here he was veering off into la-la land like this was a date, and he had every right to dig into the personality of a woman who interested him.
He didn’t. Not only did he have no plans to stick around, she was reserved for Marchande, who absolutely deserved to have a great woman like Aria. Besides, the heaviness in his chest served as a reminder that he had a lot of stuff going on inside that left no room for a woman. He wasn’t aiming to fulfill Serenity’s prediction. Quite the opposite.
Isaiah shut off the music. It was too sensual anyway, particularly in light of what they were supposed to be doing up here on this roof.
“Tristan likes…” Women. Isaiah bit it back. While that was true, it wasn’t a flattering quality of his buddy’s or at least he wasn’t the right guy to spin it in a positive light. “Fire.”
Also true. And safer. For everyone.
Aria’s expression grew intrigued. Of course. Because Marchande not only had women falling at his feet, he was also a genius with fire as well as anything that created a spark. Not to mention explosives. When the man talked about his field of expertise, everyone listened, especially women.
“Tell me more about that,” she said. “I can learn about fire. Does he do magic tricks with it?”
“Yeah, the best kind,” Isaiah said flatly. “He has some sort of savant ability to control the flame, especially when it comes to the conditions, like how windy it is. I’ve seen him make a whole building disappear during a typhoon.”
Isaiah, on the other hand, was lucky if he could gauge the wind enough to shoot straight at five hundred yards. Though he’d never been truly jealous of Marchande. Until now. It made him feel petty and small.
“A whole—building?” Her voice veered between fascination and disbelief. “That’s better than any magician I’ve ever seen, including David Copperfield on TV.”
“Oh, yeah. He’s way better than that guy. The main difference being that it’s an illusion on TV. Tristan is the real deal. We’re talking major destruction of property. It’s his specialty. That’s why we call him Le Torch. Nod to his French ancestry and all.”
He left out the part where Marchande’s nickname had actually come about because of his reputation with the ladies. It was a nice bonus that it fit his skill set too.
“Wait. You mean the building doesn’t come back?”
“No.” Not even when the intel about which building to destroy was wrong. “That’s what we did in Syria. Took out al-Qaeda strongholds. The goal was to ensure everyone inside died and that the place couldn’t be reused. We were good at it. Quick and efficient.”
Too efficient.
While the village he’d had a hand in destroying in Syria haunted him, Marchande had been the one to bring a chunk of a building down on top of Rowe. Isaiah knew both men had been severely affected in ways the rest of them couldn’t begin to fathom. Though he’d tried to reach out to them both. And failed.
His mood soured considerably, which was a shame because he’d been enjoying this interlude with someone who hadn’t been a part of the worst experience of Isaiah’s life. But the universe had a way of bringing things around full circle and definitely he’d needed the reminder that he didn’t deserve to relax.
“What’s your specialty?” she asked and the question snapped over him like a net, pinning him in place.
“Isn’t that the million dollar question?” he muttered, struggling to drag air into his lungs. “When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”
She didn’t press him on it, thankfully, or he’d have to decide whether to admit that his role usually came afterward, when everyone needed to reconcile the circumstances of the op. He’d been good at providing a sounding board, encouragement, hope. Isaiah was the one who glued everyone back together so they could do it all again the next time.
Or at least that had always been the case in the past. After al-Sadidiq? Nothing. He’d curled up in a ball and let his grieving brothers be crucified on the altar of politics and diplomacy.
