by Lexi Blake
He nodded but there was almost a sense of disappointment coming from him. Still, he gave her a half smile. “It’s only eight o’clock. I’m typically a night owl. Besides, you have way more in your fridge than I do. Do you mind if I make those cookies?”
“I can do you one better. I baked peanut butter bars last night. They’re in the container by the fridge.” She frowned. This could be a deal breaker for their future partnership. She wasn’t sure she could work with a nonaddict. “Unless you don’t like peanut butter.”
“I love peanut butter. It’s one of my favorite things in the world.” He’d already turned to go back to the kitchen.
Well, it was easy to see how to get to that attorney. Feed him. And by partnership she meant that in a work way. Not in an every-time-he-touches-me-my-skin-comes-alive way. Not that way at all. Besides, he was only being kind to her. He hadn’t shown one drop of physical attraction, and that was a good thing because this wasn’t the time to have feelings for someone.
She closed the door to her bedroom behind her, thankful he was still there.
One righteously hot shower later and she still couldn’t cry. She’d stood there, hot water flowing, and she hadn’t been able to summon a single tear. They’d been right there all day long and when she could finally let them flow—nothing. It was odd, but she’d wanted what David had promised her. If she gave up the waterworks, maybe her chest wouldn’t feel so tight. Maybe she wouldn’t feel as heavy as she was now. Grief weighed her down, and not in that incidental way that came later. This was a road she’d been down before. Later, the grief would be a sweater she wore—easy to forget when the temperature was right, easy to remember when she got too warm but couldn’t take it off. No, this was a smothering blanket that covered every inch of her body. She felt numb, and maybe that was okay for now. All that mattered was breathing.
She put on a pair of pajama pants and a tank top and left her bedroom to talk to David. It wasn’t fair to keep him here no matter how much she wanted him. Here. In the apartment. Because she didn’t want to be alone. That was all.
She would let him know she wanted to work on the case, make plans to meet with him in the morning, and then let the poor man go home. By tomorrow he would realize that this day was a one-off and she could be a professional. After some sleep, she would be back on her feet and ready to be the tough lawyer she was.
Stepping out of her bedroom, she heard the news playing softly in the background. A woman was speaking. Isla moved into the living room. David sat on the couch, leaning forward, his focus on the television in front of him. A picture of a young Portia floated across the screen, followed by others. Some Isla had seen before, others must have been sent in by Portia’s friends and the designers and photographers she’d worked with over the years. It wouldn’t be hard to put together a video montage of a woman as famous and photographed as Portia.
Portia Adams was a figure in her community. Emigrating from her native England as a teen, she rapidly became a staple of New York Fashion Week and she parlayed that fame into a decades-long career where she championed body positivity in the modeling field. She once famously refused to work with a designer who wouldn’t consider a plus-sized line. She married quarterback Trey Adams at the age of twenty-five and together they built a foundation that serves New York City’s children. From sponsoring intramural sports leagues to housing the homeless to funding STEM classes, Portia Adams used her money and her celebrity to make the world a better place. She is survived by her husband and two children and a world that will miss her.
Isla stopped, the simple words of the reporter gutting her in a way all the salacious reporting never could. Portia was gone. Trey was lost.
It wasn’t fair. They’d only had twenty-five years together. It wasn’t enough. They should have had a lifetime. A lifetime of health, of love, of time to do the things they’d been born to do.
Tears came, her numbness gone in a storm of pure sorrow. It wasn’t fair. Portia had been kind. She’d done everything right and some animal had taken her apart like she meant nothing. Someone had walked in and ruined everything, and now those kids had to go on without a mom and Trey would be alone, lost in his head without Portia’s steady hand to pull him back out.
David stood up, turning to her. “I’m sorry. I wanted to get an idea of what the press was saying.”
She shook her head. It didn’t matter. She knew she should turn away, go back to the bedroom and collect herself. She couldn’t let him see how broken she was.
“Isla, it’s okay,” he said, his voice a little shaky. “It’s okay to mourn. It’s all right to cry for them. They deserve your tears.”
All she had to do was take one step forward and lift her arms and he was suddenly there. Big strong arms wrapped around her.
“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered. “You’re going to be okay. Maybe not tomorrow or the day after, but I promise you’ll get through this.”
She sobbed, clutching him as though he was the only thing real in the world.
* * *
• • •
David felt his heart break a little as she wrapped her arms around him. All day he’d watched her, saw how she held herself together in the face of all that pain. When he’d walked up here, he knew that he wouldn’t leave unless she had someone she could call, someone to watch over her this first night.
And damn him but he’d been happy she hadn’t.
He was a bastard for that reaction, but he didn’t want to leave her. He acknowledged that he wanted to be the one holding her. Like he’d wanted to be the one to feed her. It had only been the easy task of heating up something she’d already made, but in that moment, he needed to do it.
He moved until he was able to sink back into the sofa, taking her with him. She was sobbing against his shoulder, her tears making his shirt wet, but all that mattered was that she was finally getting some relief. And that she trusted him enough to let him comfort her.
If there was one thing he’d learned over the course of the day, it was that Isla Shayne was a woman he wanted to know, wanted to be close to. It had taken every good instinct he had to tell her she didn’t have to help with the case. He’d thought about it the whole long while they sat together at the hospital, waiting and hoping to speak with Trey. He’d thought about how emotional the case would be, how personal it was to her. He’d weighed it against the fact that all he wanted was to keep her close. Somewhere deep down he’d decided that the case could be a reason to stay near her. It was much more simple than asking her out and trying the dating thing. He could be near her every day for months and months at a time. This kind of case could turn into a 24-7 job and she would be there the whole time. It would be damn near impossible to not get to know her.
But he’d seen her sorrow and known he had to give her an out.
Maybe she wouldn’t take it. Maybe she would trust him enough to know he would take care of her.
He sat there on the couch, stroking her hair and feeling closer to her than he had to any human being in a very long time. He’d missed this, missed being needed in a physical way. She wasn’t asking for sex, but there was a deep intimacy in what they were doing.
“I was scared,” she whispered when the sobs finally died down. “I hate that my first reaction was fear.”
She was being far too hard on herself. He sighed, breathing in her scent. Her hair smelled like citrus. Even when he’d sat with her in the gloom of the police station, there was a light about her. “You’re human. I would have been afraid, too. And I would have thrown up.”
She shook her head and moved back a little so he could see her face. “You would not have. I’m sure you’ve seen terrible things in your time.”
She didn’t cry pretty and yet her emotion made her all the more lovely in his eyes. Her face was red, her eyes swollen, but it was the pure portrait of a woman who felt things deeply. He couldn�
��t help himself. He stroked back her hair. “I threw up on national television once. It was during the playoffs and I tackled a guy coming at me. I hit him just right and his leg snapped and there was a bone coming out and I lost it. It was one of the last games I played. I still hate the fact that I caused that injury even though the guy is a good friend of mine and doesn’t blame me. Seeing something that visceral, hearing the pain in someone’s voice and knowing there’s nothing you can do, is one of the roughest things you’ll ever go through.”
She winced. “I remember that. I was working with the Guardians at the time and the guys would watch it in the media room over and over again. I even remember them laughing about the guy who threw up. I can’t believe that was you. I thought they were horrible for laughing about it.”
This he could explain to her. “Guys are different. Especially athletes. We either laugh at it or we get scared of what could happen. It’s better to laugh. It’s a rough business. We do what we have to in order to survive.”
“I still think it was mean.” She almost laid her head back down, but she pulled back at the last minute. “I should get off you. I’m sorry.”
He pulled her closer. “Don’t. Not unless you truly want to. I had a rough day, too. This is the best I’ve felt all day.”
She sighed, a weary sound, but she cuddled close to him. “I know I shouldn’t do this, but it feels right.”
It was right. He knew that deep in his gut. Isla might be right for him, but he wasn’t going to push it. “It does.”
“This isn’t just about what happened today,” she admitted quietly. “I was with Austin when he passed. I was holding his hand and I swear I felt the moment he died. Seeing Trey like that brought me back to the moment. I’m not pining over him. I loved him and I processed the loss a long time ago, but in that moment it felt fresh, like it had been ripped open again. Now that I think about it, I feel selfish. I was thinking about me.”
Almost like he’d felt when he’d lost Lynn. He hadn’t been in love with his wife at the end. Too much had gone on between them, but when she died, he’d mourned what she represented—his youth, a hoped-for family, the light she’d had back then. “It’s okay. Whatever you felt in that moment wasn’t selfish. It was real. Isla, you have to stop trying to be a rock. If you really want to work with me on this, you’ll have to promise me you won’t bottle it all up.”
“So you expect me to cry a lot. I’ll try not to. I’ll be professional most of the time. And I do want to work with you.” She yawned, covering her mouth with her free hand.
“I want to work with you, too.” He didn’t say the rest of what he wanted to say. It was there in the fact that she’d stopped crying and they were still sitting here. He wanted to see where this would go. He wanted to follow the thread he’d found today and find out if it led all the way back to her.
“Good.” She went silent.
They sat that way for a while, their arms around each other, chest to chest. And then her breathing turned rhythmic and deep and he knew he had to put her to bed. He didn’t want to but he doubted he could sleep like this. He stood, moving back toward her bedroom.
She didn’t wake as he walked carefully to the bed. She was a sweet weight in his arms and he thought about the fact that he hadn’t carried a woman like this, not ever. He wanted to make the moment last, but he laid her gently on the bed.
Her eyes came open, looking up at him, innocent and wide. “Please stay, David. Not on the couch. Stay here with me.”
She wasn’t asking for anything physical. She was tired and likely wouldn’t sleep without the comfort of another body in bed with hers. The events of the day weighed on her and she looked like some of the victims of violent crimes he’d met. Haunted. Afraid that nothing would be normal again.
He made his decision in that moment. “I’ll stay.”
He might not be able to leave her again.
FOUR
David shifted and sighed, a shaft of sunlight crossing his face. Something smelled so good. Actually it was a couple of smells, like layers of goodness. First there was the scent of flowers and citrus. It clung to the sheets and the comforter. And then there was that other smell. The one that always got him excited, the one that made him sit up in bed.
Bacon. Someone was cooking bacon.
Okay. He wasn’t in his own bed. Nope. His sheets smelled like whatever bland industrial detergent the cleaners who did his laundry used. And they weren’t as satiny soft, and his bedroom wasn’t a frothy confection of feminine comfort.
And no one cooked bacon for him.
Isla. God, he’d ended up in Isla’s bed. Of course, he was also fully dressed. Well, he was still wearing his undershirt and slacks. He’d even kept his belt on, but he’d slept with her slender body wrapped around his, her head on his chest most of the night.
She’d been lost after she heard that tribute to her boss on the news. All her carefully placed walls had dropped, and he had been left with the soft, caring woman she was, and it floored him how much he felt for her.
He hadn’t felt much for anyone or anything since Lynn had passed. They had that in common. They’d both lost someone.
Not that she knew that. He was almost ready to talk about his wife when he’d felt her sag against him, her body going slack.
Please stay, David. Not on the couch. Stay here with me.
He’d gone and made sure her door was locked. Checked in on his parents. Did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. And then he’d climbed into bed beside her. He’d left his clothes on because he didn’t want her to think he expected anything from her.
She’d rolled over and sighed, and wrapped herself around him like he was a teddy bear and she needed comfort.
Oh, he wanted to give her more. Isla Shayne had gotten to him. She’d gotten to him in a way no woman had in years. He’d dated since Lynn had died. He had a healthy sex life, but he hadn’t wanted a woman with a singular passion. He’d wanted sex. He liked the women he’d dated and the sex flowed from that.
He wanted Isla and he was damn glad she wasn’t still in bed because she might have noticed that he’d woken up with a terrible erection.
Damn it. She was hurting and he was an asshole because he couldn’t control his own dick. And an asshole because he admitted to himself that it felt good to want someone. The last few years had been about work and nothing else. He’d welcomed it because sex had become a biological function. What he wanted from her was something more.
But she’d lost her family the day before.
And she was younger than him. Not by much in years, but she was lovely and young in spirit. She wasn’t covered in scars and held back by a knee that never quite stopped aching.
She wasn’t facing the chance that her brain would deteriorate like his might from a thousand hits he’d taken since he was a kid in a youth football league.
What were the words from yesterday? Damn it. He’d forgotten to do it. Noah had hauled him out of his apartment before he’d done his daily memory exercises. What were the Friday words?
Mockingbird. Jalopy. Bottle.
It was a silly thing, but he did it every day. He started the morning with three random cards, each with a picture and a word. At the end of the day, he wrote down the three words he’d read at the beginning. At the end of the week, he tried to remember as many as possible.
He did sudoku, crosswords, anything to keep his brain working.
Anything to put off the time when he had to take that test to see if he would be one of the 28 percent of all pro players who succumbed to CTE.
Well, it was good to know he had an off switch. His erection was completely gone. It was damn good to remind himself of the real reason he should stay away from Isla Shayne. Beyond the fact that they’d just met and under terrible circumstances, more than keeping up a wall of professionalism because they would be working together
, he could be a walking time bomb waiting to blow up her whole world.
A feminine laugh floated in from the kitchen. He liked the way she laughed. She was unselfconscious and . . . was that a snort? It was cute on her. What was she laughing at? Had she turned on the TV so she didn’t have to deal with silence? Or was she on the phone with a friend who was lifting her spirits?
Was the friend a guy?
Nope. He wasn’t going there because there was no relationship between them. He wouldn’t get jealous because that was illogical.
He told himself that as he used her bathroom. As he went about washing his face and trying to get his hair under control, he decided he would thank her for dinner the night before, sit down, and decide on the schedule for the day. They would need to go by the hospital and see if they could get anything out of Trey. Hopefully the initial police report had been finalized. They would need to make some kind of statement to the press from the family. He would get Margarita on that. She knew some seriously good PR people.
What he wouldn’t do was walk out and put his arms around her again. He wouldn’t hug her and breathe her in like oxygen. He definitely wouldn’t kiss her. He would do his job and get out of her hair.
And be deeply grateful that no one knew he’d spent the night with the client. He would catch such hell.
He stepped out of the bathroom and heard her laugh again. Maybe it would be easier to leave if she had a smile on her face.
“That was when I realized the prosecutor was the woman I’d slept with the night before and, dude, she was pissed. I might have slipped out of her bed and not left a note,” a familiar voice said.
“You are terrible,” Isla shot back, but there was sunshine in her tone.
“In my defense, I thought she was a model,” Noah replied. “She looked like a model. She pretty much had the brains of one. She did not look like an ADA who would hold a mean grudge. How was I supposed to know?”
