11. Isabella
Chapter eleven
Isabella
T he elevator dings its arrival on the executive floor with all the subtlety of a trumpet blast, and I shuffle out, still trying to figure out if my stomach is tangled in nerves or last night’s Thai food. I glance up, and there he is—Adrian Cole, looking like a GQ cover model that got lost and ended up in a law firm. Our eyes snag, but he’s quick to break away, striding into his office without so much as a nod.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath, adjusting my grip on my leather briefcase. “Ignore me. That’ll make everything better.”
I keep my head high, ignoring the persistent throb behind my eyes—a souvenir from last night’s cryfest. I had gone full-on Niagara Falls after dropping the baby bomb on Mr. Emotional Fort Knox. Sure, I laid it out all cool and detached—I’m good at that—but a tiny, ridiculously hopeful part of me wished for ... what? A hug? A “we’ll get through this”? Instead, I got the emotional equivalent of a brick wall.
“Composure, Isabella,” I remind myself as I push open the door to my office. “You’re a shark, not a goldfish. Be a shark. ”
Settling into my chair, I eye the fresh stack of papers right in front of me—updated merger financials courtesy of Kate, my lifesaving secretary.
“Need anything else, Ms. King?” Kate pops her head in, her tone bright enough to give me a sugar rush.
“Nothing but a time machine and a bottle of wine,” I say with a half-smile. God, I miss wine. “I’m just diving into these financials.”
“Added them to your desk five minutes ago,” she says, proud as if she’d just solved world hunger.
“Thanks. You’re the best,” I reply, though I can’t help thinking that instead of numbers, I should be crunching prenatal vitamins and nursery color schemes.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” she offers before slipping out, closing the door with a soft click.
“Thanks,” I sigh, staring down at the papers as if they might contain a hidden message on how to navigate impending motherhood with the stoic Mr. Cole. At least I have my first Lamaze class in the afternoon to look forward to. Alone, most likely.
Chuckling dryly, I brace myself for the day ahead. Whatever Adrian decides about being involved with our kid, I know one thing for certain—I’ve faced down tougher opponents than parenthood. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
I flip through the papers, my brain already fried from the numbers swimming before my eyes. I’m looking for the cost projections from Aurora and NexGen, but no dice. I shuffle through the other stacks of documents on my desk. Perhaps Kate didn’t bring everything out after all.
“Kate,” I call out as I step into the hallway, my voice echoing off the walls a little more sharply than I intend. She looks up from her desk, her expression morphing into concern .
“Those projections from Aurora and NexGen seem to have sprouted legs and walked away,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
She furrows her brows, a clear sign she’s taking this personally. “I triple-checked everything when I printed them out. Everything they sent us is all there.”
“Maybe our friends at Aurora and NexGen decided to play a little fast and loose with their numbers,” I suggest, though I’m not quite ready to let them off the hook.
“Should I dig through the emails again?” Kate offers, already half-standing, eager to fix what isn’t her mistake.
“Stay put,” I tell her, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ll take this up with Mr. Cole. We’ll need all hands on deck if we’re going to make sense of this mess.”
With an encouraging nod to Kate, I make my way to Adrian’s office. The door is slightly ajar, and I push it open without knocking—because formalities are overrated.
“Enter and close the door,” he says without looking up from his computer screen, his voice smooth like whiskey and just as dangerous.
“Um … right. Missing documents,” I begin, cutting straight to the chase. “We’re short a few key figures from Aurora and NexGen.”
“I’ll have Suzy take care of it.” He doesn’t even flinch, just keeps typing as if we’re discussing the weather.
“Thanks,” I say, turning to leave. But there’s one more thing. “Hey, I need to slip out early today. Lamaze class.”
He finally looks up, something flickering in his eyes that I can’t quite read. “I’ll go with you.”
“Really?” I arch an eyebrow. “You know you don’t have to pretend to care.”
“I want to,” he insists, then asks, “ What time?”
“1 p.m.,” I reply, surprised by the offer but not about to question it.
He nods decisively. “We’ll go together.”
“Great,” I say, though I’m not sure if I mean it. One thing’s for sure, though: Today just got a whole lot more interesting.
***
I shuffle into the Lamaze class at Adrian’s side, feeling a cocktail of nerves and something that might be excitement. The room is filled with pregnant bellies and anxious fathers-to-be, all trying to look like they’ve got a handle on the impending chaos of parenthood.
“Never been to one of these before,” Adrian murmurs, his gaze sweeping the room. “Colette wasn’t exactly inclusive when it came to ... well, anything baby related.”
“First time for everything,” I quip, but there’s a flutter of relief in my chest that he’s here with me, experiencing this novelty. It feels less lonely, less daunting.
I excuse myself to the bathroom, swapping my pencil skirt and blouse for leggings and an oversized shirt—because comfort is key when you’re practicing how to breathe through labor.
We dive into the class, and I’m immediately lost in the world of “hee-hee-hoo” breathing. Adrian’s attempts are more “ha-ha-what?” which earns us both sidelong glances and stifled giggles from our classmates.
“Are you sure you’re not hyperventilating?” I tease, as he puffs out air like he’s trying to blow down a brick house.
“Are you sure you’re doing it right?” he shoots back, his tone light but edged with mock competitiveness .
“Let’s focus on our own breathing, shall we?” the instructor chides gently, though her lips twitch with amusement.
“Sorry,” we mutter in unison, then exchange a defiant smirk.
Our instructor smiles, but then turns to the room. “Why don’t we move on to the best labor positions? Does anybody here know which position is best to ensure a smooth and safe delivery?” She wanders over to the board at the front of class containing a diagram with several different positions and points to it.
“I’m telling you, gravity works wonders,” I insist, crossing my arms confidently. “Upright positions help speed things along.”
Adrian, sitting beside me, raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Sure, but do any of these positions involve not looking like I’m trying to break you out of a pretzel? Some of these look like advanced yoga poses gone wrong.”
The instructor chuckles, sensing the opportunity for a teaching moment. “Actually, standing and leaning positions, or even sitting on a birthing ball, can be quite effective. They allow gravity to assist, as Isabella mentioned, while keeping you more comfortable.”
I give Adrian a smug look. “See? Gravity for the win.”
Adrian shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “Yeah, but I didn’t sign up to be your human jungle gym. What if we just, I don’t know, walk? People have been walking for centuries.”
A few of the other couples laugh, and the instructor smiles patiently. “Walking is a great option, but it’s good to have alternatives. Some women prefer more supportive positions when contractions get intense.”
Adrian rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Okay, but some of these poses … I mean, this one—” he rises and points to a picture on the diagram that involves squatting while holding onto a partner’s shoulders. “This looks like I’m trying to carry a backpack I didn’ t sign up for.”
I burst out laughing, earning a playful glare from Adrian. A small part of me now wishes he had taken these classes with his ex-wife. “You’re supposed to be supportive, remember?”
“Yeah, well, I can be supportive and not look like I’m auditioning for Cirque du Soleil,” Adrian shoots back, his lips twitching with a suppressed grin.
The instructor steps in, trying to mediate. “It’s all about finding what works for you both. Maybe we try a simple leaning position, where Isabella can hold onto a chair or the bed, and Adrian, you can give her a massage from behind?”
Adrian’s eyes brighten. “Now that, I can get behind. Literally.”
The room erupts into chuckles again as I roll my eyes, trying not to laugh. “Fine, we’ll skip the acrobatics. But I still say gravity’s going to win this argument.”
Adrian leans in closer, his voice soft but playful. “As long as I don’t end up doing downward dog in the delivery room, I’ll let gravity take the lead.”
I smirk, leaning into his side. “Deal.”
“Your child is going to have such fun with you two,” the instructor observes, her eyes twinkling. “Laughter is the best medicine, after all.”
Adrian gives me a pointed look, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. But inside, the tension unwinds a notch. This back-and-forth—it’s our weird rhythm, and it steadies me more than any breathing technique ever could.
Because even though we can’t agree on the little things, when push comes to shove—literally—we’re on the same page. And that’s what matters.
Finally, the Lamaze instructor announces the end of the session, and I can’t help but feel a weird mix of relief and disappointment. Adrian’s been surprisingly supportive—well, in his own sarcastic, Adrian-like way.
“From now on, I’m coming with you to these things,” he declares as we stand up, folding the yoga mat like he’s negotiating a business deal. “And the doctor’s visits.”
“You sure?” I arch an eyebrow, unable to hide my surprise. “You want to be involved?”
“Yes, Isabella,” he says, his voice serious for once. “I think we’ll make good partners.” My heart skips at “partners,” but then he adds quickly, “Co-parents, I mean.”
“Right, co-parents.” But secretly, I down a flutter of something that feels dangerously like hope.
We walk out of the building and into the crisp air. The evening sun casts long shadows across the parking lot as we head to his SUV.
“You’ll take me back to my car, right? I’m parked in the firm’s lot.”
“Actually, let me take you home. I want to see where our kid will be living,” he decides, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Fine,” I consent, too tired to argue.
His SUV purrs to life, and soon, we’re pulling up to my apartment building. We ride the elevator up in silence, but my curiosity is piqued and loud in my mind. Adrian really wants to raise the baby with me. Yesterday, I was certain I would be doing this solo.
Stepping off the elevator, I lead the way to my door and unlock it. I step inside, with Adrian close behind.
“Two bedrooms,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me, as he begins his inspection tour. He pokes his head into my home office, seemingly already envisioning it repainted in pastel colors and filled with stuffed animals and storybooks.
“This will be perfect for the nursery,” he says, making mental notes. “The dimensions are perfect for a toddler’s bedroom. ”
“I know,” I reply, arms crossed over my chest. “I’ve already thought about it.”
“Of course you have,” he nods. “But we’ll need to make sure everything is top-notch. Safety first.”
“Adrian, we’re not decking out a royal nursery here,” I snap, trying to keep my cool. “Let’s just stick to the essentials.”
“Isabella.” He turns towards me, eyes meeting mine, “I don’t skimp on two things—legal cases and family. We’ll get the best for our kid.”
“Great, can’t wait for the diamond-encrusted crib,” I mutter under my breath, rolling my eyes.
He chuckles, unfazed by my sarcasm. “Don’t worry, I won’t go overboard. But if it’s a choice between fancy and safe, we’re going with safe.”
“Fine,” I concede, knowing there’s no point arguing with him on this. “But don’t expect me to start getting used to luxury.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he grins, and starts listing baby items like he’s reciting court evidence. It’s meticulous, thorough, and so very Adrian.
And, if I’m being honest with myself, maybe it’s also a tiny bit endearing. Just a tiny bit.
“Is that all then? Did everything pass your inspection?”
“Shouldn’t we check the bedroom too?” Adrian’s casual suggestion reverberates in the hallway, and I’m tilting my head at him, eyebrow cocked in suspicion.
“Why?” I challenge, half expecting him to spout something about crib placement or square footage.
“Acoustics,” he offers, a sly grin playing on his lips. “Got to make sure the baby can’t hear us … talking.”
“Talking,” I say, the word dripping with disbelief. But curiosity—or maybe it’s just the magnetism that always seems to draw me toward him—prods me forward. We’re in my bedroom before I even know what I’m agreeing to, and then his hands are on my waist, pulling me close with an urgency that sends my heart into overdrive.
His lips crash against mine, the kiss igniting sparks that flicker through my veins like a live wire. We’re against the wall, his body pressing into mine, and the world narrows down to the feel of him, the taste of him, the undeniable heat. My fingers tangle in his hair, which is as perfectly disheveled as ever, holding him to me because, for all my sarcasm and self-control, I can’t seem to let go.
“Bed,” he mumbles between kisses, his voice husky. “We should … check the bed.”
“Quality control?” I gasp out, trying to keep a shred of levity while my senses are drowning in Adrian Cole.
“Absolutely,” he says against my neck, his breath hot on my skin. “Need to make sure it’s … suitable for when I stay over.”
“Practical,” I manage to say, half-laughing, half-moaning as he steers us toward the bed. Because apparently, this is happening—we’re doing this very thorough inspection of sleeping arrangements.
“Always,” he replies, but there’s a twinkle in those dark brown eyes that tells me practicality is the last thing on his mind. And honestly? Right now, it’s the last thing on mine, too.
He takes a seat at the foot of the bed, but I’m already eager to get him out of his clothes. His shirt falls to the floor, a casualty in our silent war of desire. He watches me with those dark eyes, daring me to bare myself to him. I rise, my movements deliberate as I tug my shirt over my head and let it drop.
“Your turn, counselor,” he teases, his voice low. “I can’t believe you wore that to class.”
“Hey, if I’m going to be spreading my legs in front of a bunch of parents, I should at least be comfortable.”
“But you’re spreading them for only me now. You don’t need anything to do that.”
I kick off the sweats without grace but with a hint of defiance. “Next?” I ask, pretending this is just another negotiation, another dance where I know all the steps.
“Surprise me.”
Challenge accepted. The bra goes first, the clasp giving way under my fingers. His gaze is nothing short of devouring, and it sends shivers down my spine.
I step into his space. “Assistance, please?” My voice is a mix of sass and silk.
With a smirk, Adrian peels away the last barrier, my panties joining the rest of my discarded armor. Now it’s just us, raw and unshielded.
“Leg up,” he commands, and I comply, resting my foot on the plush duvet. His touch is like fire and ice as he traces my thigh, sending anticipation skyrocketing. He’s at my mercy when he looks up at me like that, and I’m at his when he whispers those words, “You’re so wet.”
“Need you,” I admit, because there’s no point in lying, not when every cell in my body is screaming for him.
His finger slips inside, and it’s everything—too much and not enough all at once. I bite my lip to keep from crying out because if I start, I might never stop.
“More,” I gasp, the edge of pleasure sharpening with each movement of his fingers. He obliges, and another digit joins the first, stretching me deliciously.
My muscles clench around him, and I lean heavily into his solid chest—my anchor in a sea of sensation. His hands are magic, commanding responses from my body I didn’t know were possible .
I arch against him, breath hitching. “I want all of you,” I manage to say, every nerve ending begging for more than just the tease of his fingers.
He pauses, the question heavy in the air between fast breaths. “You’re certain?” His voice is rough like gravel, coated with concern and desire.
In response, I nod fiercely, unable to form words as moans take their place. With a final caress that almost undoes me, he withdraws his fingers. I nearly whine at the loss until I see him rise before me, an Adonis in my storm-tossed sea.
Eager to assist, I reach for his waistband, fumbling with the button on his pants. They drop to the floor with a soft thud, followed by his boxer briefs, and suddenly there’s nothing left to hide the raw hunger we have for each other.
“How do you want me?” Adrian’s voice is low and steady, an anchor in the whirlwind of my thoughts.
Without a word, I lie down on my side, eyeing the expanse of the bed invitingly. I pat the space beside me, and he catches the hint like it’s a lifeline. “Exactly like this?” His body aligns with mine, the heat of his chest searing against my back.
“Exactly,” I whisper, and then add with a reckless abandon only this man can draw out of me, “And no condom.”
He doesn’t hesitate, entering me gently from behind. The sensation rips a cry from my lips, a stark sound in the quiet room. He starts slow, but even his gentlest thrusts are enough to stir the storm inside me again.
His hand reaches for my face, tilting it back for a kiss filled with passion that rivals the building tempest in my core. As he picks up the pace, my cries grow louder, punctuated with a string of expletives that would make a sailor blush .
“Fuck,” spills from my lips, my vocabulary reduced to its simplest form under the onslaught of pleasure.
“Is that my cue to fuck you harder?” he teases, a chuckle vibrating through his frame.
The thought alone has me panting. “Or would you prefer this?” Before I can answer, his arm snakes around me, fingers finding the bundle of nerves that promise oblivion.
“Both,” I demand, caught between his skilled hand and the relentless push and pull of our bodies.
His fingers work their magic, his touch a symphony on my skin, hitting all the right notes. Each deep thrust sends waves of pleasure that crash over me, building up and threatening to sweep me off my feet—or in this case, off the bed.
“Oh God,” I gasp as the world blurs into a haze of Adrian and touch and heat. “Please,” I manage to breathe out, clinging to the last shreds of reality. “Don’t stop.”
“Never,” he growls, and there’s a new urgency in his movements, a promise of something wild and untamed.
The tension coils tighter inside me, and then it breaks, shattering into a million pieces of pure ecstasy. As I ride out the high, he slows down, his movements turning tender, almost reverent. But I’m greedy—I want all of him, every part of this complicated, infuriating man who’s somehow become my anchor.
“Can I—” he starts to ask, but I’m already answering with a pleading whisper, urging him on.
“Please,” I say again, because it seems to be the only word I remember how to say. He complies, his rhythm picking up once more, each thrust pushing me further into delirium until finally, he shudders above me, a groan escaping him as he finds his own release .
Afterward, he slides out and flips me onto my back without a word, his lips finding mine in a kiss so full of hunger it could start the whole damn thing over again. But he pulls away, regret shadowing his eyes.
“I wish I could stay,” he murmurs, and I know he means it. It’s in the line of his shoulders, the reluctance in his touch.
“Go be Super Dad,” I tell him, trying to infuse some levity into the moment. “I understand you have priorities.”
“Thanks.” He climbs off me and searches for his clothes among the pile we’ve made. He dresses quickly, efficiency in every movement. I linger a bit longer, watching him, memorizing the way the light catches the angles of his face.
“I’ll walk you out.”
At the door, he pauses, promising more stolen moments like these in the future. There’s an ache in my chest—an awful blend of longing and trepidation—as I nod, my heart stuttering a silent beat of agreement.
The kiss he leaves me with is soft, a silent conversation between two souls who’ve collided in the most unexpected way. Then he’s gone, and I’m left staring at the closed door, wondering if I’ve just opened Pandora’s Box or found the missing piece to a puzzle I didn’t even realize was incomplete.
“Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it,” I mutter to the empty room, a half-hearted laugh escaping me. But beneath the humor, there’s a thread of hope—because whatever comes next, we’ll face it together. And for the first time in a long while, I’m not alone.