16. Adrian
Chapter sixteen
Adrian
T he prenatal class ends like a wave against the shores of routine, and we shuffle out to stretch our legs. A sense of déjà vu lingers, the familiarity of these sessions stitching themselves into the fabric of my new normal.
It’s midday, and I’m on chauffeur duty for Isabella because why not add taxi service to the ever-growing list of unexpected roles in my life? Honestly, it’s a breath of fresh air compared to what’s going on at the firm.
“Adrian, Isabella, you two are going to be such amazing parents,” gushes a mom-to-be from our group, her belly swelled like she’s smuggling a basketball.
“Yeah, you two really do make a great couple,” her husband says, stepping up beside her and wrapping an arm around her waist. “How did you meet?”
I glance over at Isabella, my gaze lingering. “We grew up together.”
Isabella turns to the couple and adds, “Our fathers were childhood best friends.”
“You don’t say.” The mom-to-be’s face lights up with interest as she rests her head against her husband’s chest .
Isabella crosses her arms casually over her chest, as if the conversation is easier to handle with a physical barrier between us and them. “How about you two?”
Her question draws a smile from the father-to-be. “We worked as managers at the same company for ten years. We shared an office.”
The mom-to-be laughs softly, shaking her head at the memory. “And I had no idea he had a crush on me the whole time.”
Her husband grins, his eyes full of admiration for his wife. When I found out she had put in her two-weeks’ notice, I was devastated. I knew I had to tell her how I felt. Luckily, it worked out for me.”
I smile, feeling a strange sense of pride for him taking a chance on the woman he loves. “Seems it worked out for the both of you.”
“Really. That’s so sweet,” Isabella adds.
“Love always finds a way to work its magic. I can see it in the way the both of you look at each other.” The father-to-be leans in closer like he’s about to reveal the secret of the Universe. “He looks at you like he’d give you the moon if he could.”
A blush creeps up on Isabella’s cheeks, and she glances down at the linoleum floor before I can catch anymore of her reaction. Is she uncomfortable, or flattered?
“Thank you,” I reply, tugging at the corner of my mouth in what I hope passes for a smile.
Isabella stands beside me, her shoulders squared with joy that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, tinged with an awkwardness that speaks volumes.
The mom-to-be eyes Isabella’s belly. “How far along are you, Isabella? You’re hardly showing.”
“Twelve weeks. I’ve taken to wearing loose clothing. It’s going to become more obvious within the next few weeks, I think.” Isabella places a hand on her stomach, and my lips part when I catch the hint of a baby bump. It’s small, but her belly is sticking out a bit more than usual.
I turn to the couple. “Is this your first?”
“Nope. Third time’s the charm, right?” her husband says, chuckling and patting his wife’s bump.
“Or third time’s for bravery awards,” I quip, earning a light chuckle from the couple. But as they beam at us, I catch the flicker of something in Isabella’s gaze—something like longing or maybe just a pang of fear. I can’t decide which, but either way, it has me questioning if she sees a future with us beyond baby boot camp buddies.
A knot tightens in my chest, one that’s becoming all too familiar. I shove it aside and focus on the here and now—the way Isabella’s hair catches the light, how it makes her green eyes pop. If only she knew I’d give her more than a co-parenting contract; I’d write her a blank check for her heart if she’d let me.
“Any tips for surviving the first year?” Isabella’s question snaps me back to the present.
“Stock up on coffee and concealer,” the mom-to-be says, pointing to the dark circles under her eyes like battle scars from sleepless nights past. “And maybe earplugs, depending on your tolerance for the midnight symphony.”
Isabella lets out an almost inaudible laugh, and I bask in the sound, even though it’s brief and fleeting.
When the conversation lulls and the couple mingles with another group of parents, I seize the moment for a gesture that’s been simmering in my mind.
“Hey, before I forget,” I say, pulling out my phone with a casualness that belies the thumping in my chest. “Let’s add our locations to each other’s phones.”
“Location?” Isabella asks as we make our way out of the building .
“Think of it as a digital umbilical cord,” I quip as we amble toward the parking lot, my phone in hand. The sun is high, casting long shadows on the pavement that seem to reach out like fingers trying to trip us up.
Isabella’s stride falters for just a second, her sharp gaze locking onto the screen as I navigate through the settings. She arches an eyebrow, the corners of her lips twitching with uncertainty. “Isn’t this a bit ... much?”
“Emergencies come in all flavors,” I reply, shrugging as if sharing locations isn’t a big deal—though it’s about as subtle as a billboard declaring “I’m into you.”
“You know, in case you ever need to find me in a crowded bookstore because I got lost in the thrillers section.”
It sounds ridiculous even to my ears, but there’s a truth behind the humor that I hope she hears.
Her hesitation is brief, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. A moment of vulnerability where she lets herself rely on someone else. It’s a leap for Isabella King, whose independence is as much a part of her as her relentless ambition. But then she nods, and I can practically hear the “what the hell” she’s thinking.
“Okay, Adrian. Just in case of emergencies,” she concedes, and there’s a smile there, private and small, that tells me it’s not the inconvenience she’s worried about—it’s the connection. And it’s getting harder by the day to pretend I don’t want that connection to turn into something more tangible.
She passes her phone over to me so I can work my tech magic. When I’m done, I hand her phone back, and the slight curl of her lips feels like a win. I pocket my own device, pushing down the urge to make a bigger deal out of this than it is. Colette would’ve taken a mile if I’d given her an inch, but with Isabella, every inch feels like a negotiation.
“Your chariot awaits,” I say, gesturing grandiosely towards my SUV before going around to open the passenger door for her.
She rolls her eyes, but her smile only grows bigger as she slips inside.
Traffic is a snail-paced monster, but I let the car idle in the afternoon crawl, stealing glances at Isabella as she scrolls through her phone. There’s a certain calm that’s settled over us since the class ended, something unfamiliar and not entirely uncomfortable.
“Caleb won’t stop talking about you, by the way. He keeps asking when he’ll see you again. Says he wants to thank you for helping him a while back,” I say, breaking the silence. A smile tugs at my lips as I watch her reaction.
Isabella looks up, clearly surprised. “Really?” she asks, her voice tinged with something like wonder.
“Yep. Thinks you’re some kind of superhero.” I chuckle, but it’s true. Caleb has taken a shine to her, and I can’t blame him.
Isabella’s face softens, a smile spreading across her features. It’s moments like these when I catch glimpses of the person beneath the no-nonsense lawyer. “I’m flattered,” she says. “He’s a great kid. Maybe we can arrange something.”
My chest tightens at the sincerity in her words. They bounce around the car, too significant to ignore. “How about we pick him up from school together? Maybe grab an early dinner?”
“Sure,” she replies, and I can hear the smile in her voice. It’s a simple yes, but it feels like a win.
As we inch forward in traffic, I find myself fantasizing about dinner—Caleb’s laughter mingling with Isabella’s, the easy conversation, the way they might look sitting together. It’s a dangerous path for my mind to wander down because it leads to places that I’ve told myself are off-limits .
But screw it—I’m secretly thrilled she agreed. Not just because it means more time with her, but because I’m curious to see how Caleb views her outside of his persistent inquiries. Does he see what I see in her fiery determination and hidden compassion?
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, masking my eagerness with casual indifference. Inside, though, I’m all drumming fingers and restless energy, like a kid before Christmas. Only this gift isn’t wrapped in shiny paper—it’s the possibility of a future that looks nothing like I had planned but everything I might want.
***
The clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation create a lively backdrop as we settle at our table at The Belvedere. Since we picked him up, Caleb’s been animatedly telling us about his schoolyard soccer match. It has Isabella laughing, her green eyes crinkling at the corners in genuine amusement. It’s infectious, that laugh, and I find myself grinning like an idiot.
“Then, Miss Simmons said I could be captain next time if I keep up the good work!” Caleb exclaims, puffing out his chest with pride.
“Looks like we’ve got a natural leader on our hands,” I say, winking at Isabella.
She nods, her smile lingering on Caleb just as the waiter arrives to take our order.
With menus tucked neatly under his arm, the waiter turns to us. “Good evening,” he says, smiling as he hands out the menus. “May I get you started with any drinks or are you ready to order?”
I glance at Isabella and catch the slight smile on her face. “I already know what I want,” I tell the waiter, leaning back in my chair.
“Me too,” Isabella chimes in, her voice steady, though I can see her eyeing the appetizers list briefly.
Caleb perks up beside me, already bouncing with excitement. “Can I get the gnocchi? It’s my favorite!” He beams up at the waiter.
I smirk, nodding. “He’s a regular here, so yeah, he’ll take the ricotta gnocchi.”
The waiter nods, jotting it down, and then turns to me. “And for you, sir?”
“Dry-aged ribeye, medium rare,” I say, almost before he can finish asking. I glance at Isabella, raising an eyebrow. “Let me guess—something light and dainty?”
She rolls her eyes, not taking the bait. “I’ll have the wild mushroom risotto, please. Since you’re paying, right?”
“Good choice,” the waiter says with a smile before walking off.
I chuckle as I turn back to her. “Risotto? Really branching out there, aren’t you? I recall you always preferred lots of protein and low carbs.”
She shrugs, unfazed. “Things change. Not all of us need steak to survive.”
Caleb giggles, and I just shake my head, smiling despite myself. She knows how to keep me on my toes.
The food arrives in about ten minutes, and the waiter sets each plate down with a flourish. The aroma of my ribeye is mouthwatering, and Caleb’s eyes light up as his gnocchi is placed in front of him. Isabella smiles politely at the waiter as her dish is set before her.
We start eating, the conversation flowing naturally—light, easy. Caleb happily digs into his gnocchi, telling us about a new game he’s been playing at recess. Isabella listens, laughing delicately at his enthusiasm, and I catch myself watching her more than I’m paying attention to the story .
“This steak’s perfect,” I say between bites, looking over at Isabella. “How’s the risotto?”
She gives me a quick smile, taking a bite. “Delicious. You should try something other than meat next time. You might surprise yourself.”
I raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Me? Go without meat? I’ll leave the experimenting to you.”
Caleb giggles, his plate half-finished. He’s in high spirits tonight, enjoying the back-and-forth between us, when suddenly, out of nowhere, he drops a bomb neither of us sees coming
“Isabella, are you going to marry my dad?” His voice cuts through the din, innocent and curious.
I nearly choke on my steak, and for a moment, the world seems to hit pause. The easy rapport, the shared glances—it all hangs suspended in midair. My gaze snaps to Isabella, whose fork is frozen halfway to her mouth.
“Uh ...” is all I manage, eloquent as always.
Isabella’s cheeks take on a rosy hue, and it’s clear neither of us prepared a script for this scene.
“Wow, kiddo,” I chuckle, hoping to defuse the bomb he’s just dropped. “You sure know how to put someone on the spot.”
Caleb looks between us, unfazed by our discomfort, waiting for an answer with the patience only an eight-year-old can muster when they’re expecting dessert.
“Marriage is, uh, a big step, Caleb,” Isabella starts, her lawyer brain likely scrambling to draft a statement that won’t lead to further questioning or emotional perjury.
I nod. “Yep, a very big step.”
“Your father and I don’t plan on getting married. We’re just friends. ”
“Right. Friends.” The word tastes like a forkful of overcooked rib-eye steak.
I watch Caleb’s frown deepen, his little brow furrowing as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle where all the pieces look the same. “That’s all you guys are? Friends?”
“Exactly,” Isabella chimes in, her voice steady but her eyes betraying a hint of something—regret? Uncertainty? “But friends can be really important people in our lives.”
“Like Batman and Robin?” Caleb’s analogy almost earns him a spit-take from me.
“Something like that, champ,” I say, chuckling despite the awkwardness clawing at my insides. “Except, uh, without the costumes and crime fighting.”
“Too bad,” he mutters, poking at his gnocchi. “That’d be cool.”
“Wouldn’t it, though?” I muse, glancing at Isabella, who gives me a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Caleb scoops up a big spoonful of gnocchi, oblivious to the emotional gymnastics his dad and pseudo-aunt are performing. “So, no wedding?”
“Weddings aren’t the only way to show you care about someone,” Isabella explains gently, tapping her spoon against her dish thoughtfully. “Spending time with one another and having dinner together counts too, right?”
“Guess that means we should order some dessert, huh?” I interject, trying to lighten the mood.
“Yup!” He’s grinning now. “Isabella can pick, though.”
I point to his bowl. “You need to take one more big bite of your gnocchi before we order. ”
Without hesitation, Caleb takes a big forkful of his food and eats it, a bit of parmesan smearing on his cheek. Caleb laughs, the sound clear and pure, and for a second, I wish life could be as simple as he sees it.
Isabella laughs too, and it’s like a hit of caffeine straight to my heart. There’s a warmth there, a shared moment of genuine joy that dances dangerously close to the line between “just friends” and whatever mess of feelings we’re actually wading through.
“Tiramisu it is, then,” she agrees, and we lean into the comfort of dessert and denial. But even as we banter and laugh, I can’t shake the feeling that Caleb’s question has unspooled something delicate between us, leaving a tangle neither of us is ready to sort out. Not yet.
***
We arrive at Isabella’s apartment after dinner. I kill the engine, and the car hums into silence. Caleb’s stuffed dinosaur drops from his limp hand, hitting the seat with a soft thud that seems louder than it is. I glance back to see his chest rise and fall in the steady rhythm of sleep, his forehead pressed against the cool window.
“Hey,” I say gently, catching Isabella’s eye, “can we talk for a sec?”
Outside, the night feels like a splash of cold water after the stuffy warmth of the diner. Isabella’s breath fogs in front of her as she wraps her arms around herself, looking up at me with raised eyebrows.
“Sorry about that curveball earlier,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. The gesture does little to ease the knot there.
She gives a dismissive wave. “It’s fine. Kids have zero filters, remember?” Her smile doesn’t quite hide the edge in her voice, that lawyerly shield snapping up even outside the courtroom.
“Right.” I nod, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Still, I just want to make sure Caleb gets it—that this isn’t your typical picket-fence scenario.”
“Adrian,” she pauses, searching my face with those emerald eyes, “we’re not exactly a Hallmark movie poster couple. He’ll understand.”
“Hope so.” The words are heavier than I intend them to be, an anchor sinking fast. “Anyway, thanks for dinner.”
“Thank you for gnocchi and tiramisu diplomacy,” she quips, that flicker of humor dimming the tension a little.
“Always a pleasure, Counselor.” I try for lightness, but it comes out strained.
“Goodnight, Adrian.” She turns, heading for her building, and I watch her silhouette blend into the shadows until the door closes behind her.
Back in the car, I glance at Caleb once more, his innocence so refreshing compared to the complexity of adult life. As I pull away from the curb, the quiet feels thick, every streetlight casting long shadows that seem to stretch out questions we’re both avoiding. How long can we dance around each other, pretending the music isn’t slowing down, edging us closer with every beat?