Unfinished Desire (Outlast Her #2)

Chapter One

Isla swirled the last slosh of her buttery chardonnay around the glass and pretended she was interested in a conversation about the intermediate Pilates class at CoreForm Studio.

Between the muffled thump of her sister Mallory’s playlist and the way the conversation kept hopping over itself, it was hard to tell whether everyone thought Julie’s new reformer series was worth the waitlist.

“Excuse me,” Isla said, making a break for the bar Mallory and her husband, Tony, had professionally installed into their newly purchased Upper East Side penthouse. Both were lawyers at Whitmore this Isla could agree with. But she also didn’t want to get into it with people who were ignorant enough to be leery of a queer version of Survivor.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Isla said quickly. She would’ve made a beeline for the door if Mallory wasn’t going to guilt her for missing the big reveal. Instead, she drifted toward the kitchen, which was mercifully quiet. But more importantly, it was full of food.

Platter after platter of scrumptious snacks beckoned her forward.

There were mini egg rolls, blistered and golden, sitting beside a porcelain bowl of sweet duck sauce.

Isla dipped one without hesitation. Then she reached for a prosciutto-wrapped melon and savored the taste before she tried a goat cheese-stuffed peppadew.

Then another. There was no limiting herself tonight.

Her metabolism was Usain Bolt fast, and besides, she was thinking about retiring from modeling.

A difficult decision, yes, but also extremely necessary.

She couldn’t keep up with the constant expectations and the casual cruelty disguised as well-meaning advice.

Every day she got older, and the industry got younger.

One day she would be dispensable. She wanted to decide when that day was, instead of letting someone else decide for her.

She was just about to lick the sauce from her fingers and help herself to a deviled egg dusted with sesame seeds when a voice said, “Do I know you?”

Isla spun around expecting someone who did know her, but instead she came face to face with a total stranger standing in the kitchen doorway.

A gorgeous stranger with dark hair falling in glossy ringlets over her shoulders.

Her eyes were the color of fresh espresso, and they crinkled slightly at the corners.

Her mouth was full and unfairly symmetrical.

Isla struggled to snatch her gaze away, and when she did, she noticed the woman was holding an empty coupe glass holding one luscious purple Luxardo cherry.

She stepped forward and smiled. “You’re Isla Stone.”

“I am,” Isla said, not entirely surprised she’d recognized her. This was Mallory and Tony’s housewarming. Isla was the sister. Mallory had more likely than not mentioned her before at some fancy soiree.

“My sister is a model,” Mallory would say. “She spent a year in Paris and now thinks she’s a supermodel.” Then she’d laugh, all posh-sounding and offensive. “Most of her campaigns run overseas, though, so we never actually see them. Does that still count?”

Mallory always said it like a joke. Isla always laughed as if it were one.

Though this woman did seem a little out of place in her sister’s world where everyone looked like different versions of the same Chad.

She was dressed in dark flare jeans, a fitted black tank, and a black leather belt cinched at her waist with a heavy brass buckle.

She looked like she was on her way to The Gilded Horseshoe. All she needed were cowboy boots.

Oh wait. She was wearing them.

“I’m a bit of a fangirl,” the woman said.

Her accent wasn’t Southern. In fact, Isla had a hard time figuring out where it belonged.

Not that it mattered, because right then a few dark curls fell into her eyes and she flicked them back with one impressive shake of her head.

Isla wasn’t sure what happened, but she felt a jolt deep in her belly.

“I’m actually a little nervous meeting you. ”

“Really?” Isla asked, now completely stumped.

First, nothing about the stranger exuded nerves.

She was perfectly at ease. And secondly, maybe this woman had seen one of Isla’s photo shoots.

There was a boutique in Paris on Rue Saint-Honoré where Isla’s face had once covered the entire storefront window.

It still might. She hadn’t been to Paris in a few years to check.

“Yes,” the woman said, nodding. She smiled, her incisor catching her bottom lip, and then she stepped closer. Really close. Close enough for Isla to notice a single freckle on her upper lip. “I thought you were absolutely amazing in the first season of Outlast Her.”

Ah, there it was. Once again, Isla’s past came right back to slap her in the face. Everybody knew about The Sending, where she’d felt so invincible. That moment when every single vote went against her. The hollow stunned quiet afterward when Vivian bid her goodbye.

And then coming back home to Mallory saying, “I honestly thought you were going to get further than that.”