Chapter Eleven
Walker
She stands there with her face drained of color, looking ashen, fragile somehow. My heart clenches. Gone is the anticipation high I’d been riding as I planned asking her today to celebrate the bonus she’d received for her brilliant ideas. That anticipation has been replaced by a knot of concern tightening my gut.
She’s still staring down at her phone as if she can’t tear her attention away from whatever’s on the screen. Tears sparkle in her eyes and the device trembles in her hand. She’s still frozen in place and the phone slips through her hand, quickly halted by her fast reflexes just in time to save it from crashing to the floor.
I want to step toward her again, to ask if she’s okay, even though I know she’s not. I don’t like this helpless feeling. Knowing that she’s suffering and I can’t help is a new kind of torture. But I know how to deal with feelings like those – I’ll be looking for a fight tonight.
She looks up, her eyes bright with tears and pain. “I’m going to go now.” The words are short, clipped, and devoid of any emotion.
“Can I help?” My offer hangs there, suspended in the charged air between us, but she shakes her head. I understand; agony is private. But that doesn’t make me feel better about any of the situation.
That helplessness wraps around me suffocatingly tight.
She shakes her head and makes her unsteady way to the door. I don’t like the thought of her leaving or driving in her condition, but she’s an adult. She told me she doesn’t need help, I’m not going to force my way in. Instead, I find myself hoping that she can fix whatever’s been broken in her life… or at least come to terms with it.
The image of her fighting back tears fills my mind, just like her brave face that didn’t hide her vulnerability. It took all my self-control not to reach out and pull her into my arms, to tell her things would be alright.
She has my number, and I know she’ll keep me updated when possible.
She leaves behind a silence that roars louder than any power engine in a luxury car. As I look after her, I'm left with a hollow echo of what I thought today would look like and the reality of what it has become.
Taking a deep breath, I force myself to focus on anything but the empty space where Isla just stood.
“Damn,” Vice says, rubbing the back of his neck as he eyes me. “What just happened?”
Even though there’s not even a hint of an accusation in his tone, I feel attacked, as if he thinks I hurt her and ran her off. I run a hand through my hair, frustration and worry mingling. “She got bad news and had to go, I don't know what about.”
Vice's expression softens, the creases around his eyes deepening. “She's a sweet girl. When will she be back?”
“Save it.” The words are sharp in the space between us. I’m not in the mood for his fatherly concern. He raises an eyebrow at my tone but simply nods.
“Will do. Gotta go,” he says, and strides away. His hasty exit catches my attention, and I scan the room, searching for the cause of his urgency. That's when I see her and my heart sinks. I don’t have the energy for this shit. Can’t the universe give me a break for one damn second?
“Hello, Walker.” Cara makes her way toward me, her voice a purr that grates on my nerves. My jaw clenches as I force a neutral expression, though every fiber of me is disgusted by her presence.
“Hello, Cara.” The words come out colder than the ice chilling the bourbon behind the bar.
She saunters closer, her hips swaying, confident and unwelcome. “You really did a number on that girl.”
My fists clench at my sides. “She just got some bad news that doesn't involve work,” I say, my voice like steel.
Cara pouts mockingly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Aww, poor thing.” Her feigned sympathy is as transparent as glass, and it only fuels my dislike of her.
“Excuse me,” I say, sidestepping her before she can try to rope me in with whatever she's planning. She's a distraction, an annoyance, and right now, all I can think about is Isla —the tremor in her voice, the tears in her eyes.
I stride across the floor, putting distance between us, each step heavy with thoughts of Isla. Concern for her gnaws at me, and Cara's insincerity and forced flirting fade into background noise. Isla's pain, her need to escape—it's fixed in my mind, and I can't shake the feeling that I have to do something, anything, to help her.
But first, I have to deal with the present nuisance. With every inch I put between myself and Cara, I feel a fraction more in relaxed, ready to face whatever comes next.
My gaze shifts back to the bar, the polished surface reflecting my harsh expression. I need something to occupy my mind, to distract from Isla's absence. Cara's presence is a thorn in my side, her every move now a silent dare, inviting me to lose my cool and touch her. I’m much closer to firing her, to be honest. But right now, her help is a necessary evil, and my hands are frustratingly bound.
“Looks like Liam needs something.” Cara purrs the words at me, nodding toward the other end of the bar where he’s signaling me. “Maybe I can help.”
I can’t get away from her. She’s like my shadow, except too loud, too annoying, and too desperate for attention.
A pang of irritation hits me; she's been slacking off, relying on Isla to cover for her laziness. It grates on me – Isla's easygoing nature shouldn't be exploited because someone else can't carry their weight. Cara's offer to assist rings hollow, but before I can brush her off, I find myself moving toward Liam.
“Can I talk to you, boss?” Liam's voice is a welcome escape from Cara’s persistent company.
“Only if you call me Walker,” I say, trying to bring some humor to the moment and mask the worry and anger mingling deep in me. He gives a nod, the corners of his eyes crinkling with unspoken amusement.
“Do you need Cara to do anything?” My question is met with him blowing out a deep breath and ruffling the back of his neck with one hand as if he’s not sure what tasks he can even trust her with. I don’t blame him.
Liam plants both hands on the bar and leans forward. “Sure, she can do the basic prep, stack glasses, wipe tables, sanitize surfaces, get clean towels... that sort of thing.”
“Got it.” I turn back to Cara who’s still right on my heels. Fixing her with a look that warns she has no choice in the matter, I simply say, “Thank you.” The curt words seem to startle her and her eyes widen, before narrowing ever so slightly, a glint of calculation behind them.
Her game is clear, now. She thought she could coast by, charm her way into my good graces and get paid to stroke my ego, but she's sorely mistaken. My interest is non-existent, my thoughts obsessing over another. With a huff of frustration that mars her usually composed and pretty facade, Cara heads off to do what’s asked of her, her shoulders tense with indignation even though her hips still sway in that exaggeration motion designed to get all of the eyes in the room on her.
The tension leaves my body as she moves away. It's temporary relief, but I'll take it. Because right now, all I want is to figure out how to mend the pain in Isla's tear-filled eyes, and nothing else matters—not even the bitter annoyance of dealing with Cara.
As the doors open and people begin filing in, the clink of glasses and the murmur of conversations fill the space as I lean against the bar, arms crossed. Liam stands near me, taking orders and giving drinks, a frown creasing his forehead. “What happened with Isla?” he asks, scratching the stubble on his chin as if that’ll hide the worry in his voice.
I shrug. “I'm not sure. I think she received some bad news and she'll be taking some time off.”
Liam's gaze narrows slightly. “How long?”
“Can't say,” I admit, feeling the edge of frustration chewing at me. “She has my number, but we’ll be playing it by ear until I know more.” My voice is steady, but inside, I’m anything but.
*
Over the next few days, the bar runs smoothly enough, but there's a quiet, an emptiness that overshadows the clatter and laughter—a void only Isla can fill. The regulars feel it. We feel it. Only Cara seems unaffected.
I find myself reaching for my phone, writing out a quick message, my thumb hovering over her contact before pressing send. Each text I shoot her way returns with a one-word answer that tells me nothing. Fine . Okay. Busy. It's killing me—not knowing, not being able to fix or help whatever's got her world turned upside down.
Finally, I give up and call an old friend—one who owes me more than a favor or two. “Hey, it's Walker. Need a favor.”
“Anything for you, man,” he says, and I can picture him reclining in his impeccably clean office, elbows resting on a desk with nothing more than a laptop.
“Can you check in on someone for me?”
“Sure thing. Anything specific you want to know?”
“Just... make sure she's alright. Find out what's got her so upset. I’ll text you her info.”
“Consider it done.”
I end the call, the heaviness in my chest easing just a fraction. At least now, I might get some answers. And once I do, I'll do whatever I can to make things right. Of course, I’m doing this for selfish reasons – I need her to come back to work.
Water pelts my skin in the shower, steam clouding around me like a shroud. My hand smears the mist from the glass, but instead of my own reflection, I see Isla's face in my mind’s eye—those wide, innocent eyes that hit me like a punch to the stomach. I shake off the droplets and the image, but she lingers. I need to get it together – I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.
My knuckles sting in the hot water and I look down at the torn flesh. A fight had helped clear my mind, but only for a moment.
Restless nights drag on, the bed sheets twist around me, a poor substitute for the curves of her body I've yet to touch, but somehow crave. My thoughts drift to her soft smile, how her voice might sound whispering in the dark, mouth against my ear. I'm desperate for something I haven't even tasted yet.
*
The Mustang growls beneath me as I drive to the bar, the city lights blurring past. Each red light is a moment stolen, a chance to glance at the empty seat beside me, wishing she was there, remembering the way she'd look at me in the bar, biting her lip with nerves or excitement—I couldn't tell which. But she hasn't been next to me in days, and the silence is growing deafening.
At the bar, amid clinking glasses and idle chatter, I find a quiet corner and pull up Isla's baking channel on my phone—but even that guilty pleasure is gone. The screen only shows the still image of her last upload, a thumbnail of her smiling beside her incredible whipped buttercream frosting. No new videos. My thumb hovers, replaying old clips instead, each laugh and blush a bittersweet reminder of what I’m missing.
My phone rings and I answer, hoping to her Isla’s voice.
It’s not Isla. “Hey, Walker. Got some news,” my private investigator friend's voice meets my ear. I make my way to the door and step outside into the brisk night air, phone pressed to my ear, heart thudding.
“Talk to me.” The cold air and sounds of the city attack my senses. Some guy walks by me, insulting me under his breath and I flip him the bird.
“Your girl Isla ... turns out she's had a rough time. Boyfriend was cheating on her, it went public, then went viral on social media. They've split now.”
The words hit like a sucker punch, leaving me winded with surprise and an unexpected surge of protectiveness. Some dumb idiot was cheating on her? I guess some men really don’t know what they’re missing. The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth. She deserves better. Which is why I need to leave her the hell alone.
“Are you sure?” I ask, gripping the phone tighter.
“Which part? The cheating, the viral video, or that they’re broken up? I’m positive on all points.”
“Thanks,” I say. I end the call, staring into the darkness, wrestling with a newfound knowledge. She's free—a fact that should elate me—but the timing couldn't be worse.
Back inside, the bar's energy feels distant. My gaze drifts over the crowd, half-expecting to see her walk through the door, a smile on her face, ready to pour some drinks and laugh with coworkers and customers alike. But she doesn't come.
She’s had her heart broken, been betrayed by someone she trusted. And here I am, caught between desire and decency, wondering if it's my turn to step into the light or if I should back off and give her the space to heal. Of course, if I wasn’t an ass, I’d leave her alone because I know I can’t be anything more than her next heartbreak.
“Everything alright, boss?” Liam's voice pulls me back to the present.
“Yeah,” I say, the lie sounding as natural as the truth. And as I slip back into the role I know all too well, I face the truth. Maybe this place is fine without her. But I’m not.