Chapter 36
S ince my self-imposed intervention on New Year’s Day, I’ve been actively taking steps to better myself and be better for Isabelle. Better late than never, I called the therapist whose card I’ve been carrying in my wallet since my hospital discharge nearly eight years ago.
Turns out therapy helps. Who the fuck would’ve guessed?
I attend virtual sessions with him twice a week.
We agreed on a schedule to discuss my past and my accident during one session, and my grief over losing Sam in the other.
He says that someday we can decrease our sessions to weekly, every other week, or monthly—and can taper back up if I’m struggling.
I’m in the stables grooming Dakota, another therapeutic activity, to process everything we discussed in our session today.
I’ve been grappling with my rapidly growing feelings for Isabelle. I’m desperate to make something real with her, which means I had to confess the sordid details of my past to my therapist.
Examining my actions “on paper” has made me realize how awful I was to women and those around me. The goal was to prepare me for a relationship, but instead I feel wholly unworthy of an angel like Isabelle.
My sexual past is a brothel compared to the type of man she deserves. My girl’s a virgin, one who has been sexually assaulted for god’s sake. I feel dirty even thinking of sullying her with my history.
On top of that, for the majority of our relationship, working and then becoming friends, I’ve treated her like shit. I'm doing everything I know how to make it up to her, and I see the light in her eyes brighten every day. But I still don’t deserve her. I don’t know if I ever will.
Today in therapy we talked through these feelings again and his advice is finally starting to sink in.
I drag the brush down the gelding’s silky flank and go through my affirmations.
I always thought it was a bunch of bullshit but it fucking helps.
With each stroke of the brush, I breathe deeply and repeat the mantras in my mind.
I make mistakes and I allow myself to grow from them. I'm worthy of a fresh start. I'm worthy of love. I'm becoming a better person.
As I do my chores, I think back to what the boys said when I begged for their advice.
Grovel.
James said I need to make a grand gesture straight from a romance story. Greyson said I should kill Brett Stevens.
I took James’s advice but decided to start slowly—which is why I always make sure she's caffeinated.
Why I pack her favorite foods on our trips.
Why I handed my credit card over to the giggling teenage girl at the boutique to purchase a fluffy pink blanket so Isabelle would be warm in the truck.
Why I spent hours plucking all those green candies out, so she never has to even touch them.
Communication’s never been my strong suit, but these small actions feel natural to me—ways to show Isabelle she's important to me—that I listen to her and know her well. I feel like we’ve come such a long way, but the tension between us has reached an unsustainable level.
I can only fuck my right hand so many times a day. And if I bite my tongue any harder to stop myself from telling her I love her, I’ll have to have it surgically reattached.
One consolation is I don’t think I'm alone in this purgatory. I see the way she looks at me. I notice the little things she does for me and the excuses she finds to be around me.
Her confidence has skyrocketed, and she’s never been so sexy. I don’t know how much longer I can resist her.
But it’s not about me. This has to be about her. For her.
Every act of service is a rung on the ladder I’m climbing to what I’ve been planning—my grand gesture. It may not be grand like skywriting, or the jumbotron in an arena full of people. To me, it’s something much bigger, and if I know Isabelle like I think I do, she'll see it that way too.
It may seem less than ideal to be away on a work trip on Valentine’s Day. But for me? The conditions couldn't be more perfect. It’s taken weeks to plan, arrange, and triple confirm every detail.
I’m damn proud that I did it all on my own, too. I could’ve easily roped in Delilah or Olivia for insight into Isabelle’s mind or gotten more questionable advice from the guys. But I think it means more that everything I’ve prepared for her is only from me, my mind, my heart.
One great thing about being the head of maintenance, and the owners’ son, is that I have the control to rearrange the schedule and the first option to rent. I’ve been sneaking an additional property or two into our rotation each week to leave this week completely open.
My stomach twists with nerves but the excitement I feel prevails. It’s finally time to put my plan into action.
Me: Morning, sugar
Isabelle: Morning! How did you sleep?
Me: Slept just fine. I hope you’re rested up for our trip this week. Even though you’ll fall asleep in the truck anyway.
Isabelle: Haha, Mr. Smart Guy. The vibrations from the road lull me to sleep.
Me: Wasn’t complaining. You’re cute when you sleep. My favorite is the snoring.
Isabelle: I DO NOT SNORE!
Me: I beg to disagree
Isabelle: REID!
Me: I’ll be by to pick you up in about an hour
Isabelle: See you soon!
I go through my checklist one last time to make sure I have everything packed. I’m good to go except for two stops in town. I check the time, and realize I need to take off if I’m going to make it all happen.
I stop by the boutique to pick up the items I ordered, praying my snooping paid off, and pop into the coffee shop for her caffeine fix. I still can’t remember what the drink is called, but the barista knows my daily order and has it ready before I’m done paying most mornings.
The schedule I gave Isabelle is fake, but she won’t realize it until my plan comes together. I feel like an evil mastermind. But not evil. Like a love mastermind. I park in front of her house and shoot her a text like always.
Me: Out front
The dots bounce on my screen for only a moment before her reply comes through, like she was waiting for me to get here.
Isabelle: Be right out!
This woman steals the breath straight out of my lungs. Every. Time. I’ll never get tired of seeing her walking to me. She watches me like I’m the only thing she sees. I understand the feeling because she's always the only thing I see.
I get out of the truck to open her door and take her bag.
This is our routine now—she doesn’t even try to open her own door anymore.
Just as it should be. She should be treated like a queen.
But today, I take it one step further. I reach above her shoulder to pull the seatbelt down and across her body, clicking it into place. She gives me a cute, questioning frown.
I just say, “Precious cargo,” and shut the door.