13. Isabella
Chapter thirteen
Isabella
I kill the engine and sit for a second in the driveway, the fading Friday afternoon sunlight casting a soft glow on the two-story house I grew up in. It’s got that middle-class Pasadena charm—neat lawn, a porch that’s seen better days, and shutters that probably needed a fresh coat of paint last summer. Home.
Before I brave the familial chaos, I rummage through my bag, fishing out the phone. Adrian’s name lights up the screen and I can’t help but grin like an idiot.
“What are you up to?” he writes.
“Having dinner with the parents,” I text back, thumb hovering over the send button. “Why do you ask?” I add.
“Would’ve been nice to see you tonight.” The response pops up almost immediately, and I let out a giggle that’s embarrassingly high-pitched for someone who’s negotiated multi-million-dollar settlements without breaking a sweat.
“Is this guy for real?” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head. But there it is—that flutter in my stomach that feels suspiciously like butterflies. Or food poisoning. Definitely one of the two .
Reluctantly, I type a sad face emoji—because apparently, we’re teenagers now—and drop the phone into my purse.
I step out of the car, heels clicking on the concrete as I approach the front door. It’s still got that old brass knocker from when I was ten and thought it was the height of sophistication. With a quick press of the doorbell, I brace myself for Mom’s inevitable third-degree about my love life—or lack thereof.
The door swings open and there’s Dad, looking like he’s just stepped out of one of those commercials where the father is inexplicably grilling in a sweater vest. He sweeps me into a hug that says I’m still his little girl.
“Isabella! Come in, come in,” he ushers, warmth blooming around us. “I hope traffic wasn’t too bad getting here. You come straight from Beverly Hills?”
“Yep, fresh from work. It’s been a long week.”
Stepping over the threshold, I’m hit with the comforting scent of home-cooked meatloaf—a throwback to every Friday night of my childhood. But as I shed my coat and kick off my heels, a familiar timbre weaves through the aroma of herbs and spices, tugging at my senses. A voice I would recognize in the midst of Armageddon—and sometimes wish I could forget.
“Is somebody here?” I ask, but Dad’s already back in the living room, relaxing before dinner.
I cross toward the living room, the archway to the kitchen framing the most unexpected scene. Adrian Cole, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Infuriating, is manning the wooden spoon like it’s his scepter, standing next to Mom by the stove.
“Seriously?” My eyebrows shoot up so high, they’re one surprise away from leaving my forehead entirely.
Adrian catches my look and offers up a wave that’s more smug than friendly. “Hey, Isabella. You made it.”
“And apparently so did you.”
“Purely coincidental,” Adrian assures with a grin that tells me it’s anything but. “Had some work nearby and thought I’d drop in.” His eyes glint with mischief, and oh, how I want to wipe that smirk off his face—with a skillet, preferably.
“Adrian, here, was just showing me a new way to sauté vegetables,” Mom explains, oblivious to the silent Mexican standoff happening right under her nose.
“Is that what they call it these days?” I quip, arms folded as if they might shield me from whatever game Adrian’s playing.
The timer on the stove goes off, and Mom claps her hands together. “Dinner’s ready! Isabella, darling, can you help set the table? Adrian, go sit down. You’ve been such a great help already.”
“Actually, I don’t mind—” Adrian begins, but Mom cuts him off with a practiced maternal “no-nonsense” look.
“Go on, take a seat. Isabella can handle it.”
“If you insist.” He holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary, a silent challenge before he turns and saunters off. It’s a look that sends an uninvited shiver down my spine, heating my blood in a way that has nothing to do with the kitchen’s oven.
“Right,” I mutter, grabbing plates with a clatter louder than my racing heart. “Setting the table. I can do that without any ... distractions.”
Once the table is set and dinner is served, I slide the last fork into place with more force than necessary, my eyes darting between Adrian and my parents as they chatter away.
Dad’s booming laugh fills the dining room as he slaps Adrian on the back, praising him for our merger that's now making headlines. “I can’t believe the firm landed such huge clients. Thomas would have been so proud.”
I can’t help but notice how Adrian’s shoulders square with pride under my father’s affirmation.
“Really, son,” Dad says, the word “son” lingering in the air like an unspoken wish, “you remind me so much of your father these days. It’s uncanny.”
“Thank you, Mr. King.” Adrian’s voice is smooth like aged whiskey, and I have to admit, even if reluctantly, he does possess some of my late mentor’s charm.
Mom is next with the line of questioning. “Caleb is doing well?”
Adrian nods. “He’s amazing. Growing bigger every day. I can hardly believe it.”
Dad takes a bite of meatloaf, a smile on his face. “They grow up fast, trust me. You should bring him sometime. We miss having a kid in the house.”
Adrian and I lock eyes. I suppose they won’t have to miss it for much longer.
“Will do, Mr. King.”
Mom tilts her head, a gleam of mischief in her eyes, and drops the bomb. “So, dear, are you seeing anyone special these days?”
The question hangs there, thick and syrupy. Adrian pauses, a perfectly timed moment before answering, “Yes, I am actually.”
He wipes his mouth with a napkin, his gaze catching mine across the table, a silent message in the arch of his brow. My stomach flips—whether from irritation or something else, I’m not going to analyze right now.
“That’s wonderful! Tell us about her,” Mom presses on, sipping her wine. “Isabella is so busy these days, she never dates. I’m surprised you managed to find the time to meet someone special. ”
With a considering tilt of his head, Adrian describes this “mystery woman.” “She’s beautiful, intelligent, definitely feisty...” His eyes flicker to me again. “...but she has this soft side that seems reserved just for me.”
“Feisty, huh?” Mom mulls it over. “Sounds difficult.”
“Difficult? Since when is speaking your mind such a negative trait?” I mutter under my breath, rolling my eyes so hard I’m pretty sure I see my own brain.
Adrian laughs, that deep, resonant sound that usually annoys me but now feels oddly endearing in this domestic tableau. And despite myself, despite every logical argument against it, there’s this tiny, traitorous part of me smiling inside. Because Adrian being here, amidst the familiar chaos of a family dinner, is like finding a piece of a puzzle you didn’t even know was missing.
“Difficult women are the most interesting ones, aren’t they?” he adds, winking at me conspiratorially.
“Only to those who enjoy a challenge,” I shoot back, but my retort lacks its usual bite.
“I love a challenge.” He grins, and the look we share is one of reluctant allies rather than sparring partners.
And damn it, it does feel right, him being here. It feels like maybe, just maybe, our constant clashing could be the prelude to something other than discord. But that’s a thought for another time, though.
A half an hour later, our plates are cleaned up and our stomachs are full.
“Good call on taking those cooking classes, Mom.” I take the final sip of my water. “Your skills are next level.”
Flattery radiates off Mom’s face, but she brushes off my comment. “Honey, I’ve always been this good.”
I huff, then start to get up. “Guess I’ll clear the table, per usual. ”
“Should I brew some ginger tea?” Mom asks.
Dad shrugs. “Maybe for the kids. But we aren’t driving. Why don’t you and I just keep drinking?”
Mom shimmies her shoulders like it’s the best idea she’s heard all evening. “Wine it is.”
Once I’ve gathered all the plates, I cross over to the kitchen. Before I can even place the dishes in the sink, Adrian’s there, gesturing for me to hand it all over.
“Go enjoy your evening with your parents, Isabella. I’ve got this,” Adrian says, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“I can do it.”
“The mother of my child shouldn’t be doing manual labor,” he whispers. “It might harm the baby.” The smirk on his face is too smug, too “Adrian,” and I’m torn between wanting to wipe it off with the soapy sponge and leaving him to his domestic martyrdom.
“Sure you don’t need an adult supervisor?” I tease, but he shoos me away with a flick of his wrist. Shaking my head, I leave him to clink and clatter among the porcelain and stainless steel.
I’m about to sink into the plush comfort of the living room sofa when Mom’s hand on my arm stops me. She has that look—the one that means she’s about to drop a truth bomb.
“Isabella, honey, don’t be mad,” she starts, her eyes pleading for understanding before she even tells me why I might want to strangle her.
“Spit it out, Mom.”
She takes a deep breath. “After you got fired from your previous firm … I gave Adrian a call. I told him about your employment status. Asked if he’d be willing to put in a good word when you started applying to firms again.”
My chest tightens with a cocktail of shock, embarrassment, and a strange sense of betrayal. “Mom ...” I can barely form words, my thoughts tripping over each other like clumsy toddlers.
“He said he’d hire you instead. Without a second thought,” she rushes on, as if the faster she speaks, the less time I have to get angry. “When I told him about what happened with your old boss, he just offered you the job.”
“Wait, what?” I turn to glance at Adrian through the archway; he’s elbow-deep in suds, oblivious to the bombshell being dropped mere feet away. He’s known about my former boss making a pass at me, all this time?
“Adrian respects you, Isabella. He said you were cut from the same cloth as his father.” She beams with pride, but all I feel is confusion swirling with the leftover annoyance from our first day at the office. Was that all just an act? Him pushing my buttons, challenging every statement I made?
“Your father and I are so grateful to him, Isabella.” Mom’s voice softens, and suddenly her meddling doesn’t seem quite so egregious.
“Grateful enough to invite him for dinner without telling me?” I ask, half-joking, half-serious.
“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” she admits with a sheepish shrug.
“Fine,” I sigh, conceding defeat to maternal machinations. “But next time, warn a girl, will you?”
“Promise.” Her eyes crinkle with relief as I fold her into a hug.
“Thanks, Mom,” I murmur, because despite the unexpected way things have turned out, I am grateful—both for her unwavering support and for the job that’s become more than just a paycheck.
“You aren’t mad then? ”
I shake my head. “Let me help Adrian finish up,” I say, pulling away from the embrace with newfound resolve.
It’s almost endearing, the idea that he saw something in me because of his father. But then again, this is Adrian. He’s as enigmatic as they come. Yet, I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame. A small part of me is warning me that this is bad, but an even more influential part is begging for me to explore the possibilities.
The idea of a future with Adrian. Not just as co-parents, but the whole thing—a family, tied with a pretty bow called commitment.
Would he be game, though? Judging by the way he’s acted tonight … I’m starting to think he might.