17. Isabella
Chapter seventeen
Isabella
A melie and I saunter through Melrose, the late-morning sun high-fiving our backs like we’re old friends. Not that I have time for sunbathing—weekends are for catch-up work—but Amelie practically dragged me out of my cave today. The quaint shops blur together until my feet hit an invisible brake pad at the sight of a shop window dressed in pastel and lace.
“Look, Amelie. Tiny clothes,” I murmur, my voice a mix of wonder and dread. It’s like looking into a crystal ball filled with spit-up and lullabies.
“Want to go in?” Amelie asks, elbowing me like she’s found my secret stash of chocolate.
I crack a smile but shake my head, no. My mind’s a courtroom where emotions battle logic, and right now, logic’s holding the gavel. “I can’t even think about anything baby-related right now. Things with Adrian ... they’re getting complicated.” There, I said it. My heart’s been playing hopscotch over that line for weeks.
“Complicated how?” Her eyes are all concerned, ready to pounce on any problem with a vengeance .
“Feelings,” I confess, watching as a couple coos over a pair of booties so small, I can’t believe they’re real. “Mine for him. at least. They’re growing roots, deep ones.”
Amelie nods like a guru atop a mountain of wisdom. “But?”
“But,” I continue, “there’s fear. A whole lot of it. If Adrian and I crash and burn, there’s more than our ashes at stake.” The thought of our child caught in the crossfire sends icy shivers down my spine. “And then there’s my job. If workplace gossip gets wind of a love saga, my reputation is toast. I’ll be known as the lawyer who hooked up with her boss, and I’ll never be taken seriously enough to become partner.”
“Isabella King, the unshakeable,” Amelie teases. “Always calculating the risks.”
“I prefer ‘strategically cautious’,” I retort, but her words stick. Maybe I am playing it safe, hiding behind spreadsheets and case files instead of diving heart-first into whatever this is with Adrian.
We walk on, each step feeling heavier than the last. Amelie grabs my arm, pulling me to a halt outside the bakery that smells sinfully good. “You’ve got your shields up,” she says softly. “But sometimes, you’ve gotta let someone see the knight underneath all that armor.”
“Cheesy metaphors … really?” I try to laugh it off, but she’s got a point.
“Love isn’t logical, Isabella,” she insists. “It’s messy and terrifying, but it might just be worth it.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mumble, biting back a wave of what-ifs. What if Adrian’s the answer to questions I didn’t know I was asking?
“Take a chance, Isabella,” she urges. “Lead with your heart.”
“Can’t I just draft a contract instead?” I joke weakly, but my heart’s already drafting its own terms .
She shakes her head. “I’ll support whatever you decide, but I think it’s time to consider that this ten-year plan of yours isn’t what your heart really wants after all.”
I simmer on this for a moment. My career has always come first. Pursuing my dreams, making my parents proud. A guy has never come along and made me want to take a shot at playing house. But Adrian makes me wonder if I could successfully balance both a career and a family.
“I have to go, Bells. Remember I’m here for you, okay?”
We part ways in the parking lot, her car heading in one direction while my thoughts run in another. My thumb hovers over the unlock button on my key fob when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out to see a message from Adrian lighting up the screen. “Got something for you and the little one. Can we meet?” My heart does a traitorous leap, even as my brain rolls its eyes at the sentiment.
“Sure,” I text back, the practical part of me thinking about schedules and logistics. “My place in ten?”
“See you there,” comes his swift reply.
I make it home with minutes to spare, my mind racing faster than the city traffic. Pulling into the parking lot, I spot him leaning against his car like some ad from a high-end fashion magazine, except he’s holding two slightly crumpled Target bags instead of a designer briefcase. Adrian Cole, in his tailored pants and crisp shirt, shopping at Target? The image is absurd enough to coax a smile from me.
“Didn’t peg you for a bargain hunter,” I say as I lead him upstairs to my apartment.
“Surprise, surprise, Isabella. I do own clothes that aren’t custom-made.” He grins, revealing nothing but charm and secrets.
“Could’ve fooled me,” I retort, unlocking the door and ushering him inside.
We settle onto the couch, and he hands me a stuffed giraffe, some pastel-colored onesies, and a pack of impossibly tiny socks. I can’t help but laugh. “You shopping in the baby aisle is not a scene I ever pictured.”
“Life’s full of surprises,” he quips back, a twinkle in his eye that suggests he’s enjoying this as much as I’m bewildered by it.
“Clearly.” I nod, still chuckling at the thought.
The laughter fades as he leans closer, the air between us charged with an energy that’s become frighteningly familiar. When his lips find mine, it’s like a switch flips inside me, everything sharp-witted and cautious giving way to something more primal.
His kiss deepens, and soon, he’s hovering over me, the softness of the couch clashing with the hard lines of his body pressed against mine. My breath catches, but then reality intrudes as I remember the miles Amelie and I covered today.
“Wait,” I gasp out, placing a hand on his chest. “I feel like I’ve trekked through the desert. I’m not exactly the poster-woman for pleasure right now.”
“Nothing a shower can’t fix. Why don’t we take one together?”
I nod. “Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.”
“Shower it is,” Adrian murmurs against my lips, the smile in his voice impossible to miss. His hands roam over my sides, pulling me closer until I’m practically perched on his lap.
“Careful now,” I warn, trying to sound stern and failing miserably as another kiss steals my resolve. “I might hold you to that offer.”
“Promises, promises,” he teases back, lifting me up effortlessly as if I weigh nothing at all. He carries me to the bathroom, where the white tiles and chrome fixtures gleam under the bright lights. He sets me down and I get to work setting our shower up .
“Try not to scald us, okay?” he says with a wink, while I fiddle with the shower dials, aiming for a temperature that won’t leave our skin lobster-red.
“Please, you act like women only bathe in volcanic water,” I retort, giving him a playful side-eye glance that makes his grin broaden.
“Wouldn’t put it past you,” he chuckles, watching as steam begins to rise from the showerhead, misting the air with warmth.
“I think it’s perfect for both of us,” I announce as the sound of cascading water fills the room. But before I can make a move toward the shower, Adrian spins me around with an unexpected eagerness that sends my heart racing.
His hands are gentle but firm as they slip beneath my sweater, lifting the burnt orange cashmere up and over my head. It floats to the floor, forming a soft puddle of fabric that’s quickly forgotten as his mouth finds my neck, planting kisses that send sparks down my spine.
“Adrian ...” I moan, and it sounds like a plea for more. My fingers work at the buttons of his shirt, clumsy with haste, until the garment joins mine on the tile.
“Isabella,” he breathes out, his lips now tracing a path to my collarbone, then lower, till they encircle a nipple, drawing it into the warmth of his mouth.
My response is instinctive—a head thrown back, a silent cry for the ceiling, and hands that tangle in his hair, urging him closer, deeper.
“Keep going,” I whisper, each word punctuated by a caress, a bite, a lick. He obeys, and I wonder how someone who can be so infuriatingly smug at the firm can also be this ... mind-blowingly attentive.
He eases me back onto my feet, his hands steady and sure. My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to break free—as if it could ever outrun the whirlwind of emotions he always seems to stir up in me. With deft fingers, he peels away the last barriers of my trousers and panties, while I work on helping him shed his own constraints.
“Ready to go in?” he asks, his lips tracing a path down my neck, his breath hot against my skin. I can’t help but notice the obvious confirmation of his readiness pressing against my thigh.
“Seems you are,” I quip, a smirk playing on my lips.
We step into the shower, and it’s like entering another world—a steamy, intimate cocoon where droplets of water cling to our skin like tiny diamonds. He backs me against the cool tiles, the contrast to the warm water sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with cold. His mouth is everywhere—neck, chest, breasts—each kiss a spark threatening to ignite something unstoppable within me.
“Turn around,” he whispers into my ear, and damn him, his voice alone is enough to make me weak at the knees. I comply with a smile, already intoxicated by the anticipation of what’s to come.
The moment he slides inside me, a gasp tears from my throat. It’s a perfect fit, like the missing piece of a puzzle snapping into place. He starts slow, but each thrust is deeper, more insistent, as if he’s reaching for something far beyond the physical connection between us. My fingers dig into the wall, desperate for an anchor.
“God, Adrian ...” The words are part groan, part plea, and all Isabella.
My moans ring out, unrestrained, filling the space with the raw sound of desire.
“Harder,” I pant out, the slick tiles offering no purchase as my breath hitches. He doesn’t need to be told twice. He braces himself, his movements becoming a relentless rhythm that drives me to the brink.
“Can’t ... hold on ...” he grunts, each word punctuated by the slap of skin on skin .
“Then don’t,” I gasp out, teetering on the edge of oblivion. “I’m right there with you.”
With a few more powerful thrusts, my world fractures into blinding pleasure. A cry rips from my throat, echoing off the shower walls as I shatter, waves upon waves of intense satisfaction rolling through me.
He follows closely behind, a low groan vibrating against my back as he finds his own release. For a suspended moment, we’re nothing but tangled limbs and ragged breaths in the humid air.
Eventually, he spins me around, and his lips find mine in a kiss that’s somehow both searing and tender. He pulls back, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and reaches for the shampoo. “Your turn to play hairdresser,” he quips, handing me the bottle.
“Only because you’ve absolutely ruined mine,” I retort, though I can’t hide the affection in my voice. We take turns lathering, rinsing, and teasing—his fingers expertly massaging my scalp, eliciting involuntary moans that have nothing to do with what just happened ... or so I tell myself.
“Conditioner next, or are you going straight for body wash?” he asks, already anticipating my needs.
“Both. And stop acting like you know my routine,” I chide, even though he clearly does by now.
Once we’re squeaky clean and still chuckling at our inside jokes, I give him a playful shove towards the shower door. “Out. I need to shave.”
“Really? After all we’ve done, you think leg hair is where I draw the line?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.
“Out, Adrian,” I insist, unable to suppress a smile. “Or are you volunteering to help with that too?”
“Fine, fine. But only if I get to stay the night,” he bargains, stepping out onto the bathmat.
“Deal,” I say quickly, almost too quickly, because the truth is, I want him to stay more than I care to admit.
***
The scent of lavender from our earlier shower still lingers as I’m draped over Adrian’s chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear—unexpectedly soothing.
“Did you know,” he starts, an idle finger drawing lazy loops on my arm, “that babies can recognize songs they heard in the womb?” It’s so random, it almost makes me laugh.
“Are you planning to serenade my belly with legal briefs?” I quip back, unable to help myself.
“Only the most influential cases,” he replies without missing a beat. He’s trying to keep it light, but there’s a weight to his words as if he’s laying foundations for something life-altering.
I shift, feeling the gentle swell of my stomach against the soft cotton of my shirt. It’s a tiny mound, barely noticeable, but to me, it’s as monumental as Everest. My hand instinctively covers his, pressing it to the proof of our complicated entanglement.
“Isabella,” he breathes out, and the way he says my name feels like a caress. “We can’t keep this quiet anymore. You’re already in your second trimester.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” I say dryly, though my heart trips over itself. Fun isn’t the word I’d use for the rollercoaster ride of emotions I’ve been on since that fateful night.
“We need to tell everyone,” he continues. “Our parents … and Caleb.” His voice is firm, but there’s a tremor there—one that speaks of the fear of turning his private life public again after the mess his divorce left in its wake.
I nod, because what else can I do? This isn’t just about us anymore. “You’re right.” The words are heavy, tasting of change and the unknown.
“Tomorrow,” he says, decisive. “We’ll sit them down and explain everything.”
“Everything,” I echo, half-questioning. Because how do you explain the unexplainable? Us?
“Everything,” he confirms, sealing the promise with a kiss that feels like both an ending and a beginning. And for the first time, I realize that we’re stepping into a future neither of us can fully control.