Chapter 17
W e both find excuses to linger at the Dreamhouse. Adding detail to a sketch, checking the furnace for the third time, making sure the fire was extinguished. Something changed this weekend. A cataclysmic shift occurred somewhere in the universe and everything between us feels different.
I sit patiently in the driver’s seat as Isabelle sets up her throne. She must've been royal in a past life because she could be a professional passenger. Can’t navigate for shit, falls asleep, snuggled up in her fluffy blanket with fucking snacks.
It took less than two months to need this woman more than air.
At first, I was pissed off and wanted to be rid of her as soon as possible.
Then I was pissed off because she was so nice to me.
I wanted her to be as awful to me as I was to her, to justify my behavior or something.
I don’t know, I’m not a goddamn therapist.
Then I was pissed at myself because I grew curious about her and wanted to know more about her. And most recently, I was pissed at myself because I hurt her—that I egged her on until she snapped. I’m such a dick.
She slept nearly the entire ride to the Dreamhouse. I may or may not have reached over and adjusted the blanket for her each time it slipped from her shoulders. I also may or may not have compulsively checked the air coming out of her vents to make sure she wasn’t too hot or cold.
This weekend, I opened up to her about my legacy, my family, and my hopes and dreams. I feel raw and exposed but also comforted knowing she holds my secrets. Her pain mirrors my own, and I inherently feel like I can trust her, like we're kindred spirits.
She doesn’t know yet, but I tore out the page she drew for me. It’s folded up in my wallet. She made my ranch come to reality. Now that I’ve seen it, it’s all I can think about. That’s a lie, I also think about Isabelle’s nipple piercings. A lot. Nope, now isn't the time to get turned on.
“Ready!” She announces from her pink perch in my passenger seat. She's fucking adorable. She blends in like camouflage Barbie. I can barely tell where her pink sweatshirt ends, and her pink blanket begins. It’s a shame she’s covered up the yoga pants that should be illegal in all fifty states.
Without fanfare, we hit the road. We have comfortable conversations.
Topics flow easily but stay light and surface level.
Stretches of silence are equally as comfortable.
I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so grounded with another person, not even my family.
There are no pretenses. We’ve stripped off the facades we wear like armor.
I really fucking like her.
I'd kill to have a glimpse inside her head. My douchebaggery was so effective she’s tirelessly tried to appease me or avoid me.
It makes me insane thinking the chemistry I feel is one sided.
It can’t be, right? But she’s never flirted with me or been overly friendly.
She’s never tried to touch me. I don’t have the nerve to ask if she has a boyfriend.
It’s killing me not knowing, considering she practically lives in that fucking grey men’s hoodie.
I don’t want our time together to be over, so I suggest we stop in the next town for lunch. One great thing about Colorado is the high-quality Mexican food, and if I’m not mistaken, Isabelle said she can get down with some tacos.
The lobby is crowded, so I offer Isabelle an open seat on the bench and lean on the wall next to her.
She's subtly finger combing her hair to hang more in her face, and she looks uncomfortable.
My mind races trying to identify the source of her discomfort.
She looks beautiful today. Why is she hiding her face?
Shit. This is the first time we're out in public without her makeup on. She didn’t wear any this weekend. It felt good knowing she feels safe enough around me not to hide herself. In return, I kept my hat off because I trust her to see my whole face.
The thought hits like an incoming missile—I'm not wearing my hat. My eyes dart around the lobby and see multiple sets of eyes ping ponging from my face and away again. Hot embarrassment licks up my spine.
Ain’t nothing I can do about it now, and if she’s uncomfortable, I’ll be uncomfortable with her. I not-so-accidentally bump her foot with mine, catching her attention, and make a show of running both of my hands through my hair, pushing it back from my face.
Her eyes widen comically in disbelief I’m showing off my scars. Heart racing, I reach down and gather the hair off one side of her face. I tuck it behind her ear and my fingertips linger, making her shudder. There’s no way I’m imagining this chemistry.
The wait time passes painfully slowly. I can feel eyes on my skin and am acutely aware of Isabelle’s discomfort.
Mercifully, we're seated at a square four-top table. I move around the host to pull out Isabelle’s chair.
The stunned expression returns to her face, and she fumbles to remove her jacket.
She takes her seat with a whispered “thank you,” and I push in her chair.
I hesitate before taking my seat. Do I sit next to her?
Or do I sit across from her? If I sit next to her, we might bump elbows, or brush knees.
But if I sit across from her, I have every excuse to look at her as much as I want.
I pull out the chair next to her and angle it so that my body faces her.
I do my best to take my coat off without tipping out of my chair and toss it onto the empty chair on my other side.
I cross one boot-covered foot to rest on my opposite knee, bumping into her knee in the process.
She jerks away like I’ve burned her, so I scoot forward a couple inches, bringing our knees back in contact.
The implication is loud. I want to be near her. She’s staring at where our bodies are touching. I act like I'm intently reading the menu, not seeing a single word, because I’m buzzing from our close proximity.
The waiter comes to take our drink order, and I take advantage of her moment of stupor and order two Cherry Pepsi’s. Her head snaps up to look at me and I give a one shoulder shrug.
A full tooth grin spreads across her face.
“You remembered.” Not a question, a statement.
I get the feeling not many people pay attention to Isabelle. And while I feel like I pay an unhealthy amount of attention to her, I vow to learn all her little quirks and preferences so I can receive that smile all the time.
The waiter returns with our drinks, ready to take our order. I gesture for Isabelle to order first. Jealousy turns my stomach at the bright smile she gives him.
“Can I please get the number 12 taco plate?” Isabelle knows exactly what she wants, answering his questions in succession.
“Carnitas. Soft corn tortillas. Yes, cheese and sour cream, no pico. Oh! And can I get a side of green chili and a side of the black beans with cotija cheese? Yes, that’s all. Thank you.”
My brain short-circuits watching Isabelle confidently order her meal and not try to cover her bare face once. I forget what I was going to order, so I just hold up two fingers indicating I'll have the same.
“I’m trustin’ your taste, Isabelle. You said you'd impress me with your taco eating skills.”
The double entendre hits us both at once. She chokes on her drink and goes into a coughing fit. It’s too late to recover. Fuck. I busy my mouth with a swig of soda.
Her coughing turns to hoarse laughter, and with a shit eating grin she retorts, “Aren’t you supposed to be impressing me with your taco eating skills?”
Carbonated liquid backfills my sinuses and nearly comes out my fucking nose. I was already venturing into dangerous territory, and now I find out she’s funny. I’m so fucked.
“Holy shit, Isabelle, you weren’t kidding. How’re you done with your plate already? You inhaled those things.” I laugh incredulously. I make a point of looking down at her flat stomach, expecting to see a taco baby.
She’s so fucking pretty. Her pink sweatshirt is fitted, and I can see the faintest curve of her breasts, and the dip of her waist.
She's so my type it isn’t even funny.
“I told you,” she says smugly with a smile and a shrug of her shoulders.
“Do you want the rest of mine? I want to see how far this’ll go.”
“No, I couldn’t take food from a growing boy.” Mischief alights in her eyes.
Why does that turn me on?
I narrow my eyes in challenge, lift my remaining taco to my mouth and take an enormous bite. I hold eye contact with her as I chew and swallow my bite and make a show out of licking my fingers. She shifts in her seat, pink coloring her cheeks.
One point Reid, ten thousand points Isabelle.
We take our time at the restaurant, enjoying refills of our drinks and amazing conversation. Begrudgingly, we meander back to the truck, and I drive exactly the speed limit, sometimes slower, trying to extend my time with her.
My mood sours the closer to Swiftwater the miles take us. I don’t want her to go. Generous as always, the company gives all employees the week of Thanksgiving and the weeks between Christmas and New Years as paid holiday. I won’t see her for six fucking days.
Isabelle pipes up, “Can you believe it’s almost Thanksgiving? We always go to Olivia’s house and stay the night into Friday to gorge on leftovers. Delilah and me, not my mom. Holidays aren’t recognized or remembered in our house, so our second family takes us in like stray cats.”
I frown, not liking the sound of her home-life, but at least she'll be with her friend and get to celebrate.
“How about you? I bet your family goes all out for Thanksgiving dinner on the ranch.” Wonder and longing weave together in her voice.
A knife stabs into my chest. Mom goes all out for the holidays. Thanksgiving was Sam’s favorite. Mom always made him a small turkey all to himself because he’d demolish it and still want more for cold turkey sandwiches.