Chapter 16
ISABELLA
The air is crisp as I step out of the science building, the unmistakable bite of Boston in September settling over the campus. The week has been grueling, and Friday feels like a hollow victory after everything.
The heels of my boots click against the pavement as I head toward the faculty parking lot. My mind is a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, most of which circle Diego Kahale like a storm refusing to dissipate. His words from our encounter Wednesday night echo in my head, sharp and unrelenting.
“I could be with any girl on campus if I wanted.”
The disgust coils in my stomach, the sheer arrogance of it grating against every nerve.
And yet, the memory of his eyes, dark, piercing, and entirely too knowing, lingers.
He sees too much. The control I cling to so tightly, the perfection I project, the reckless need to ride fast and leave everything behind. He saw it all, and I hate him for it.
As I round the corner, I see his truck, stopping me in my tracks.
The passenger door is open, blocking the sidewalk, forcing me to acknowledge him.
Diego leans casually against the frame, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark jeans.
The dusky orange glow of the evening sky highlights the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones.
His dark hair is tousled as if he ran a hand through it too many times. A form-fitting sweater molds to his muscular chest and arms, and bad boy scuffed boots complete the look. Every inch of him oozes effortless sex appeal and infuriating confidence.
I should have known something was up by how quiet and detached he was in class today. Not a word, not a smirk, just him sitting there, his gaze distant and unreadable.
His eyes find mine now, steady and unyielding. My pulse stumbles despite my best efforts to ignore it. He straightens, pushing off the truck with an effortless grace that makes it impossible not to notice the breadth of his shoulders under the expensive cashmere.
“Get in the truck, Isabella.”
The command hangs in the air, as sure and deliberate as the man delivering it. My stomach twists, heat rushing up my neck as its audacity hits me. I should walk away, ignore him, and keep moving toward my car. But my feet don’t cooperate, rooted to the pavement as his words linger.
“What are you doing here?”
My voice is sharper than I intend, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. He doesn’t flinch. His expression is unreadable as he steps closer. The space between us shrinks, the cool autumn breeze carrying the faint scent of his cologne. Woodsy, clean, and entirely too distracting.
“Isabella.”
His voice is low and steady, contrasting the chaos swirling inside me. His hand gestures toward the open door, an unspoken invitation I know I shouldn’t accept.
“I’m not getting in your truck,” I say, though my voice lacks conviction, wavering under his glare.
His lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening as if holding back words he’s desperate to say. The tension between us is a live wire crackling as he steps closer. The fabric of his sweater brushes against my arm, and I stiffen, fighting the pull that always seems to exist between us.
“You’re upset. I get it.”
“Upset doesn’t begin to cover it.” I can’t stop the way my pulse quickens under his scrutiny. “What makes you think I’d go anywhere with you?”
“Because you want answers.” His hand brushes mine, capturing it lightly and guiding me to his truck. “And because I have them.”
My throat tightens.
The door is still open, and the space inside is dark and waiting. I glance toward the faculty parking lot, my car only a few strides away, but the pull of him keeps me walking hand in hand.
His eyes stay locked on mine, and for a moment, I wonder if he knows he’s already won. When we reach the door, he lets go of my hand and steps back, giving me space but not retreating entirely.
“This better be worth it.”
I hook my hand on the handle to hoist myself aboard when he collects my backpack and purse from me. I don’t bother with a thank you. It’s the least he can do. I cast him a look over my shoulder to find him gazing down at the pavement.
“Always with the boots.”
Bewildered, I reply with an unintelligent, “Huh?”
Two steps, and he’s standing close enough that I tilt my chin up. His hand loosely covers my throat, keeping my face in place while his lips drift closer to mine.
“One day, you’ll be wearing those boots and nothing else, Iz.”
Iz.
The nickname from the other night.
It was a shock and blur when he first said it, too stimulated by what had happened to pay much mind. But here, in the glare of day and the campus backdrop, it’s intimate. A secret between us.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I didn’t ask.”
His breath caresses my cheek.
When he releases my throat, his palm drifts down to my side to help me climb inside. Diego closes the door, slipping my belongings on the seat behind me. He rounds the truck, gets in, and starts it without any explanation of where we are going, and I’m the imbecile who readily agrees to go.
With all my defense down with him, I blame it on the weariness of this week and hearing my father sing his praises the last two days after a pretty fantastic lab and lunch. I have to admit it was a bold but sweet gesture.
After talking about it with Papà, he was invigorated and eager to attend next week, having the old chemistry lab in his blood sparking him with an energy I haven’t seen in years, all while wearing his sling and recovering from his fall.
I have Diego to thank for that, but the words of gratitude won’t come.
“Now that you have me trapped, start talking.”
I adjust the low heat from the vents away from me.
“Where are we going?”
His smirk is highlighted by the blue LED lights that trim his dashboard and doors. A fancy trick to match his fancy truck.
“To take a page out of your book, Iz, we’ll talk when we get there.”
“Where is there?”
His dark stare meets mine before his hand shifts slightly as if testing the waters to reach for mine. Instinctively, I lean closer to the window, focusing on the city lights streaking past in a kaleidoscope of motion.
The silence between us is broken only by the low thrum of rap music playing through the speakers, its bassline vibrating through the cab. I sink into the soft leather seat, allowing myself to simply exist in the stillness, leaving the unspoken words to hang in the air.
It isn’t until we pull through the entrance of a go-kart racetrack, the neon sign casting flickering colors across the windshield, that I finally break the silence. My spine straightens as the smell of rubber tires and engine exhaust seeps into the cab.
“You can’t be serious, Diego.”
He doesn’t look at me, his hands steady on the wheel as he pulls into a parking spot. The corner of his mouth tugs upward, just enough to ignite my irritation.
“I warned, asked, and begged you not to put me over the wall, and you did it anyway.” His tone holds a hollow sadness to it, catching my attention. “You’re going to race me. If I win, no more walls, you let me in. No matter what.”
This isn’t just a game to him. It’s a line in the sand. A reckoning.
“And if I win?”
The question slips out before I can stop it.
His jaw tightens, the faintest twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes don’t waver from mine.
“If you win . . .” He hesitates, the moment stretching long enough for me to catch the flicker of doubt in his expression. “Then I’ll back off. Completely.”
The words land squarely against my chest, stealing my breath. It’s not a resignation. A challenge wrapped in a promise he doesn’t think I’ll accept. Or maybe one he doesn’t think I can win. But the real question is, do I want this?
I narrow my eyes, leaning forward just enough to close the space between us.
“Completely?”
“Completely.”
No smirk.
No pleading eyes.
Just stone-cold seriousness.
A soberness that twists my stomach into equal parts frustration and intrigue. I glance out at the track, the roar of engines and screech of tires punctuating the thrown gauntlet.
I hate that I’m even considering it. I hate that it’s come to this. I hate more that I want to win.
He’s a competitor.
I’m a fierce competitor.
Having witnessed and won against him and the train. How hard could it be to race go-karts? Surely, my bike skills can translate easily to a kid’s game.
“Deal.”
I extend my hand, the fire of competition blazing through me. His grip is firm, and he has no hesitation when our palms meet.
“No holding back.” His warning is completely unnecessary.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I shoot back, yanking my hand away and scrambling out of the truck.
Adrenaline hums through my veins as we walk silently across the parking lot. He pays at the counter, and I scrawl my name on a meaningless waiver.
“This isn’t going to be like the train, Isabella. I won’t back off this time.”
We’re led to the row of karts, their bright colors glinting under the fluorescent lights. I pull on the helmet handed to me, the strap snapping snugly under my chin.
“Good. Don’t.”
Diego does the same beside me. His movements are calm and deliberate, and his eyes are suddenly hidden behind the dark visor.
We climb into our individual karts while the attendant rattles off the rules.
No bumping, stay in your lane, flags mean slow down, but it all fades into background noise.
My hands grip the wheel as the engine rumbles beneath me.
“Last chance to back out, Isabella,” he calls over the din of engines, his voice edged with challenge. “Or be prepared to be wide open all the time.”
The attendant’s face morphs into embarrassment, with Diego’s words sounding dirtier than he means. Or maybe he didn’t. Who knows, he’s going to lose either way, so it won’t matter.
“Not a chance.”