Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Everything goes black.
The water goes cold within seconds, shocking against my skin.
I can't see anything, can't see my hand in front of my face, just darkness pressing in from all sides like I'm being buried alive.
My chest tightens and my breath comes faster, shorter, no matter how hard I try to control it.
"E-Enzo?"
My voice comes out high and wrong, barely recognizable as mine.
"I'm here."
His voice. Right outside the door where he must have been standing guard without me knowing.
"The lights—"
"Power outage. Storm rolled in faster than expected. You're safe."
Safe. Right. I'm safe.
But my breathing won't slow down, won't calm down no matter what I tell myself.
"You okay in there?"
No. I'm not okay. I'm standing naked in a dark shower with cold water beating down on me and the only thing my brain can seem to focus on is that he's right on the other side of this door and there are approximately two inches of wood between him and me and nothing else.
"Isabella?"
"I'm here." My voice comes out lower than usual, which I'm blaming entirely on the dark.
"You went quiet."
"I'm thinking."
A beat. "About what?"
I tip my head back and close my eyes because there's no difference between open and closed right now anyway. "About the fact that you're right there, I'm in here and it's very dark and I'm very—" I stop. Restart. "The water's cold."
"Turn it off, Isabella."
I do, grumbling “Turn it off, Isabella… pfft” back at him.
I know he heard me but he doesn’t say anything.
The silence that follows is a different kind of silence than before, thicker somehow, the two of us breathing on opposite sides of the same door in the dark.
"Better?" His voice has dropped slightly.
"Not really," I say honestly.
Another silence. Longer.
"I'm right here," he says finally, and something about the way he says it, low and quiet and deliberate, makes it sound like considerably more than a statement of location.
"I know," I say. "That's not helping."
"You want to hear a story?"
My brain pauses.
Uhh?!
"What?"
"A story. About the worst job I ever had."
Is he serious right now?
"Enzo, I'm naked in a d-dark shower and y-you want to tell me a story?"
"Unless you have a better idea."
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep, short and breathless and borderline hysterical.
"Fine. Tell me your stupid story." I huff.
I hear him settle against the wall outside, the floor creaking under his weight.
"Five years ago in Miami. Target was a real estate developer who thought he could skim money from Matteo's operation without anyone noticing."
"This is already a terrible story."
"I haven't gotten to the good part yet. We track this guy to a yacht party, big boat, lots of security, very fancy people drinking very expensive champagne."
"And?"
"And Rafe has this brilliant idea that we should pose as caterers to get close to the target."
"Oh no."
"Oh yes. We get the uniforms, the trays of food, the whole setup. We're walking around serving champagne and these tiny sandwiches that cost so much."
Despite everything, despite the darkness and the cold, I smile.
"Everything's going fine at first. We're blending in perfectly, getting close to the target. Then Rafe drops an entire tray of caviar directly onto the target's girlfriend."
"He didn't."
"He did. All over her white designer dress that probably cost ten thousand dollars. Not to mention the cost of the damn caviar. She starts screaming bloody murder. Security comes running from every direction. We have to jump off the boat."
"In the caterer uniforms?"
"In the caterer uniforms, straight into Miami harbor in the middle of July. The water was absolutely disgusting."
I laugh, real and genuine this time, and my breathing slows and steadies.
"Did you get the target?"
"Three days later after we came up with a completely different plan. Had to rent our own boat. Rafe still won't eat caviar to this day."
Another laugh, softer this time.
I reach out in the dark and finally find the soap, find the wall, ground myself in the physical reality of where I am.
It is still dark but doesn't matter as much now. The darkness doesn't press in quite as hard.
I focus on his voice, on the ridiculous story, on the fact that he's right there on the other side of the door keeping me safe.
I wash quickly and rinse off, turning off the water with fumbling hands.
"You still there?"
"Still here."
"Okay. Good."
I reach for where the towel should be hanging and feel nothing but air.
"Enzo?"
"Yeah."
"I don't have a towel."
Silence. Then: "There should be one on the rack."
"I can't find it. It's too dark."
I hear him stand, hear his footsteps. "I'll get you one from the linen closet. Down the hall. You'll hear me the whole time."
"Don't..." I stop myself, swallow hard. "Don't leave."
"I'm not leaving. Just moving down the hall for ten seconds. You'll hear every step."
I hear his footsteps moving away, the sound of a door opening, footsteps coming back.
"Here."
I open the door just enough to reach one arm through, and his hand finds mine in the darkness, warm and solid and real as he passes me the towel.
"Thank you."
I dry off quickly and wrap the towel around myself, opening the door wider.
He's standing right there, closer than I expected, and moonlight from the hallway window catches his face and his eyes.
He's looking at me like... I don't know exactly. Like I'm something he wants desperately and can't have. Like I'm breaking him just by standing here wrapped in a towel with water still dripping from my hair.
"You should get dressed."
"Right."
But I don't move and neither does he.
We're standing too close in this dark hallway, the air between us heavy and charged with something I can't quite name.
"Isabella—"
"Thank you." The words come out quiet and sincere. "For staying. For the story. For everything."
"You don't have to thank me."
"Yes I do."