12. Isabella
CHAPTER TWELVE
ISABELLA
Nick’s fingers brush against mine—softly, slowly. As if we haven’t spent the past hour and a half dancing so close I could feel each exhale of his breath.
It’s sweet, though, as if he doesn’t feel entitled to me and my body, unlike that gropey weirdo on the dance floor. Nick asks for consent each time he goes to touch me. That shouldn’t be such a green flag, it should be the standard of behavior. Sadly, it’s not.
I take his hand, feeling the rough callouses scrape against my skin. I imagine what they’d feel like softly trailing along my shoulders. My arms. My belly.
I tamp down my desire with a deep breath of cold autumn air. Didn’t I just promise myself I was going to control myself around Nick? Unfortunately, that seems increasingly impossible. Something I can’t explain keeps pulling me closer to him like an invisible string.
“Why do you worry about Georgie?” I ask, latching onto his earlier statement. Georgie is a safe topic, one that doesn’t make me want to pull him into my house and never let him leave.
He uses the hand not holding mine to ruffle his hair. “Georgie is… complicated. Not my relationship with her,” he adds quickly. “That’s pretty simple—she’s my little sister in everything but blood. But her life, well, to call it stressful would be an understatement.”
I can’t help but internally smile at the further confirmation that they’re just friends. I honestly never thought I was a jealous person, but Nick is changing that perception.
“I’m sorry to hear that. She’s been really welcoming,” I finally say. “She’s becoming a friend.”
“It’s not my story to tell, but I hope she opens up to you.” His eyebrows knit together. “She needs someone good like you in her life.”
He’s so confident that I’m good even though he barely knows me. And I guess I am, but to have him believe it, too? Makes my steps lighten so much I fear I might float away.
I squeeze his hand and lean into him, causing his jacket to slip down my shoulder a little. It’s comically large, but it smells like him, and I may already be planning how to steal it.
“I always liked this street,” he says quietly as we turn down the lane toward my rented house. “Seems peaceful.”
“It is.” Nerves fall on me like a blanket with each step toward my front door.
Are we still just co-workers? Co-workers who dance so close I couldn’t fit a piece of paper between us.
Am I reading into everything? What happened to my carefully constructed boundaries?
I wanted to keep myself safe, to not blur the lines.
Does he want to blur the lines? He’s certainly acting interested, but heaven knows I’m bad with men and their signals. Maybe this is him being friendly and protecting me from creeps in the bar and I’m on my way to becoming his new de facto little sister like Georgie.
Oh God, I’m going to drive myself mad.
“I can practically hear you thinking, Izzy,” he murmurs, turning me to face him. When did we get to the door? “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“I’m actually pretty okay with not telling you.” I huff a nervous chuckle, trying not to make eye contact. But that leaves me staring at his chest instead and that’s an even bigger mistake. I’ve never seen a man with a chest this solid or broad in my life.
His own husky chuckle in response threatens to turn my legs to jelly. “Remember when I told you I could smell your coffee order on you?”
I swallow a lump of arousal-nervousness-panic as I finally meet his ice blue gaze. “Yeah.”
“I can smell when you’re nervous, too.” He leans in. “You don’t have to be scared of me, Izzy.”
“I’m not scared,” I whisper. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”
“You’re right, petite copine. If anything, you’ll hurt me.”
“What does that mean?”
He shakes his head and lifts his hand to my cheek. The callouses on his thumb graze my skin just for a moment before he stops, holding me still.
My breath saws out of me at a rapid pace, and I wait in the silence, until he presses the sweetest, softest kiss to my forehead. “Goodnight, Izzy. I’ll text you tomorrow.”
He retreats, eyes glued to me as if he doesn’t want to leave just as much as I don’t want him to go. And I stay there, hand on my cheek, watching until his form disappears. Lost to the autumn night.