ISABELLA
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Istand in front of Nick’s front door as if my feet have sunk into the concrete and I can’t move.
I’ve spent all day at the little desk in my room at home making phone calls, sending emails, and coordinating. I was able to dig my thoughts into something that forced me to devote all my focus to it.
But now? Now I stand here, and something heavy settles in my belly like a stone. Something feels very permanent about knocking on his door and going inside.
I barely slept last night after our date. I just kept going over and over all that we talked about, all the differences between us.
And all of it makes me want him even more.
It doesn’t help that every single time I think about his knot, I blush from head to toe, flushed with heat. I still can’t really wrap my head around why I want to feel him stretch me so full I can barely breathe, but I do.
I want it.
I want him.
That thought is all it takes. As if it has a mind of its own, my hand raises, and I knock. The cranberry-red door opens, and there he stands. Nick Martin.
My chest warms at the sight of him in his crisp slacks and crystal blue button-down shirt that matches his eyes. The top few buttons are unbuttoned, showing off the top of his pectoral muscles and a glimpse of dark chest hair.
My mouth waters.
“Izzy,” he murmurs, as if my name is sacred. As if I’m a prayer. He reaches for my neck, notching his hand at the base of my skull in his favorite place. I lift to my toes to press our foreheads together.
“Nicky,” I reply, a little tease in my voice.
He groans, a grin forming on his handsome face. “I’ve earned a new nickname, have I?”
I shrug. “I’m testing it out.”
“And?”
I grin. “It’s not right. I still like ‘boss’ better.”
He groans but tightens his hand around my neck in a way that makes me think maybe he doesn’t hate being called boss all that much.
“Come inside.” He steps back, mournfully glancing at my lips as if the act of not kissing them causes him physical pain.
I know the feeling.
I follow him through the entryway, and from the first step, I almost gasp at the updated interior.
Nick had to have done this himself, right?
While the outside gave the standard Craftsman vibe with a stunning wrap-around porch, the beauty of the home is inside.
It’s an open floor plan you can see straight through to the large windows at the back of the kitchen.
“Will you give me a tour?”
“Well, this is the living room,” he says, hand flexing at his side. “And the kitchen is back there. Formal dining room, half bath. Then upstairs there are two full baths and four bedrooms.”
The dark wood floors flow through to the kitchen, where they meet the white cabinetry and the marble island. It’s a lot of space for just one person, despite how large Nick is.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. It’s more than beautiful. It’s exactly what I would’ve created if someone asked me what I want my future home to look like. It just needs throw pillows, blankets—homey touches.
Things I could bring.
Suddenly, I’m hit with images of photos on the walls of our families, my boots in the entryway, and music playing. My snow globes. A future.
I shake my head. This is the second date. What am I doing?
“Thank you,” he replies, moving to stand behind me and drawing my jean jacket off my shoulders. “Let me hang this up for you.”
I slip out of it, revealing my favorite lilac dress. It cinches in at the waist and pushes my boobs up to my chin. A fact that I’m sure Nick notices—if the heated glance my way is anything to measure by.
He slides up behind me, trailing his hands down my arms. “You look fantastic.”
He presses his nose into my neck—right underneath my ear—and takes a deep breath. My body presses back into him, allowing him to support me as I melt into his embrace.
His hands find my hips. He allows them to wander, running over my belly and up to my ribs, but never anywhere else. Never where I need him.
“I made dinner,” he says, hands traveling back down. “Are you hungry?”
Yes, but for something that probably isn’t on the menu.
I nod, unable to vocalize anything other than incoherent begging. He takes my hand, leading the way. At a large, raw wood table lined with yellow flowers and two place settings, he pulls my chair out, and I sit down, watching as he walks around the kitchen collecting the pieces of dinner.
“Oh my God,” I moan as he places a slightly steaming loaf of sourdough in front of me. “What the fuck?”
A chuckle is my only response. I rip off a piece of bread and shove it in my mouth, savoring the warmth dancing on my taste buds.
“Did you make this, too?” I ask through my mouthful. I really should remember my manners.
He turns with two plates in his hands and walks over, depositing them on the table. “Yeah. I hope it’s okay.”
“Okay?” I swallow. “It’s perfect. Delicious. Magical. Fantastic.”
“My woman likes bread. Noted.”
My chest aches at the possessiveness in his tone. In his words. No one has ever really claimed me as theirs.
“Roasted chicken with assorted vegetables and baked potatoes,” he continues as he sits next to me. “I hope you like it.”
“It smells delicious. Thank you, Nick.” I squeeze his hand. “This means a lot to me.”
“I’ll make you dinner whenever you want, Izzy.”
I believe him. I trust him. With each bite of exquisite food, I build up my resolve. I’m going to take what I want tonight.
And what I want is Nick.