Chapter Seven
Wednesday morning Isabela had her game face on. She had gotten up early and headed down to the apartment’s gym for a quick sweat session. Then she showered and managed to shovel down some oatmeal.
Dressed in all black, she admired her appearance. She looked ominous, threatening, and ... tired. Leaning forward, she pulled at the bags under her eyes. Sleep hadn’t come easy since being assigned to the Macklin case.
In fact, last night, sleep never came. Instead, she sat cross-legged on her couch at two in the morning, laptop balanced on her knees, devouring articles on negotiation and interrogation tactics.
Ridiculous, really. She wasn’t prepping for a terrorist standoff, though lately, managing Christopher Macklin felt no less impossible.
What unsettled her most wasn’t his hostility, but the way his sharp eyes lingered, the way he made her feel seen when she didn’t want to be. So, this morning, she wasn’t just fighting for professionalism. She was fighting for control.
After applying some concealer, Isabela hustled out the door. A nine-point earthquake wouldn’t stop her from being on time. On the brisk walk from her apartment building to the office, she recited the techniques from last night.
Listen first, empathy, find common ground, take the high road.
Mr. Macklin would not intimidate her. He may be a rude bully, but he wouldn’t get between her and impressing Marcus. Remembering that making partner was her goal, Izzy stayed positive the entire walk.
Entering her building, she noted that it was eight-oh-five. She was early! She smiled, grateful, and ducked into her office. Setting her bag down, she was halfway through opening her laptop when she saw it. A yellow sticky note, unmistakably in Kelly’s handwriting.
Mr. Macklin called to cancel. Said he’ll reschedule.
“Son of a bitch,” she said out loud.
Seconds later, she almost plowed straight into Kelly in the hallway.
“Whoa!” He raised both arms. “What’s got you so fired up this early?”
“What’s this?” she waved the paper in his face.
He squinted his eyes, confused. “A ... note?”
“He cancelled?”
Kelly nodded slowly, eyes narrowing even more. “Yes. Called early this morning. Said he needed the meeting moved to his place or he would have to cancel. You weren’t here so I cancelled.”
Izzy’s pulse spiked. She turned on her heel and stormed back to her office.
“Nope,” she muttered. “No, we’re not doing this.”
She grabbed her things, stuffing her laptop and notes back into her satchel like she was going to war.
“Kel,” she called, popping her head back out, “text me Mr. Macklin’s current address.”
Kelly looked concerned. “You’re making a house call?”
“I’m not letting him blow this off. This isn’t optional.”
Take the high road. That was proving to be difficult with Mr. Macklin.
She left with fire in her step. Was it unprofessional? Maybe. Was it personal? Definitely. Isabela Cruz didn’t get dismissed. She didn’t chase clients. This morning, she was about to do both.
After spending all damn weekend stewing over this man, she was done being nice. If a quiet part of her mind told her she had much different reasons for chasing Chris, she’d tell it to shut the hell up.
****
Chris muted the Mariners game and listened. At first, he thought he imagined the knock. Nobody ever came here uninvited except his sister, and she always texted first. The second knock wasn’t subtle. It was loud, deliberate, and insistent. Someone was pounding on the front door.
He stood, the cold tile in the foyer seeping through his socks. Peering through the peephole, his stomach dropped. Of course, there she was.
Isabela Cruz, in head-to-toe black, dress, blazer, oversized sunglasses, even sensible flats. She looked like she was late for a funeral or prepared to host one. He opened the door.
“Who died?” he asked, eyes drifting over her with appreciation.
She didn’t miss a beat. “The man you shot. Why did you cancel?”
Ouch. He had walked right into that one.
“Today didn’t work,” he said with a shrug, trying for indifference.
She narrowed her eyes. “Why not? You don’t look busy.”
He had no good answer for that. Not one he could say out loud. He didn’t cancel because of an emergency. He didn’t cancel because he didn’t have time.
He canceled because she got to him. Because he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Because she was in his head all the time and in the wrong way. The kind of way that made a man want to confess things. Want to feel things. He didn’t like that.
He didn’t like what he saw in her eyes when he spoke about his past. For some reason he hated the thought of her judgement, or her pity.
“Well, I’m here. And you’re free. So, let’s do this,” she brushed past him before he could decide whether to protest.
The faint scent of something tropical, her shampoo maybe, hit him like a sucker punch. He wanted to groan. Celibacy was a bitch, especially when it was involuntary.
She paused inside the foyer, waiting like a guest, though she'd just marched in like a storm.
“Right this way,” he muttered and led her into the living room.
He caught her assessing the space. The minimal furniture, lack of personal touches, and bland colors screamed anything but homey. It was sterile and temporary. Somehow, Isabela made the space ... more.
“My sister rents this place out,” he said. “My house is too busy right now.”
She nodded. There was no judgment in her expression, just quiet understanding.
Chris rubbed the back of his neck. “Want some water or something?”
“No thanks.” She stood awkwardly in the center of the room like she didn’t want to make herself at home.
“Here or the table?” he asked.
“Here is fine.”
He gestured to the armchair, and she took it.
Grabbing the remote, he clicked off the TV and plopped on the couch.
When he looked up again, her sunglasses were off and pushed onto her head, taming the wisps of hair escaping her low bun.
Her face looked more drawn than usual, tired even.
The smile she offered looked painful to wear.
“I noticed you didn’t return the new client questionnaire Kelly emailed Friday,” she said, flipping open her notepad.
“I thought it was redundant.” His jaw flexed.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Macklin...”
“Chris,” he corrected.
She met his eyes, hesitating only a second. “Chris. We aim to be thorough. Too much information is better than not enough.”
“How do you do it?” he asked suddenly.
Isabela’s brows pulled together. “Do what?”
“That syrupy voice. That fake-ass smile.” His tone wasn’t cruel, just weary.
Her mouth quirked. “Right. Female attorneys are supposed to frown, wear neutral-colored suits, and drop their voices half an octave.”
She deepened her voice to a ridiculous baritone, and he couldn’t stop the smirk that pulled at his lips.
“That’s not me,” she said, back to her natural cadence. “I don’t want to start Botox early, so I save the frowning for when it’s truly needed. Kill them with kindness has always been my mantra. If that doesn’t work, I’m adaptable. And if I have to be mean? Trust me, I can be mean.”
“I know. I’ve seen it,” a laugh caught in his throat.
God, he liked Isabela way more than he should. He wanted to see her really smile. Hear her laugh when she wasn’t trying to hold it in. This was why he’d asked for a different attorney. She broke eye contact first, switching gears.
“I need more details on your time at the academy. A list of former partners, and there’s also a report on a ‘deceased on contact’ incident involving a minor.”
“I thought you just had a vacation,” he interrupted.
“And?”
“You don’t look like someone who just had four days off.”
She lifted her brows, clearly fed up.
He held up his hands in surrender. “Just saying. Coffee?”
To his surprise, she sighed. The sound was soft and even better, it was real.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He almost regretted poking at her. Almost. But seeing past her shield was riveting.
“You don’t have to be sorry. I take it no beachside umbrella drinks over the weekend, huh?”
She hesitated, then answered. “I flew halfway across the country to meet my girlfriends. It’s kind of a tradition. Spring meet-up. It wasn’t the best timing, but it was the only weekend that worked.”
He nodded, remining silent and prayed she would go on.
“It was eye-opening. Not in a great way.” She admitted. “I don’t know why I’m boring you with this.” A nervous laugh slipped out. “Maybe I will take that coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“None at all.” He stood. “Still have half a pot from this morning.”
He walked into the kitchen, surprised when he heard her soft steps follow. The domesticity of it all hit harder than it should have.
He opened the cabinet, grabbed a mug. “How do you take it?”
“Huh?”
He turned just in time to catch her watching him. Her gaze drifted over his body, slow and unguarded, as if she didn’t even realize she was doing it. The moment their eyes met, her head snapped away and color stained her cheeks. Jesus.
“The coffee,” he clarified. “What do you like in it?”
“Cream. Or milk,” she said quickly.
“I’ve got hazelnut flavored.” He grabbed the creamer from the fridge.
When she said, “That’s my favorite,” he added an extra splash.
Handing her the drink, Chris was careful to avoid touching her.
She cupped the streaming mug with both hands, as if it were the only warmth in the room.
Nodding her thanks, she took a slow sip.
Her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parting on a soft sound of pleasure she probably didn’t even mean to make.
Chris’s grip on the spoon faltered. Jesus. He had no business wondering how easily pleasure registered on her face or what it would take to draw it out of her again. He set the spoon down before his shaking hand betrayed him.
She opened her eyes, oblivious. “You make a good cup of coffee.”
He forced a grin. “If there’s one thing cops like more than donuts, it’s caffeine.”
She laughed and it was everything he thought it would be. Warm, feminine, and real. Then it was gone, replaced by silence. The air thickened between them. He couldn’t take it.
“I didn’t do it,” he blurted, too loud in the quiet room.
Isabela’s eyes widened. “Mr. Macklin...”
He scrubbed a hand down his face, words dragging out of him in pieces. “Not like they say. Not on purpose.” His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking. “I’m not sorry he’s dead. But I wish to God it hadn’t been me who pulled the trigger.”
Silence stretched. Isabela didn’t move, she didn’t even seem to be breathing. She simply watched as his hands flexed into fists, like he needed something to hold onto and couldn’t find it.
“I didn’t kill him because of his race,” Chris said finally, voice hoarse. “I didn’t even see that. I saw a predator who hurt kids. I should’ve waited, yeah. Should’ve, hell, I don’t know, reached for my taser. But he grabbed for me, for my weapon, and I reacted. That’s what I was trained to do.”
The words fell between them like stones, heavy and unpolished. He didn’t know why he needed her to believe him so badly. But he did. She held his gaze for a long moment.
Then, quietly, she whispered, “Okay.”
It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t even belief. But it wasn’t rejection either. He took a deep breath.
“We should get back to it,” she cleared her throat. “I’m sure you don’t want to sit here with me all day.”
Wrong.
“Right,” he led her back to the living room.
If he had a choice, he’d sit with her all day. Maybe longer. Isabela Cruz had a few hard layers of her own. Now that he had unwrapped a few, he was starting to want to know every single one of them.