Chapter Fifteen
When a knock echoed through the townhouse late Sunday morning, Chris already knew who was on the other side. Isabela had called an hour earlier, her voice clipped and formal, saying they needed to ‘discuss the case and the terms of her representation at the earliest possible convenience.’
It was the kind of thing you’d expect to hear in a courtroom, not after you’d practically melted into someone’s arms. Still, knowing she was coming didn’t prepare him for the punch to the gut when he opened the door.
There she was, wearing relaxed jeans and an oversized hoodie.
Her face was bare of makeup, and she let her long chestnut hair fall in soft waves over her shoulders.
She looked fresh and young, softer than usual.
The effect was innocent, almost sweet. Sweet wasn’t a word he ever used, but hell if it didn’t fit right now.
She caught the way his eyes scanned her, and her chin lifted slightly.
“Sorry about my attire,” she said dryly. “All I had at my parents’ place were old prom dresses or weekend clothing. I figured the turquoise one-shoulder number was a little inappropriate.”
He smiled his amusement, but she didn’t return the gesture.
“May I come in?” she asked, back to all business.
“You may,” he said, stepping back to let her pass.
She moved with purpose, familiar with the layout now and headed straight to the living room. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder before turning to him.
“I’m sorry for imposing on your Sunday,” she began, her tone professional. “But since we didn’t get a chance to discuss your case at our last meeting, I thought it best we cover that as soon as possible.”
Chris crossed his arms, watching her with mild disbelief. “Uh huh.”
“Would you prefer to chat in here,” she continued, ignoring his tone, “or would you be more comfortable at the kitchen table? I need to clarify a few points in your file. There are still some gaps.”
“Here’s fine,” he said.
She gave a brief nod, walking to the farthest armchair in the room, intentionally putting as much distance between them as possible. She sat and leaned over to dig through her bag. The motion allowed her thick hair to slide over her shoulder and hide her face.
Chris sat too, but not where she expected.
He dropped onto the coffee table right in front of her, elbows on his knees, watching her like she was a puzzle he might never solve.
She straightened and flipped her hair over her shoulder in dismissal.
Her lips pursed at his choice of seating but she said nothing.
Opening a manila folder, she flipped through a few pages before selecting one. Then, she clicked the pen open and finally met his stare.
“Aren’t you going to sit?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
“I am,” he replied, not moving from the coffee table.
A faint sigh escaped her, but she pressed on. “Mr. Macklin, can you elaborate on the events that occurred the evening of July ninth, two thousand seventeen?”
Chris tilted his head. “Cut the crap, Isabela.”
“Excuse me?” her mouth gaped.
“Are we seriously going to pretend Friday night didn’t happen?”
Color rose in her cheeks. “This isn’t going to work,” she muttered, shoving her papers back into her bag with a huff and standing.
Chris stood too. “It’s not if you insist on acting like we’re in high school.”
“Me?” She scoffed. “Are you kidding?” She took a deep breath, trying to center herself. “Listen, maybe I should’ve started with this, but I thought we could be adults. I can’t represent you if we have a ... conflict.”
He arched a brow. “So now it’s a conflict?”
“Of course it is! Look, Chris, what happened Friday night can’t happen again.”
The pink in her cheeks had deepened, her voice trembling just beneath the surface. Chris flashed back to the moment her lips had pressed into his shirt, the lip gloss stain he’d noticed later.
“If that’s what you want,” he said, quietly. It sure as hell wasn’t what he wanted.
Shaking her head, something a lot like despair clouded her eyes.
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” she whispered. “It’s what has to be.”
Chris took a small step closer, careful not to cross the line she was clearly struggling to redraw.
“It matters to me what you want,” he said gently.
She didn’t answer. Didn’t look up. Her silence said more than words ever could and it hung between them, thick and suffocating.
Chris took yet another step, watching the rise and fall of her chest with each breath. She didn’t move away, so he took one more step to close the distance between them.
When he reached her, he brushed his thumb along her lower lip. It quivered under his touch. She parted her lips slightly, her tongue barely grazing his skin. The contact sent a jolt through him. Isabela’s gaze shot up to his as if she also felt it.
Then she looked away. “I have to go. This was a bad idea. We can finish the case over the phone.”
“Why?” Chris asked softly, still touching her cheek.
“Because I don’t trust myself not to cross the line again,” she whispered, voice raw, eyes still avoiding his.
“I think you should look at me and cross that line,” he tempted her.
It was probably the absolute worst thing for her to do, personally and professionally. But Chris was a selfish bastard, and right now, he wanted her more than he wanted to do the right thing.
Gently taking her chin, he turned her face toward his. Isabela’s doe eyes were wide, vulnerable, almost desperate. Desperate to get away from him or for more of what they’d started in her office? There was only one way to find out.
Keeping his grip light, he leaned in slowly, deliberately giving her every chance to step back.
Without her usual heels, she barely came up to his shoulder.
Yet when her chin lifted to meet his gaze, it felt like they were perfectly aligned.
Their eyes remained locked, holding in that charged space for a breath that seemed to stretch and hum.
Then, as if committing the moment to memory, he searched her face one last time before brushing his mouth over hers.
The first touch sent a jolt straight through him, sparking all the way to his toes.
Chris kissed her slowly. It was unhurried, patient, and tender. She leaned into him, making a small sound in the back of her throat that was somewhere between a sigh and a purr. Her arms came up, fingers threading around his neck.
The simple contact unraveled him. It took every ounce of restraint to keep the moment from tipping into something more, especially when she shifted restlessly in his arms.
She sighed against his mouth, “This is so unprofessional.”
“If it makes you feel better, I can’t resist you either,” he admitted.
She let her hands fall to her sides, the space between them reopening.
“It doesn’t. Chris...”
Isabela jumped when the ring of his cell phone startled them both. When he reached out to pull her back in, she shook her head, firm but regretful.
“You should get that,” she said, her head angling toward the shrill sound.
Frustrated and aching, Chris crossed to the breakfast bar that separated the living room from the kitchen. Snatching up his phone, he saw it was his sister. He considered ignoring it, but Beth would keep calling until he picked up.
“Hey sis, this isn’t a good time,” he said in greeting.
“Oh, is everything okay?” Beth asked, her voice laced with concern.
“Yeah, fine. Meeting with my lawyer,” he said, just as Isabela cleared her throat in the background.
“No problem. Call me back when you can,” Beth said.
Chris ended the call without another word. When he turned around, Isabela was already slinging her bag over her shoulder, her face carefully composed, her walls firmly back in place.
Before he could say anything, she spoke.
“I need to get my head on straight.” She huffed out a thin, self-deprecating laugh. “I can’t seem to do that around you, so I’m gonna go.”
The words landed like a door slamming shut. He wanted to stop her, but instead, he stayed where he was, watching her leave, the silence between them heavier than anything he could say.