Chapter Twenty-Five
Isabela took a sip of her chamomile tea, which had long gone cold, and tried to temper the simmering frustration that had been building in her chest all evening.
“That is not an option,” she said tightly, each word clipped with restraint.
The party had wound down a few hours ago and they had finished cleaning up.
It was now late, and she was still at the kitchen table with her parents and Nic.
They were rehashing the same argument for what felt like the tenth time.
Her mother’s face was drawn with worry, her father’s jaw set in that familiar way that meant he was barely holding it together.
Nic looked ready to put someone through a wall.
She couldn’t blame them. The facts were stark. Someone had gotten into her office. Had left behind a message meant to threaten and intimidate her and her client. She wasn’t na?ve. If they could get into her workplace, they could figure out where she now slept.
That was the part she couldn’t stomach. The idea of her abuela, her nephews, her family being in danger because of her choices, was too much. That line she would never cross. She would offer herself up on a platter before she brought danger to this house.
Her father’s voice, worn and heavy, broke through her thoughts. “Sweet girl, it can’t possibly be worth this amount of trouble. That man doesn’t deserve this sacrifice from you.”
Isabela sat up straighter, her fingers curling around the chipped ceramic mug. “He does,” she said before she could filter herself.
A beat of stunned silence followed. She felt all their eyes on her, sharp and assessing.
“I am a professional,” she continued, voice steady now, measured. “I agreed to take on Mr. Macklin’s case, and I am not going to be scared off by cowards who break into offices or send threatening pictures. I took an oath, and I will honor it.”
Her gaze dropped to her tea again, the crack in the mug a perfect metaphor for how she felt. Splintered and bruised, but still holding together.
“Throughout the course of our legal representation, I’ve come to believe that Mr. Macklin is telling the truth. I believe he’s innocent. He’s not perfect, but the shooting wasn’t malicious. He made a mistake. A costly one. But he’s not a monster.”
Nic slammed his palm against the table. “You’d risk your life to save a random cop? He’s not even your friend! You’ve been hit once, Isabela. You’ve been stalked, your car was forced off the road, and now your office was broken into. When’s enough? When they leave you like your boss? Or worse?”
Her father didn’t say anything, just dropped his head into his hand. The silence that followed was heavy.
“This isn’t a debate,” she replied, more forcefully than she meant. “I’m representing Chris. I’ve already said I’m willing to move back into my apartment. Marcus offered a full-time bodyguard. I can take him up on it and...”
“So now it’s ‘Chris’?” Nic sneered. “You’re on a first-name basis with the man who’s responsible for your life falling apart?”
Isabela’s eye twitched. “Chris is not responsible for this.”
“He’s the reason your life’s in danger!” Nic snapped. “Does he even know the kind of hell you’re dealing with? The risk he’s put you in?”
“That’s not fair,” she bit back, the words hot and defensive. “You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s going through.”
Her mother’s voice cut through the tension, cool and resolute. “Enough.”
Everyone froze.
“You’ve made your point, all of you,” her mother said as she pushed her chair back and rose. “But so has Isabela. Stop bullying her.”
She came around the table, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to Isabela’s temple. “You will stay here. No arguments. I won’t sleep if you’re alone in that apartment. Not even with a bodyguard.”
Then, as calmly as she had sat at the table, she left. The soft creak of the stairs followed her up.
Nic muttered a curse and shoved his chair back. “Set the alarm the minute I leave,” he said, stalking out.
Her father lingered for a moment longer, the weight of years and worry in his eyes. “We just want you safe, mi hija. That’s all we want.”
“I know, Papa.”
He nodded and followed Nic, leaving Isabela alone in the dim kitchen. The argument left her feeling battered. Underneath it all, there was a quiet, persistent ache to talk to Chris. To hear his voice. To tell him what had happened.
She pulled her phone from the pocket of her hoodie. Two messages from him waited on her screen.
Christopher: Thinking of you...
Then, twenty minutes later.
Christopher: Hopefully you’re sleeping.
A smile tugged at her lips despite everything. This enigma of a man could be sweet.
Isabela: I did have quite the workout this afternoon, but I’m still awake.
She paused, considering whether to tell him about the break in. What would be the point? He was already on edge. Already blaming himself. She couldn’t add more fuel to that fire. Not tonight.
A few seconds later, her phone buzzed again.
Christopher: What are you doing?
Isabela: Sitting in the kitchen. Arguing with myself about whether to call you.
Christopher: Call me.
She stared at the screen for a second, her thumb brushing over the illuminated message. Then, without letting herself overthink it, she hit DIAL. When he answered on the first ring, all the tension in her body broke loose at the sound of his voice.
****
Chris picked up right away, barely giving the screen time to register her name. His heart, already pounding from the moment her text came through, surged at the sound of her voice.
“Hey,” she said softly.
He shut his eyes and let the sound of her settle something inside him.
“Hey, yourself.”
“Hold on a second,” she whispered. “I’m sneaking upstairs.”
He could hear the hushed shuffle of her steps, the creak of the stairs, the rustle of her sweatshirt brushing the phone.
He imagined her tiptoeing around the house, trying not to wake the very people begging her to drop him as a client.
People he didn’t blame one damn bit for their anger.
He was a walking “hazard” sign, and Isabela had been dragged into the fallout.
He leaned his head back against the couch, exhaling slowly. If, no, when, this case was finally behind him, what would be left for them? Would there be any space for him in her world?
How could she bring a man like him to firm galas or introduce him to her polished, successful friends? What would she say? This is Chris, remember the detective accused of murder? We sleep together now. Pass the pinot grigio.
Chris swallowed hard. He didn’t want to be hidden. Yet, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t deserve to be.
The line crackled gently, then her voice returned. “Okay, I’m in my room. I shut the door. You still there?”
“Yeah,” he said, the word coming out rougher than intended. “You’re good at sneaking around.”
“Lifelong skill,” she said. “Growing up in a house full of nosy brothers.”
He let himself smile.
“Thanks for calling,” he said. “I know you’ve had a hell of a day.”
There was a pause. He pictured her sitting cross-legged on a bed covered in throw pillows and blankets that smelled like her tropical shampoo. Maybe her hair was still damp from a late shower, her skin soft and clean and glowing beneath the light of a bedside lamp.
“I just wanted to hear your voice,” she admitted quietly.
That wrecked him. That undid him because it’s what deep down he wanted her to say, to feel.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “I’m glad you did.”
They fell into a stretch of silence that wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, a quiet understanding passing between them. It was stupid to feel peace like this, to find solace in a woman who had every reason to walk away from him. But he did. Right now, real was a rarity.
“I wish I had time to see you tomorrow,” she said around a yawn.
“You sound tired,” he murmured.
“A little.” She yawned again softly. “It’s been a long couple of days.”
“You should sleep,” he said. “You need to be sharp tomorrow. You’ve got a pain in the ass client to deal with.”
Her laughter drifted through the phone like a melody. He could live on that sound. He could die for that sound. In that moment, Chris realized the truth he’d been dancing around for days now, maybe longer. He was falling for her. No, he had fallen for her.
He wanted things with her, messy, impossible things. He wanted late-night chats that turned into good mornings. He wanted to know the name of her shampoo, the exact sound she made when she first opened her eyes. He wanted to be the one she snuck to, not snuck around.
It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t logical. But nothing about the way they responded to each other had been.
“You okay?” she asked, her voice sleepy but laced with concern.
He forced himself to answer, “Yeah. Just ... listening to you breathe.”
“That’s not creepy at all,” she teased, but there was affection in it.
He felt dumb for grinning like an idiot in the empty townhouse. If she knew how many times he had checked her location tonight she would be filing for a restraining order. “I’m glad you’re safe. Make sure you keep taking extra precautions.”
“I will. You too. Your safety matters. Try not to forget that.”
Her faith in him was a weight and a gift all at once.
“You should sleep,” he said again. “I'll be here when you wake up.”
“Will you?” she asked, not challenging, just curious.
He knew she didn’t mean physically. She was asking whether he would put those walls back in place. Push her away like he did with everyone else.
He swallowed and decided to go with honesty. “I want to be.”
Another pause.
“I want that too,” she whispered.
Chris stared at the ceiling long after they hung up, her voice echoing in his ears, her words replaying like a lullaby and a curse.
They had said so much in those casually whispered words.
Something that sounded like confessions.
Wanting Isabela wasn’t the problem. Believing he could ever deserve her .
.. that was the part that would destroy him.