Chapter 10 Kick
KICK
We kissed. It didn’t matter who started it. What mattered was her mouth on mine, hot and hungry, and my hands in her hair, her body arching into me as I pressed her into the sofa cushions.
This wasn’t like our night in October. That had been frantic and desperate—two people who’d wanted each other for too long finally breaking. Now, I wanted to take my time. To memorize every sound she made, everything I did that made her breath catch.
“Bedroom,” she gasped.
“Are you sure about this, Isabel?”
“I’ve been sure since you came out wearing that towel.”
I laughed against her neck. “That was this morning.”
“It’s been a very long day.”
I scooped her up and carried her into the room we’d been sharing since I arrived, and laid her down on the bed like she was something precious. Because she was.
She looked up at me, uncertain in a way I’d never seen her. The Ice Princess of Paso Robles, the woman who’d attempted to outbid everyone at charity auctions for years without flinching—she was nervous. With me.
“Stop staring,” she said. “It’s unnerving.”
“I can’t help it.” I stretched out beside her and propped myself up on one elbow. “You’re beautiful.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“You’re beautiful and pregnant.” My hand came to rest on her stomach, gentle over the small swell there. “This doesn’t change that. If anything…”
“If anything, what?”
“You’re carrying my baby.” The words came out rough. I hadn’t expected how much that would affect me—seeing her body change, knowing our child was growing inside her. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
“Show me, Kick. Please.”
I took my time, pressing kisses on each inch of skin I uncovered—her collarbone, the curve of her breast, her stomach. I lingered there, lips soft against her skin.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Telling her to cover her ears.”
She laughed, but when I moved lower, she stopped.
I knew her curves from our one night together, but it had been rushed, both of us too desperate to slow down. Now, I could find what made her back arch, what made her say my name like she couldn’t get enough.
When I settled between her legs, she came apart. When I added my fingers, she begged for more.
I kissed my way back up to her breasts and stilled. “Is this okay?”
“More than okay. I need you.”
When I finally slid inside her, we both groaned. I held still for a moment, pressing my forehead to hers, breathing hard.
“You feel—” I started.
“So do you.”
I moved, and she wrapped her legs around me, forcing me deeper. We found our rhythm—slow at first, then faster. Her eyes never left mine, and I couldn’t look away.
“Stay with me,” I said, because I could feel her starting to spiral, starting to retreat behind her walls even now. “Right here. Your eyes on mine.”
She kissed me, pouring everything she couldn’t say into it.
When she came the second time, she yelled my name. Not Kick. Rascon. I followed moments later.
We lay tangled together afterward, the sweat cooling on our skin. My hand cupped her pussy, resting there possessively.
“That was—” she started.
“Yeah.” I pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “It was.”
After that, the pretense disappeared.
We stopped pretending we had separate bedrooms. Our days took on a rhythm that felt like something I’d been waiting for my whole life.
I woke every morning with Isabel in my arms. Her back against my chest, my hand on her stomach, and her hair tickling my chin. Sometimes, we’d make slow and lazy love again. Sometimes, we’d just lie there, talking about nothing, her body warm against mine.
I made breakfast while she showered. Eggs, toast, fruit—nothing complicated.
But every time I handed her a plate and sat beside her, she looked at me like I’d given her something special.
It made me wonder what her mornings had been like before.
Were trays delivered by staff trained to be invisible?
Food appearing without warmth or conversation? Probably.
That wasn’t going to be our life. Not if I had anything to say about it.
We worked side by side in the tiny living room, day after day, fine-tuning the proposal for Thomas.
“What do you think about calling it the 1934 Society?” I asked one afternoon.
“Calling what that?”
“The premium tier. It was the year Thomas’s grandfather founded the winery. It lends itself to the storytelling angle.”
“I like it.” She typed it into the document. “Exclusive without being pretentious.”
“Like you.”
She threw a pillow at me. I caught it, laughing.
The life we were building was exactly what I wanted. Not just the sex—though it was incredible—but this. A partnership. Someone who challenged me, who thought differently than I did, who made everything better just by being in the room.
I caught myself imagining it sometimes. Years of this. A house full of chaos and noise, the way I’d grown up. Kids running through the vineyard. Isabel’s laugh echoing through the halls.
Then I’d shut the thought down, because it was too soon. Because she wasn’t there yet. Because pushing her would only make her run.
But the following day, I’d find myself thinking about it all over again.
Friday evening, I made dinner. A real dinner—chicken with an herb sauce, roasted vegetables, and bread I’d picked up from a bakery in town. When Isabel came into the kitchen, I lifted her onto the counter so she could watch me work.
“My dad used to do this,” I said, stirring the sauce. “He’d take over the kitchen every Sunday afternoon. My mom would sit with him and watch. He wouldn’t let her lift a finger. The rest of us would either help or stay out of the way.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It was chaos. Seven kids, one kitchen. Someone always got burned or broke something or started a fight over who got to lick the spoon.”
“It sounds like good chaos.”
“The best kind.” I glanced at her. She was looking at her hands, and I wondered if she’d tell me what her life had been like when she was growing up.
“Our house was formal,” she said quietly. “And quiet. Even before my mother died. If my father was home, we’d eat in the dining room. Sixteen feet of mahogany between us. Crystal glasses. Cloth napkins. No talking unless he asked a question.”
“That sounds…”
“Lonely.” The word slipped out, and I could tell she hadn’t meant to say it. “It was lonely.”
I turned off the burner, crossed to her, spread her legs, and stepped between them. I cupped her face in my hands and rested my forehead against hers.
“It won’t be like that for us,” I said. “I promise you that. There’ll be chaos and noise, and someone will probably break something at least once a week. But there’ll be love, too. So much love it’ll flow all around us.”
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can promise I’ll try. Every single day.”
I kissed her, and she kissed me back. Then we ate dinner holding hands across the table.
Beneath it all, Baron’s deadline loomed.
The day came and went—two weeks since I’d first shown up at Whitmore—and I watched Isabel check her phone too often, as though she was waiting for a gavel to fall. The official announcement that she’d been cut off.
But nothing came.
“What do you think Baron is up to?” she asked that night, curled against my side on the sofa.
“I have no idea.” I stroked her hair, keeping my inflection even. “Although I’m sorry to say I doubt he’ll just let it go.”
“Never. He doesn’t know how. Not that it makes me feel any better.”
“It wasn’t supposed to. It’s supposed to keep you alert.” I pressed a kiss to her temple. “But whatever he’s planning or doing, you can handle it.”
“Can I?”
“You know you can. And if you forget or insecurity creeps in or you feel like you have to give in to something you don’t want to, remember that I’m right by your side. I’ll help, support your decisions, and be who and whatever you need. And if you want, we can face him together.”
She was quiet for a few seconds. I knew she wanted to believe me. I also knew that wanting to believe and actually doing it were far different.
I’d just have to keep showing her.
The morning of her two-week follow-up appointment, I woke before the alarm. I watched Isabel sleep for a few minutes, then couldn’t resist and slid my hand down her body as my lips found her shoulder.
She stirred. “We have to leave in an hour.”
“Plenty of time.”
I was right. Barely.
She was still flushed when we walked into the OB’s waiting room. From the look she shot me, she knew I was pleased with myself.
“Behave,” she muttered.
“I always behave.”
When they called her name, I stood with her. The nurse glanced between us.
“Dad coming back too?”
Dad. It hit me. I was going to be someone’s dad.
“Yes,” I said, and it felt like a vow.
The appointment was routine until the doctor reached for the ultrasound wand. Isabel flinched when the doctor spread the cold gel on her stomach, and I held my breath as she moved the device, but we only heard static. My heart stopped, and Isabel’s hand found mine and squeezed hard.
Then—thump-thump-thump-thump.
“The baby’s heart rate is perfect,” the doctor said. “One fifty-six.”
Isabel’s hand was crushing mine. When I glanced at her, her eyes were wet, just like mine were.
“You’re out of the first-trimester danger zone,” the doctor continued. “I’m clearing you for increased activity. But no heavy lifting. Four weeks until your anatomy scan.”
In the parking lot, I rested my hand on Isabel’s stomach.
“Hear that?” I said softly. “You’re doing great in there. Your mama and I are so proud of you.”
When I looked up, Isabel was crying. Happy tears, I thought. I hoped.
That afternoon, she found me on the sofa with the pregnancy book. The cartoon one. The one she’d probably assumed I’d bought as a joke.
“What?” I said, catching her staring from the doorway.
“I didn’t think you’d actually read it.”
“Why not?” I patted the cushion beside her. “I’ve got a lot to learn. Did you know the baby can hear sounds now? Us talking to her?”
“I did know that.”
“So when I talk to her, she can actually hear me.”
I grinned and shifted, laying my head in her lap so my face was level with her stomach.
“Hey, baby girl,” I said. “It’s your papa. I’m reading a book about you. You’re the size of an avocado right now, which is wild. You’ve got fingernails and eyelashes, and you can make a fist. So if you want to punch something in there, go for it.”
Isabel’s fingers combed through my hair. When I looked up at her, her expression made my chest ache.
“She’s going to have the weirdest sense of humor,” she said. “Just like you.”
“She’s going to be perfect. Just like her mom.”
The next afternoon, I walked back from my meeting with Thomas. My head was full of distribution numbers and partnership possibilities. I’d filled him in on some of what Isabel and I were preparing, and he said he couldn’t wait to hear more about it.
I was already thinking about how soon we’d be ready when I came up the cottage steps and heard people talking inside.
“You have options. You know that, right?” Bas asked.
I stopped on the porch and listened, even though I knew I shouldn’t.
“Kick is here because I want him to be,” Isabel responded. “If that’s what you mean.”
A pause. Then Bas spoke again. “Do you…you know, love him?”
My chest tightened as I waited for her answer.
“I’m not sure. But I do know that I want this, Bas. I want to have this baby with him. Our baby. I want to see what we can build from there.”
She said she wasn’t sure. It shouldn’t have stung, but it did. We’d only been together—really together—for a couple of weeks. But it hurt. Because I was sure. I’d been sure for longer than I wanted to admit.
“If he hurts you—” Bas started at the same moment I chose to walk in.
He stopped mid-sentence, and his jaw tightened.
“Sebastian.”
“Avila.” He stood. “Just checking on Izzy.”
I crossed to her and kissed her cheek. “Thomas said he’s anxious to hear our proposal. As soon as we’re ready. I told him as much as we agreed to about the 1934 Society. He can’t wait to hear more.”
Her face lit up. “That’s amazing.”
“We make a good team.” I held her eyes, willing her to see what I couldn’t say yet. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.
Bas glanced between us. “I should go. Let me know if you need anything, Izzy.”
After he left, I picked her up, carried her to the sofa, and held her on my lap.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Isabel.”
She was quiet for a moment. “How much did you hear?”
“All of it.”
I kissed her before she could apologize or explain or retreat. Kissed her until she melted against me, until whatever doubt Bas had planted faded away.
That evening, we sat on the cottage porch swing, watching the sun set. I’d been thinking all day about what she’d said about not being sure. It should have scared me off. Instead, it just made me more determined.
“I want what my parents had,” I said quietly. “A family. A crazy, chaotic, full-of-love family.”
Her eyes bored into mine.
“I know I have to earn your trust,” I continued. “But I want you to know what I’m working toward. This isn’t casual for me. It never was.”
I let her silence sit and didn’t push.
“I’m scared,” she finally admitted.
I turned her to face me, lifted our joined hands to my mouth, and kissed her knuckles. Then turned it over and kissed her palm.
“Then, let me keep showing you.”
I lifted her onto my lap, and she came willingly, settling against my chest as the last of the sunlight faded. We sat in the darkness until the stars came out.
Until her phone buzzed on the armrest where she’d left it.
She glanced at the screen and went rigid.
I didn’t need to see the message to have an idea what it said. Tryst had warned me two days ago that he believed Baron was ready to make contact.
She held it up for me to read. Your father would like to arrange a meeting. He’s willing to come to you. Please respond at your earliest convenience.
“What should I do?” she asked.
I gathered her closer. “Whatever you want. Whatever you decide. I’m with you.”
She stared at the phone like it might bite her. Baron’s silence had finally broken, and whatever came next, the peaceful bubble we’d built was about to be tested.
I just had to make sure we were strong enough to survive it.