Isabelle #2
Dessert arrived before I could respond. The chocolate mousse was so rich and dark it was almost obscene. I took a bite and there it was again, unbidden and unstoppable—that involuntary hum of pleasure that Femi had been teasing me about.
"There it is," Femi said softly, his eyes warm.
"Shut up."
"Make me." The challenge hung in the air between us, loaded with meaning, with memory and possibilities.
I threw my napkin at him instead of answering. He caught it easily, laughing.
This was the Femi I remembered. The one who could make me laugh when I wanted to cry, who pushed and teased and never let me take myself too seriously. I'd missed him. God, I'd missed him so much it hurt.
We finished dessert. He paid without looking at the bill. Outside, the night had turned cool, London in late spring, the air still carrying the memory of afternoon rain.
His car was waiting at the curb—that sleek black sedan with the driver who'd been patient all evening. Mine was waiting too, parked just behind it. My driver followed us earlier without me having to ask, an escape route for times like these.
"I had a wonderful evening," I said, and meant it with every fiber of my being. The words felt inadequate for what I was feeling, but they were all I had.
"So did I." He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne and feel his warmth. "I-sa-belle..."
He kissed me.
Not like the way he did in New York. Not desperate and hungry and out of control. This was slow. Intentional. Deliberate.
His hand came up to my jaw, tilting my face toward his, and he kissed me like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth.
I kissed him back. For a moment. Just a moment. Let myself sink into the feeling of his mouth on mine, the taste of chocolate and wine and him. Let myself remember what it felt like to be held by someone who knew how to hold me.
Then I pulled away, my breath coming too fast, my heart pounding too hard.
"Not on the first date," I said, trying to keep my voice light, trying to pretend I wasn't affected when we both knew I was lying.
His eyebrows rose. "First date?"
I stepped back, putting necessary distance between us before I did something stupid like kiss him again. My driver had materialized beside my car, holding the door open, waiting.
"Goodnight, Mr. Davies."
"So you'll go out with me again." It wasn't a question. His voice was warm with certainty, with hope.
I glanced over my shoulder as I walked to my car, let the smile spread across my face—slow, deliberate, a promise and a threat all at once. "Goodnight, Femi."
I slid into the backseat and my driver closed the door with a decisive click. Through the tinted window, I could see him standing there on the pavement, hands in his pockets, grinning like he'd won something.
Maybe he had. I wasn't sure yet.
My phone buzzed before we'd gone two blocks.
Same time Thursday?
I typed back: We'll see.
His response came immediately: That's not a no.
I put my phone face-down on the seat and watched the city lights blur past the window. The familiar streets of London flowing by like a river—my city, my home, the place I'd built my life after leaving him behind.
One date at a time, I'd said. I could do that. I could keep this casual, keep it light, keep my heart safely locked away while I figured out if this new Femi was real or just another version of the same man who'd wanted to cage me.
Probably.
Maybe.
God, I hoped so.
The week that followed was a blur of fittings and meetings and the particular chaos that preceded a major launch.
I was debuting a capsule collection at a charity gala—twelve pieces, all proceeds to a foundation supporting young designers from underrepresented backgrounds. The kind of event that required my full attention.
And still, somehow, Femi managed to infiltrate every corner of my consciousness.
Femi texted every day. Small things. A photo of a restaurant he thought I'd like. A link to an article about sustainable fashion. A single line at midnight: Thinking about you.
I didn't always respond. When I did, I kept it short. Friendly, yet noncommittal.
He didn't push. That was new. The old Femi would have pushed. He would have called when I didn't text back fast enough. He would have shown up at my studio demanding answers.
Femi seemed content to exist in the margins of my life. To send his little messages and wait for my sporadic responses and trust that I'd come to him when I was ready.
I didn't know what to make of that.
Thursday came and went. I had a fabric emergency—a supplier had sent the wrong shade of ivory, and I'd spent four hours on the phone sorting it out. By the time I remembered Femi's implied dinner invitation, it was nearly ten.
Rain check? I texted.
Of course. Work comes first. I remember.
I smiled. I loved this new Femi. At first, he hadn’t quite understood my thirst for success. Or the fact that I’d been more than willing to push love aside just so I could kick off my fashion career. But now, he seemed to get it.
The gala was Saturday evening, held at the Victoria and Albert Museum because apparently my life had become the kind of absurdity where I launched fashion collections in museums. Naomi was walking the show—she'd insisted, even though she'd technically retired from runway work two years ago.
"It's for charity," she'd said. "And also, I look incredible in that emerald dress. You can't waste that on someone else."
She wasn't wrong.
I arrived three hours early to oversee the setup. The space was stunning—vaulted ceilings, marble floors, my pieces displayed on platforms like sculptures. Each one lit perfectly, each angle considered. My team moved around me with the precision of a military operation.
"The caterer wants to confirm wine selection," Meg said, appearing at my elbow with her tablet.
"Tell them whatever they chose is fine. I don't have time for wine opinions."
"They're insisting someone approve the vintage. Apparently, the supplier is very particular about his wines being presented correctly." She emphasized the word 'particular' in a way that suggested she'd already had this conversation multiple times.
I sighed, long and suffering. "Fine. Where are they?"
She pointed toward the far end of the gallery, where a makeshift bar was being assembled. I walked over, mentally running through my checklist—lighting, music cues, model lineup—
And stopped.
Matteo Rossi was standing behind the bar, examining a bottle of red wine. He was wearing a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark trousers, no tie. Casual but elegant.
He looked up when he heard my heels on the marble. Surprise flickered across his face, then warmth.
"Bella." He set the bottle down carefully.
I glanced at the wine cases stacked behind him. "You're the particular supplier?"
"Guilty." He spread his hands in a gesture of amused surrender. "I was told this event was for a fashion charity. I did not realize it was your fashion charity."
"It's not mine. I'm just one of the designers."
"Ah, yes. 'Just' one of the designers.” He smiled, and it transformed his face, made him look younger. "Very humble. I'm sure that humility is why your name is on all the promotional materials in letters larger than anyone else's."
Despite my stress, I laughed. "Fair point."
"You look stressed." His eyes moved over my face with concern. "Is everything all right?"
"I'm launching a collection in three hours.” I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to ward off the headache I could feel building. “Everything is terrible."
"That bad?"
"The ivory is wrong, the lighting keeps flickering, and my best seamstress has the flu." I rubbed my temple. "Also apparently, I need to approve wine, which is why I'm here instead of fixing actual problems."
"Then let me make this easy for you." He pulled a bottle from the case. "This one. It's elegant, it photographs well, and it won't overpower whatever tiny food they're serving. Trust me."
"You're very confident."
"I have good wine. Confidence is easy." He poured a small taste and held it out to me. "Try it. You'll see."
I took the glass, and our fingers brushed in the exchange. I brought the glass to my nose first, the way I'd seen wine people do. The smell was rich, complex—dark fruit and something earthy underneath. Then I tasted it.
The wine was excellent. Of course, it was.
"Fine," I said, handing the glass back. "This one."
"You see? Easy." He took the glass back, set it aside with a small, satisfied smile. "Now. What else can I help with?"
"Can you fix flickering lights?"
"No."
"Sew a hem?"
"Absolutely not."
"Then I think we're done here."
"Ah, but I can do something else." He ducked behind the bar and emerged with a small plate. Cheese, olives, some kind of cured meat. "You haven't eaten today. I can tell."
I stared at the plate. "How could you possibly tell that?"
"You have the look. The one my sister gets when she forgets lunch.” His expression was knowing, gentle. “Very focused, very irritable, very likely to murder someone over a wrong shade of ivory."
I laughed despite myself. "I'm not that bad."
"Eat first. Apologize when your blood sugar is stable." He pushed the plate toward me. "Please, Bella. It will make me feel useful."
I took an olive. Then another. The salt and brine exploded on my tongue, and I realized I was actually starving. I'd had coffee for breakfast—hours ago—and nothing since. He watched with quiet satisfaction as I reached for the cheese.
"You're very pushy," I said.
"No, Bella. I’m attentive. There’s a difference."
"It's the same thing."
"That depends on your perspective." He leaned against the bar, arms crossed. "So. A charity for young designers. This is your project?"
"One of them." I reached for another piece of cheese, giving up all pretense of not being hungry. "I had a lot of people help me when I was starting out. Seemed right to pay it forward."
"That's admirable."