Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CADEN
I knock on Isla’s door the following afternoon, feeling jittery.
And it’s not because of Carl Fillion.
I tried not to look too excited when she offered to come with me—even though it felt like fireworks going off inside my chest. I’m not about to turn down any moment I get to spend with her.
The door opens and I’m yanked out of my thoughts, my knees going rigid with shock. Isla is standing in the doorway wearing a hunter-green cocktail dress. Its fitted bodice hugs her curves, contrasting beautifully with her sun-kissed skin, strapless to reveal the delicate arches of her collarbone. The color makes her eyes even greener. My heart spasms out a painful beat. She’s beyond gorgeous—she’s incandescent. Her chestnut hair flows down her back and the tempting rounds of her breasts peek up from beneath the strapless bodice. I have a sudden urge to bury my nose at the base of her throat, to inhale her warm scent.
I cannot fucking believe Luke gets to be with her for the rest of her life.
Then I notice the tears in Isla’s eyes.
I’m instantly on alert.
“What happened?” I ask.
“It’s stuck,” Isla moans. “I can’t get the zipper undone.” She’s wringing her hands with the sweetest look of frustration on her face. “Oh, what am I going to do, this dress is for the rehearsal dinner and it cost a fortune and now I’m stuck in it!”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I can help.”
“You can?” she asks.
I nod.
Isla steps aside to let me into her apartment. I love it here. I love the little vase of flowers that sits on her table. I love the chipped paint on the cabinets. I love the old stuffed rabbit that perches on the couch next to a decorative pillow with a sun embroidered on it.
Everything about this place says home . I can’t imagine Isla living anywhere else. I bet Luke’s apartment is all minimalist, with expensive art on the walls and fruit no one ever eats in a designer bowl in the kitchen.
Isla turns and I see that the zipper is indeed stuck on the satiny material. I can’t stop my gaze from wandering down the nape of her neck, skimming her shoulder blades, and lighting over the tender depressions of her spine. It’s so hard not to run my fingertips across her skin. I remember the feel of her fingers last night when she touched my tattoos. It felt impossible to hold myself still, to not dissolve beneath that gentle touch.
I study the situation carefully, telling myself that yes, it’s necessary to get as close to Isla as possible to see where the zipper snagged. Isla has the same, faintly sugary scent that I remember so well. It’s like her baking ingredients follow her wherever she goes, a parade of cinnamon and honey. There’s a tiny freckle at the nape of her neck and I want to kiss it. She’s so slender, so small. I want to envelop her in my arms, protect her, defend her, never let her go.
“Can you fix it?” she asks plaintively.
My cock gives a faint throb and I force myself to focus. She’s not mine to protect.
“Hold on,” I say.
“Lucille is going to kill me.”
I remember Lucille Richards as an overbearing mother and a subservient wife.
I imagine Isla is getting a hefty dose of the overbearing part. I wonder how Lucille feels about Isla being from town. It seems an odd move, for someone from such a prominent family to marry a woman with no financial or social advantages.
But then again, I fell for Isla. I didn’t care about any of that. So maybe I should give Luke a little more credit.
“No one is going to kill you,” I say. I gently move the fabric this way and that to loosen it. “I encountered something similar with Esme once—she’s the three-year-old daughter of the winemaker at the place I was working.” Isla seems to calm a bit as I talk, still gently working the material. “She was trying to put a dress on one of her dolls and the zipper stuck. That zipper was smaller than this one. The main thing is not to force it.” I wriggle and bend the fabric until the zipper is finally set free from the snag.
“There,” I say. “All set.”
“Thank you,” Isla says in a rush. “Oh Caden, seriously…thank you.”
“It’s no problem,” I reply, taking a quick step back.
Her mouth twitches. “You were helping a little girl with her doll?”
I shrug. “Esme is the cutest. She had me wrapped around her little finger from the day she was born.”
“That’s so sweet,” she says. She scrabbles at the back of the dress then clears her throat delicately. “Um, do you mind…unzipping it a little further? I just can’t reach that high.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” I say, trying not to sound as eager as I feel. My hands brush the soft skin of her back, casting another shiver of want down the length of my cock. I pull the zipper down halfway. She’s not wearing a bra. My dick swells to half-mast.
I turn away so Isla won’t see it through my jeans. I need to calm the fuck down right now.
There’s a rustle of fabric and then the bathroom door closes. I slump against the kitchen counter and take a few deep breaths, slowly bringing my body under control.
When Isla emerges from the bathroom, my stomach does another flip and my recently stilled cock twitches again. She’s wearing a sundress with thin white and blue stripes. Her skin glows, her hair cascading over one shoulder. I love the way her nose turns up slightly at the end, how her lips curve into a shy smile, looking up at me from beneath a fringe of thick brown lashes.
“Thanks,” she says, a faint trace of color highlighting her cheekbones.
“So…that’s the dress for the rehearsal dinner?”
“Yeah.” She wrinkles her nose.
“You don’t like it?”
“No,” she says quickly. “It’s beautiful.” She gives a sheepish grin. “I’m worried I’m going to spill something on it.”
I wish she wasn’t getting married at Everton. I wish it was somewhere I couldn’t picture so clearly. Somewhere that wasn’t my own goddamn home.
At least I won’t be around when it happens.
Her phone buzzes and she brushes past me to grab it off the counter. A dent forms between her eyebrows. She bites her lip and writes something out, then tucks her phone in her purse and slings it across her chest.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says without any further explanation. “I’m ready.”
We step out into the midsummer heat and Isla closes the door behind us.
“So, you really think this guy is responsible?” she asks.
“I do,” I say.
“Do you think he would admit that to you?”
“I knew him when he worked for us,” I say. “I think it’s more likely he’ll talk to me than Noah or another cop. I’m glad Fred got back to me.”
“Fred is the private investigator?”
Caden nods. “He sent me over all his files, but Noah was right, there’s just not that much evidence to go on. There aren’t any fingerprints. There’s no DNA. There’s not even a bullet to examine. The…” I suck in a quick breath, my chest tightening. “The wound,” I force myself to say the word in an even tone, “could have been caused by any number of caliber bullets—a .357, or a 9mm, or a .38.”
I have to pause halfway down the stairs, gripping the railing for support. Pain lances through me, thinking of my mother with a hole in her chest. Bleeding out on the floor of her shed, the one place she loved more than any other.
A soft hand perches on my shoulder, gentle as a bird.
“He sent me the autopsy but I couldn’t read it,” I say. Sudden tears spring to my eyes, and I blink them away. “He sent some crime scene photos too. Said they weren’t explicit, but…I still haven’t been able to bring myself to look at them.”
“That’s totally understandable,” Isla says.
“I should though. I need to face this.”
“No,” she says, her voice quiet but firm. “No, Caden, you do not need to see pictures of your mother like that. You do not need to read the details.”
“What if there’s something in there though? Something I’m missing because I’m too…” My voice cracks. If it was anyone but Isla here in this moment, I would be mortified. But I’ve always felt so safe with her—like I can be myself, one hundred percent.
“I’ll do it,” she says.
“What?” I croak.
She looks so brave. So determined. “I’ll read the autopsy for you. That way, you can just ask me questions and only get the information that’s necessary. You don’t have to read it all.”
I feel a whoosh of gratitude so potent it nearly knocks the wind out of me.
“I don’t know what to say,” I murmur.
She smiles shyly. “I care about finding who did this too. You aren’t alone.”
Warmth spreads through my chest. I take out my phone and forward her the files Fred sent me. “Thank you,” I say.
She gives a sort of pleased shrug. “So what else do we know?”
I love that she’s including herself in the investigation now.
“There was no casing either,” I say as we walk toward the little parking lot behind Magnolia’s Petals. “A casing could at least tell the investigators what caliber gun they’re looking for. So no casing means he was either smart enough to take it with him, or he used a revolver. Revolvers don’t eject casings when they fire.”
Isla suddenly stops short, her eyes bugging wide. “What…what is that?” she asks, pointing to my navy-blue Ducati, gleaming in the sun.
“That’s our ride,” I say.
“What about the Camaro?”
“That was Alistair’s.”
She bites her lip, looking nervous.
“It’s safe,” I promise her. “I got you a helmet.”
I stride over to my new bike and take the smaller helmet that hangs off the handlebars and hand it to her. She’s staring at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted three heads.
“I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before,” she says.
I’m still holding the helmet out to her. “Isla,” I say seriously. “I would never do anything to put you in danger. I promise you’ll be safe.”
She searches my eyes and whatever she sees in them makes her finally take the helmet. I feel a hit of triumph. I help her put it on and adjust the straps.
“Should I change?” she asks, looking down at her dress. It’s loose material that falls to her knees.
“No,” I say. “Your dress won’t fly up, you’ll be tucked in behind me.”
I try not think about how much I enjoy that idea.
“This looks expensive,” Isla says, eyeing the sleek design.
“It was,” I say with a chuckle.
“I thought you didn’t use Everton money anymore.”
“I didn’t,” I say. “But being back…I don’t know, I guess I decided to spoil myself for a minute. When in Rome and all that.” I missed my old bike back at Catarina Azul. I put my own helmet on. “I won’t drive too fast. Scouts honor.”
I hold up three fingers on my left hand.
“That’s the Girl Scout pledge,” Isla points out, grinning. Then she narrows her eyes. “You will drive the speed limit.”
“I will drive the speed limit,” I repeat. “Girl Scout’s honor.”
A full smile breaks across her face, like the sun emerging after a storm. There’s no denying how sexy she looks in the helmet. It contrasts with the sundress giving her this sweet-yet-sassy vibe. I get on and she hesitantly climbs on behind me. I can tell she’s trying not to touch me too much as she puts her arms around my waist. I can feel her breasts pressing against my back, her knees jutting into my thighs.
“Hold on tight,” I say, turning the key and revving the engine. We pull out of the parking lot and Isla gives a shriek, her whole body clamping around me. She molds herself against my back as we fly down Main Street, the warm wind whipping past us.
When we shoot past Everton and out onto the open road, I feel a change in her, a shudder along the length of my spine.
She’s laughing.
“Woooooo!” she cries, and the sound lifts me up, it carries me off, it buoys me like no other sound I’ve heard. Isla’s cry of joy is my own personal ecstasy. I feel lighter than I have in five years. Like she’s unlocked something long buried inside me.
“Want to go a little faster?” I call back to her.
“Yes!” she cries.
I kick up my speed and she curves around me, no longer tense but excited. Her palms are splayed across my chest and stomach, her knees pressing eagerly into my thighs. I can feel her heart pounding against my back—we’re like one unit, speeding past wide open fields and farms bursting with color and rows of vineyards, occasional glimpses of the ocean visible on our right-hand side. I want to bury myself in this moment. I never want to live another second without Isla’s arms wrapped around me.
When we get to the small town where Carl lives, I slow my speed, peering at the street signs, bringing up the map in my head from my research last night. I find the right street and roll down it, glancing at every number on every mailbox until I come to an idling stop.
Isla’s arms tighten around me. “This is it?” she asks.
I nod and turn off the ignition. She’s a little wobbly from the ride so I help her off the bike. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, I tell myself. Nothing at all to do with how badly I want to keep touching her. Her hand is so small in mine. She straightens and takes the helmet off.
“That was fun, ” she gushes.
“I can teach you how to drive if you want,” I offer. I’ll do anything for more time with her.
She laughs and the sound is like the bubbling of a brook in spring. “I don’t know if I’m there yet.”
There’s another buzz from her purse. She gives a faint, almost exasperated, sigh as she pulls it out and responds to the text. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from asking if everything is okay again. If she wanted me to know, she’d tell me.
She puts her phone back in her purse and glances up at the house. “Do you really think this is the man who…”
I nod, taking off my own helmet and hanging both on the bike’s handle.
To my surprise, Isla grabs my hand once more and squeezes it.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go.”