15. Isabelle

Chapter 15

Isabelle

I don't understand.

"We don't have a relationship," I point out.

Also, I actually need to go back to my apartment because he made a mess between my legs and now that the drama of the bookstore is behind me, I'm painfully aware of it.

But I'm not going to tell Mr. Emerson that.

I reach for anything else that feels obvious. "Besides, it's the middle of the workday. Don't you need to go back to the office?"

He doesn't answer. Just stares at me, his dark brows yanked together.

"And what about the bookstore?" I'm grasping at straws now. "That was sort of rude, how we left them without saying goodbye."

His frown deepens, something I didn't think was possible. And then he growls my questions back at me. "Don't you need to go back to the office? What about the bookstore?" He mimics my gesture around the limo, too. "These are the things you say to me after I tell you that I love you, that I've loved you from the first moment I saw you?"

I stare at him. "Are you mocking me?"

"Jesus, Isabelle. No." He grunts and holds out his hand. "Can you please get your pretty little pregnant self over here so I can hold you?"

My mouth falls open.

"I need to touch you," he continues. "I can't explain it properly yet. I don't understand it myself. But it's so hard to be close to you and not hold you in my arms. It's been like that since the very first day. Don't you feel it, too?"

I do. Scared, but unable to deny it, I nod.

His expression softens. "I know I was wrong to run from that instinct. Let's not make it worse by refusing it again. Come here, little one, I won't touch you again if you don't want me to. Not sexually. But please, Isabelle, just let me…"

I launch myself at him, and his exhale is full-bodied and desperate.

"That's better." He settles me sideways on his lap and tips my face up, his finger under my chin. "You're pregnant?"

I nod hesitantly.

He shakes his head. "I've missed so much. How do you feel?"

"I'm tired. And I need a shower. You made a mess of me."

He gives me a wolfish grin. "I have a pretty nice shower you can use. And then we'll have a nap. How are you eating? Any food aversions?"

"Umm…" I look out the window. "No, that part's fine. I eat whatever I can afford."

His expression immediately turns serious. "You won't lack for anything now. I promise. I'm going to make this right. I know I fucked up the bookstore thing."

"I like the bookstore," I admit. And then something niggles at my memory. "Wait, did you have me work on some of that under the guise of research projects?"

He grins. "No comment."

My eyes narrow. "Was it the coffee shop chain research?"

"God, you're a smart cookie." He goes to kiss me on the mouth, then stops and kisses the tip of my nose instead. "But I liked your presentation on that so much that I've also started the search for a real chain that matches the metrics you highlighted."

"Really?"

Mack tells me in layered detail how he likes my work, which is a perfect distraction to the fact that I don't know where his home is or how long it will take for us to get there.

It turns out, not that long at all.

The driver heads north, to a neighborhood of fancy estates not that far from the shopping district where the bookstore is. We pass manicured lawns and grand houses set back from the street, and then we turn through an oversized black gate and wind our way down a lane.

"We're here." Mack presses his face into my hair and breathes in. "I promise you, Isabelle, I won't touch you again until you are ready. When we go inside, everything is at your disposal. I am at your disposal. It's important to me that you feel at home. I won't deny you anything, little one. I will give you anything and everything you need."

The limousine stops in front of a house so grand it hurts to look at. The driver comes around to the back door, and then Mack is easing me off his lap and out onto a pathway that feels better suited to a princess than an orphan.

The door swings open before we get there. Inside, a man and a woman are waiting for us. Even though they're looking firmly at Mack, I can feel their curiosity.

"Is there something easy to cook for dinner?" he asks brusquely.

"Yes, sir," says the woman.

"We'll have the house to ourselves then until I let you know otherwise."

"Very good, sir," says the man.

"Isabelle, this is Cathy and Ian Millbank. They live on the grounds here and run the house. You'll have a chance to get to know them better later." Mack doesn't return the introduction to the pleasant-looking couple, and they make themselves scarce before I find my voice.

With his hand firmly on my back in a no point in arguing kind of way, he guides me up a staircase that curves up around a glittering chandelier, then down a hallway that eventually leads to a suite overlooking a park. I mean, it's probably just his backyard, but it looks massive and formal.

I don't belong here.

Maybe there's another reason I didn't tell Mack—Mr. Emerson—that I'm pregnant.

I can't stay here.

"Don't think about running," he growls from behind me.

My laugh sounds watery. "Will you lock the door and throw away the key?"

"Don't tempt me."

Emotion wells up inside me and I close my eyes so tears don't spill out.

The next thing I know, he's wrapping his arms around me from behind, his face buried in my hair. "I know I fucked up, little one. Give me a chance here to make it right."

I can't shake my head no, but I can't bring myself to nod, either.

I'm stuck in a place of fear and uncertainty.

And my underwear is still a mess.

"I need that shower," I manage to get out.

He exhales roughly, then turns me and leads me into the world's nicest bathroom. It has a sitting area. It has an oversized tub that looks out onto a fountain below. It has two sinks, one of which has a cluster of Mack-coded accessories next to it—a stern toothbrush, a couple of matte black tins that might be beard oil, and an aluminum tube of toothpaste that probably costs more than my daily pay check. The other sink looks like it's never been used, which makes my heart feel traitorous, hopeful things.

I hate the idea of another woman sharing this bathroom with him. I hate it so much my neck gets hot and I have to focus on the shower in front of me to not burst out with questions about his dating life.

It's a huge shower. Like, made for multiple people kind of huge.

"Do you have orgies here?" I clap my hand over my mouth, but it's too late.

He looks down at me, eyebrow raised sharply. "Do you think of me as an orgy-having monster?"

I mumble my answer behind my hand.

He shakes his head and peels my fingers back. "No secrets, Isabelle."

"Not a monster," I mutter, looking down. "Orgies are perfectly fine, but I'd rather you don't have them because I don't like the idea of you having sex with anyone but me."

He sets his knuckle under my chin and lifts my face. "No orgies, I promise. Any other important relationship notes or questions?"

"Was that someone's sink?" I wince. "Nevermind?—"

"No," he says firmly, cutting me off. "The second sink just came with the house, which I bought for the privacy it affords, no other reason. I've never been married. Never lived with anyone, or been engaged." He holds my gaze. "This is my private domain, and now it is yours."

"I find this all very hard to make sense of," I admit.

He leans in, hovering his mouth over mine for a long, aching second before kissing me on the cheek. "Then it's my job to help make it make sense," he says. "Have a shower. I'll get you some fresh clothes."

He strides out like a tornado, leaving me a wreck in his wake. Fingers shaking, I take the silly blue flowers out of my hair and set them on the marble countertop. I strip off my dress that felt like protective armour earlier, and avoid my visibly pregnant reflection in the mirror as I shove my underwear down my thighs.

They are sticky with our combined mess, so I quickly wash them in the sink.

Where can I hang sex-stained panties in this bathroom? Will Mrs. Millbank come in here?

I find a double stacked hook and put the underwear on the lower hook and then hang my dress above it, hiding them from sight.

Then I finally turn to the shower, which is even more glorious than I guessed. It takes a minute to figure out all the taps, but I'm soon enveloped in warm steam. A detachable wand head feels like heaven between my legs, cleaning me up and giving me a thrill at the same time.

And then I explore the fancy bottles on the tiled shelf. Some of them smell like Mack, and some of them just smell…nice. Botanical. Simple. Clean.

I wash my hair twice, and my face three times.

I only get out of the shower when my fingertips start to wrinkle.

When I crack the door open and peer out, I see a robe hanging in the sitting area.

It's big and soft and thick, and I practically disappear into it. I wrap it around myself and step quietly into the bedroom.

Mack is sitting on the edge of the bed, his head bowed, typing furiously on his phone.

"Hi," I whisper.

He jumps. "Isabelle." His gaze rakes over the robe, down to my bare feet, then back up to my face. "Feel better?"

I shrug.

"Some clothes that will fit you properly are on their way."

"That's not necessary. I—" Nope. Apparently my need to be honest stops at telling him I wash my panties in his sink. "I can put on my clothes later. This robe is enough now."

"I like seeing you in it." He reaches for me, tugging me close.

Oh.

It's his robe.

My insides flutter unexpectedly, in a very different way than they have for Mack every other time. This feels…softer. And somehow more dangerous.

"It's very nice." I laugh at myself. "Everything you have is very nice. Of course it is. But I hope you know I appreciate your kindness."

"Jesus, Isabelle. It's not kindness. Okay? I'm not a nice man. It's… You are special. Nobody else gets to wear my robe. Nobody else would look right in it." He picks me up unexpectedly and twists, depositing me in the middle of the bed. "Nobody else gets to take a nap in my bed, either."

"I don't need a nap," I protest, but his pillow does feel very good. "Also, my hair is damp. I'm probably wrecking your pillow right now."

"I don't care." He stretches out beside me and slides a curl off my cheek. "You look good like this."

"Freshly showered?" I crack, my eyes fluttering shut.

"Pregnant with my baby," he murmurs. "And resting in my bed."

And then my eyes need to stay shut because tears threaten.

It's been a morning to end all mornings. Mack's return, the way we both lost control in the limo, the bookstore—the bookstore —and now this. Tension ripples through my body, and I hold my breath for a few beats before finally, carefully exhaling.

His hand smoothes over my head, heavy and warm. "Sleep, Isabelle. You can be mad at me again when you wake up. I'm not going anywhere, ever again."