18. Mack

Chapter 18

Mack

Feeding Isabelle is the right choice. Even though I want to kiss her more than I want to breathe, it's nice to take care of her in a simpler way.

She watches me move around the kitchen, her curiosity obvious.

"You don't usually cook for yourself," she observes correctly.

"It's not the best use of my time." I grab a cutting board and then select a large chef's knife. "But I do know how to cook. When I was your age, I couldn't afford to eat out. Every cent I made went back into the business."

She blushes. "The first thing I did when I got paid was order takeout."

"That's good." I frown. "Honestly, Isabelle, the choices I made…I wouldn't want you to have to make them, too. I was driven by demons, not common sense."

She tips her head to the side and searches my face. "What demons?"

I take a big, deep breath. "It's a long story."

"How long will it take to make dinner?"

Almost exactly as long as it takes for me to tell her about my parents, it turns out. She listens thoughtfully, not interjecting unless I trail off, and then she prompts me with a gentle question that gets me going again.

By the time I'm putting a plate in front of her, I feel both hollowed out, but also lighter than I've felt in a long time.

"What did your mother think about the empire you built?" Isabelle asks.

I laugh at myself, remembering. "She worried I wouldn't ever have a family."

"You didn't plan on it."

"No." I can't lie to her. I mean, I could lie. But I know what it would cost me. So I'm choosing to be fully honest. "Nothing about what we have is planned."

She twirls her fork in her pasta, her face a study in concentration. "It's understandable to be conflicted."

"I'm not." I lean in, putting my elbows on the island beside her. "You were a surprise, but a good one. So good I didn't know how to ration myself. And the baby is the same way. I'm bowled over, but I'm delighted. When we finish with the personal shopping for you, we can have people bring us nursery furniture choices if you want."

She laughs out loud, a peel of giggles that fills me with warmth. "That's a little premature."

"What's the next step for your pregnancy, then? What do you need if not yet a nursery?"

She takes a bite, thinking. Then she shoves the plate at me. "I need you to eat some of this," she says after finishing her mouthful. "I can't eat this much."

I take the fork and twirl my own big bite of pasta, showing her I can be whatever she needs.

It makes her smile, so I do it again.

As she watches me eat, her brows pull together adorably, and then she finally says, "Why didn't you make your own plate?"

I swallow what's in my mouth. "I thought I was too nervous to eat."

"And now?"

"Turns out, you make me less nervous just by being you."

She smiles, pleased, and I'm glad that was the right answer. She snags the plate back and takes two bites before leaning back in her chair. "I have an idea. For…a date?"

I straighten. "Anything. Name it. We can go to Paris. Or we could watch the sun rise over the Grand Canyon?"

That gets me another peel of glorious laughter. "A little closer than that."

Fifteen minutes later, we're standing in front of Bright Books for the second time in one day. It's dark inside, no lights left on, and it feels like we're doing something illicit even though Isabelle has the key I gave her clutched in her hand.

A much better idea for a first date than getting on my private jet and going somewhere over the top.

She opens the door and we step inside. I disarm the security system as she flicks on a flashlight she insisted on bringing.

"We could turn on the lights," I say.

She sticks her tongue out. "This is more fun. Trust me."

Oh, I do.

But I'm also worried she'll trip on something and hurt herself.

Watching carefully, I follow her through the bookstore to the Discovery Wall at the back.

Isabelle points the torch up one of the ladders. "Do you want to go first?"

"What are we doing?"

"Climbing a ladder," she says like it's obvious. "And finding books."

"Books for me? Or books for you?"

She flashes a bright smile that breaks through the darkness. "Both? One of each? Tell me why you pick them."

"We need a bit more light," I mutter.

"Do we?" She's enjoying herself.

So I suppose the answer is no.

I stride past her and grab the ladder. It's too dark to see any of the books above us, so I randomly move it two shelves over, then start climbing. Up close, I can see the books and the recommendation cards. A sci-fi novel catches my attention, something I might read for myself. Then a romance novel that I wonder if she might like.

But I keep climbing, because I want to do this exercise fully. And I find even better options. A self-help book for adult children of narcissistic parents—very on the nose. A how to book on starting a small business. That makes me smile. On the top shelf, I hit jackpot. A poetry collection about love and adventure. I grab it, and the information card, and then climb back down, pausing to pick the self-help book as well.

"What did you pick?" Isabelle's voice is disembodied, coming from behind the harsh beam of the flashlight.

I'm pinned down and spotlit. Not a position I've ever allowed myself to be in as an adult. I grip the book on narcissistic parents a little tighter, and hold it out. "Something that might help me understand why I ran from you," I say coarsely. "And a volume of love poems."

"Oh!" The flashlight sweeps down, pointing at the floor now, and I blink to readjust my sight to the darkness.

Isabelle comes closer. "Poems?"

"Not my usual thing, but I thought you might like it." I hold out the collection and she takes it from me, staying close.

I wrap my arm around her waist, needing to hold her, needing her near to soothe my galloping heartbeat. She doesn't pull away, and I exhale, softening around her.

"Thank you for thinking of me," she whispers as she flips through the pages. " In the rain-darkness ," she reads after stopping on a page with an e.e. cummings poem. " The sunset being sheathed i sit and think of you… "

"That's how it felt while I was gone," I confess, my words low and raw.

She tips her face up to mine.

God, I want to kiss her.

Instead, I keep reading the poem over her shoulder. " The holy city which is your face …" I swallow hard. " Your little cheeks …"

She picks up the next line. " The streets of smiles ."

" Your eyes half-thrush half-angel and your drowsy lips …"

I go still as I read the last bit of that stanza. Where float flowers of kiss.

"Where float flowers of kiss," Isabelle breathes.

I crush my mouth to hers, the books tumbling to our feet. She squeaks and wraps her arms around me, lifting into my body, holding me as tightly as I'm holding her and—even better—kissing me back.

This isn't a flower of a kiss, it's a feast instead. It's desperation and relief tangled together.

She tastes like heaven. Like home, a long-awaited sweetness I've missed so much. She tastes like I'm hers, like she loves me, like I didn't ruin everything, and I'm so fucking grateful.

"Your little cheeks," I whisper. "That was the line that undid me."

She smiles against my lips. "That'll be a tricky book to top."

Swallowing hard, I let her go. "Please don't climb all the way up," I beg.

She rolls her eyes and moves the ladder down the rail to the next bookshelf. "I'll be fine."

I pick up the flashlight and the books I selected, and I light her path.

From behind, in her jeans and t-shirt, she looks like a schoolgirl, even more than she did in the kilt that first day we met.

Thank God for that kiss, because without it, lusting after her would feel wrong. My heart lodges in my throat as she climbs the ladder. She stops at each shelf, reading the cards on either side. She goes all the way to the top, fully ignoring my stern instruction, and then quickly comes back down again, selecting two books from the middle shelf.

"For you," she says when she joins me. It's a book about each week of pregnancy. "Because you asked what comes next."

A lump lodges in my throat. "How—" I clear it and try again. "How many weeks are you?"

"Fourteen. Just entering the second trimester."

I turn to that page and mark it with the front flap of the dust jacket. "To read later. What did you pick for yourself?"

"Baby names," she says with a shy smile. It's a well-loved used edition, with a cracked spine and dog-eared pages. "Something for us to discuss later."

"I can't wait."

She looks at the pile of books in my arms. "Do we have to pay for these?"

I laugh. "We probably should."

"Do you know how the cash register works?"

We figure it out together, laughing.

The last thing I do is arm the security system again, then she locks the door and we take our books down the street to a coffee shop that's open late.

She orders a hot apple cider. I get a dark chocolate mochaccino.

We talk about the books, and the bookstore adventure, and we laugh more than I think I've ever laughed in my entire life.

By the time I'm walking her back to the car, my cheeks hurt in the best way, and my limbs are loose.

I'm at ease, I realize.

God, I'm a fucking idiot for running from her.

My driver opens the back door and Isabelle slides in. I follow, and instead of scurrying from me, she curls up against me immediately.

Yes.

This feeling? If I could bottle it, I'd make another billion dollars in the blink of an eye. But I'm a selfish man and I don't want to share it. This is ours and ours alone.

I brush a lock of her hair off her forehead. "What do you want to do next?"

"Bed?" she asks hopefully.

"Are you tired?"

"After my long nap?" She shakes her head. No.

So, bed is dangerous. "We should stay out of the house, then."

She pouts.

Fuck.

"One of the interesting points about the fourteenth week of pregnancy is an increase in libido," she whispers.

Double. Fuck. "You want to go home and go to bed?"

She nods.

I hold her against me, and vow to get this right.