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“Anything for you, man,” he says, and I can picture him reclining in his impeccably clean office, elbows resting on a desk with nothing more than a laptop.
“Can you check in on someone for me?”
“Sure thing. Anything specific you want to know?”
“Just... make sure she's alright. Find out what's got her so upset. I’ll text you her info.”
“Consider it done.”
I end the call, the heaviness in my chest easing just a fraction. At least now, I might get some answers. And once I do, I'll do whatever I can to make things right. Of course, I’m doing this for selfish reasons – I need her to come back to work.
Water pelts my skin in the shower, steam clouding around me like a shroud. My hand smears the mist from the glass, but instead of my own reflection, I see Isla's face in my mind’s eye—those wide, innocent eyes that hit me like a punch to the stomach. I shake off the droplets and the image, but she lingers. I need to get it together – I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.
My knuckles sting in the hot water and I look down at the torn flesh. A fight had helped clear my mind, but only for a moment.
Restless nights drag on, the bed sheets twist around me, a poor substitute for the curves of her body I've yet to touch, but somehow crave. My thoughts drift to her soft smile, how her voice might sound whispering in the dark, mouth against my ear. I'm desperate for something I haven't even tasted yet.
*
The Mustang growls beneath me as I drive to the bar, the city lights blurring past. Each red light is a moment stolen, a chance to glance at the empty seat beside me, wishing she was there, remembering the way she'd look at me in the bar, biting her lip with nerves or excitement—I couldn't tell which. But she hasn't been next to me in days, and the silence is growing deafening.
At the bar, amid clinking glasses and idle chatter, I find a quiet corner and pull up Isla's baking channel on my phone—but even that guilty pleasure is gone. The screen only shows the still image of her last upload, a thumbnail of her smiling beside her incredible whipped buttercream frosting. No new videos. My thumb hovers, replaying old clips instead, each laugh and blush a bittersweet reminder of what I’m missing.
My phone rings and I answer, hoping to her Isla’s voice.
It’s not Isla. “Hey, Walker. Got some news,” my private investigator friend's voice meets my ear. I make my way to the door and step outside into the brisk night air, phone pressed to my ear, heart thudding.
“Talk to me.” The cold air and sounds of the city attack my senses. Some guy walks by me, insulting me under his breath and I flip him the bird.
“Your girl Isla ... turns out she's had a rough time. Boyfriend was cheating on her, it went public, then went viral on social media. They've split now.”
The words hit like a sucker punch, leaving me winded with surprise and an unexpected surge of protectiveness. Some dumb idiot was cheating on her? I guess some men really don’t know what they’re missing. The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth. She deserves better. Which is why I need to leave her the hell alone.
“Are you sure?” I ask, gripping the phone tighter.
“Which part? The cheating, the viral video, or that they’re broken up? I’m positive on all points.”
“Thanks,” I say. I end the call, staring into the darkness, wrestling with a newfound knowledge. She's free—a fact that should elate me—but the timing couldn't be worse.
Back inside, the bar's energy feels distant. My gaze drifts over the crowd, half-expecting to see her walk through the door, a smile on her face, ready to pour some drinks and laugh with coworkers and customers alike. But she doesn't come.
She’s had her heart broken, been betrayed by someone she trusted. And here I am, caught between desire and decency, wondering if it's my turn to step into the light or if I should back off and give her the space to heal. Of course, if I wasn’t an ass, I’d leave her alone because I know I can’t be anything more than her next heartbreak.
“Everything alright, boss?” Liam's voice pulls me back to the present.
“Yeah,” I say, the lie sounding as natural as the truth. And as I slip back into the role I know all too well, I face the truth. Maybe this place is fine without her. But I’m not.
Chapter Twelve
Isla
Despite the warm memories and sounds surrounding me in the bar, a cold draft whispers through my mind—a reminder that my life's warmth has been doused with some cold water. I know I’ll build back up the joy and happiness, but right now… it’s nowhere to be found.
I reach for the top shelf, fingers grazing the chilled bottle. It's slick, almost dangerously so in my grasp, and my heart stops when it slips through my fingers and crashes to the floor as if it’s a poetic echo of the shattering of my own world.
“Shit,” I say under my breath, praying no one hears me as my heart hammers against my ribs. The stinging scent of vodka fills my nose even as it seeps into the grooves of the hardwood, a clear, wasted river of liquid that’ll help everyone else forget their woes, too.
Liam's eyes find mine, his brows knitting together with worry. He’s worked with me long enough to know that things aren’t quite right, but I’m not about to share my humiliation with anyone, not even him.
