Page 55 of Isaac

Before I can dwell on it any further, there's a knock on my hotel room door. Reluctantly, I push myself off the bed and pad over to answer it.

The door swings open to reveal Isaac standing in the hallway, his gaze immediately drops below my chin and he eyes my bare torso like he’s going to prepare a thesis on it.

"Hey," he says, clearing his throat and shifting his focus to my face. "I got some errands to run. I'll come back for you in fifteen minutes."

What?

Is he just going to ignore the whole kiss thing?

"Uh, sure," I reply, trying to hide my confusion as the door clicks shut behind him.

What could he possibly want? Have Jeremy bash my head in because he found out I’m a fed? Buy me flowers? No. What the fuck.

The uncertainty gnaws at me, but I push it aside and hurry into the bathroom for a quick shower. I’m disciplined. The Marines will do that to you. I don’t need fifteen minutes. I can be good as new in ten.

When I step out into the hallway, Isaac is already waiting for me, leaning against the wall with an unreadable expression. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Very casual and very un-Isaac Thoreau.

We exchange terse nods before making our way to the elevator in silence.

The undercurrent of tension daunting between us fills the air, heavy and suffocating.

"Listen," Isaac says as we descend, his voice low and serious. "I never thanked you for saving my life yesterday. I appreciate it."

"Just doing my job," I respond, trying to sound relaxed even though my pulse races at the proximity of his body, and my heart jabs against my ribs like an insistent drummer.

Thoughts chip away at me.

Why is this shit happening?

I need to focus, I need to remember why I'm here.

"Still," he insists through his almost always-present frown. "You’re new. Heroics are usually left to those who've been around the block. You didn’t have to."

I don’t have the time to give him a response.

The elevator dings, signaling our arrival at the lobby, and Isaac strides out without another word, leaving me to follow in his wake. As we walk through the downstairs area and then through the casino floor toward the exit, my thoughts begin to race, anticipating and dreading what lies ahead.

When the neon lights of Eclipse reflecting off polished surfaces are left behind and we are in the hotel parking lot, Isaac points toward a black SUV and takes the driver’s seat.

The scorching Las Vegas sun beats down on us as we drive to the outskirts of the city. The landscape changes from bright casinos to monotonous suburban sprawl, and I’m wondering if this car ride is leading me to my execution site.

Instead, with an unexpected turn of the steering wheel, we find ourselves parked at some run-of-the-mill grocery store.

"Shopping?" I ask, glancing at him.

"Everyone has to eat, Hawk," Isaac replies, shutting off the engine with a soft click that seems almost too normal for this odd rendezvous.

My thoughts sit heavy in my mind like loose puzzle pieces refusing to fit.

We step inside the supermarket, smack-bang under harsh white lights bouncing off high metal aisles stacked with myriad food items.

Isaac scrubs a hand through his dark messy hair before grabbing onto a cart handle—worn but sturdy—and he commences operation fill-up.

He slowly loads the cart with an assortment of food that seems fit for a family with kids—cereal boxes flauntingflashy mascots, cold milk bottles sweating under the artificial fluorescence, fresh fruits with their glossy skins intact softly blushing beside crisp green veggies fighting frosty breaths in their plastic-wrap prisons. Cookies pile in last.

I scrutinize his choices. Partly amused, partly baffled as he saunters past aisle after aisle. I would've bet my life savings on him being more of a whiskey-soaked steak devourer than a domestic dad-does-grocery type. But then again—he isn't one for playing it predictable—is he?

"Got a big appetite?" I ask, raising an eyebrow as he tosses in another box of cereal.

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