Page 45 of Worth the Heat
“Not what I asked, man. What would you say if it happened?”
“I’d forgive her, I guess. But I’d ask that she trust me to keepher safe, and never to turn off her phone when we have an argument. And to let me love her as I see fit, because I know what she needs, even when she won’t admit it to herself.” I always did. I can read Isabella Santo better than anyone, even her family. I always felt like our souls were tied together, but she couldn’t translate the connection.
“Take the night, Seb. Make decisions in the morning,” Trace says. “Drive safe. I’ll get her things cleared out of your room for the night.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, then end the call.
I drive aimlessly for over an hour, going over every interaction I’ve ever had with Isabella. Wondering where exactly I went wrong. Is Trace right? Was I basically waiting for the first time she pushed back to abandon ship?
Thankful I had the forethought to have Camila spend the night with my parents, I pour myself a double shot of rum as soon as I get home. Taking it upstairs, I walk into my bedroom to find absolutely nothing has changed. “What the fuck, Trace?”
When I’m not surprised his phone goes straight to voicemail, I slam my glass down onto the nightstand with a roar. Stalking around the room, I grab anything of Isabella’s. A throw blanket, a pillow, a framed picture of me with her brothers. A sweatshirt of mine that she wore once last week, and I haven’t wanted to wash yet, because it smells like her.
Walking into the hallway, I chuck it down the stairs. I hear the glass of the picture frame break against the hard floors, but I don’t care. I’ll clean it up in the morning.
I think about taking a shower, but decide against it, because I know all of her bath products are in there, and I’ll probably throw those down the stairs too. I’m pissed off, but I’m at least enough of a realist to think about how difficult it would be to clean up bubble bath and Epsom salts. Laying back against my pillows, Ithrow an arm over my eyes and will sleep to take me into darkness.
I joltas something soft slams against my cheek. “What the fuck!”
“Did you throw my stuff down the stairs?” Isabella shouts.
I force one eye open, noting a blurry figure standing on the other side of the bed. “My dreams are getting worse and worse.”
“This isn’t a dream, asshole. You broke my picture frame!”
My eyes pop open as I realize she is here. Isabella is in my bedroom. Slow to stand, I take my time turning to face her. “What do you care? You got what you wanted, right? You got me out of your life for good.”
“I never said —” Isabella’s eyes fill with tears as she covers her mouth with her hands. Still wearing the same clothes she had on earlier, with a streak of flour across the right knee of her black leggings. “I never said I wanted you gone, Seb. I never said that, and you left so fast I couldn’t even say anything. Why didn’t you let me talk?”
“Because I knew what you were going to say,” I tell her wearily, rubbing my eyes. “It’s the same song and dance. I’ve been trying to get you to fall in love with me for a decade. I should have taken a hint more than once.”
“I didn’t think you were in love with me,” she whispers. My eyes clear, and I take in her face. Eyes swollen and red, like she’s been crying for some time. Hair in disarray, and my fingers twitch with a need to smooth them over the strands. “I assumed it was a challenge to you. A game. I didn’t want to be a conquest, and then have to be around you again. I knew I couldn’t survive that. It would hurt too much.”
I stare at her incredulously. “When have I given you the impression that it was just a game to me?”
Tears fall as her face screws up in pain. “You didn’t. It was in my head. Every man I’ve ever cared for has either cheated on me or lied to me. Or both! And I assumed you’d be the same way.”
“You realized that now? Tonight? That it was in your head?”
She shrugs as she nods. “Yes and no. I called Luca. Went to his house, and Dominic showed up. Then Alex. The three of them read me the riot act about how I’d treated you, and how the entire family knows you’re in love with me. They lambasted me for not trusting my instincts, and not trusting them, because they’d never agree to me living with you if they didn’t know you’re a stand-up guy.” Head hanging low, Isabella refuses to look at me as she continues. “I explained why I was upset, and they agreed you should have told me about the bakery order as soon as I moved in with you.”
“Honestly, I forgot,” I admit. “And then you were finally opening up to me, and I didn’t want to rock the boat. I hoped you’d give me some grace once I told you. I certainly never thought you’d outrun Trace with Speedracer and rack up a couple of felonies in the process.”
“A couple of felonies? Oh, now you’re going to be dramatic. Great,” she snaps, her blazing eyes finally finding mine. “Let’s talk about your behavior tonight, shall we? You decided I couldn’t love you back. You very firmly stated that I should move out. You never let me talk, and you determined, incorrectly, might I add, that I didn’t want to be a wife or have a family. And worst of all, you claim I couldn’t see myself the way you see me, or see you in the same light. You’re all I see, Sebastian. Maybe you’re the one with the blinders on, not me.”
“I need some clarification,” I breathe, taking a hesitant step toward her. “What exactly do you see?”
Isabella’s eyes soften. “You made me see myself. You gave me confidence that I never knew I could have. I began to trustthat not all men are assholes, because you weren’t. I knew my brothers were in your corner, and boy did they lay into me tonight about my lack of trust. I hate that I caused you pain because of that. My family is full of these remarkable love stories, with glorious pairings of individuals who match each other so well. I couldn’t see our matching. You’re bigger than life, and I’m just … me. It’s not about physical appearances or weight —”
“Your weight is fucking perfect. Your body is perfect.”
Her lips twitch as she fights a smile. “I know. I love my body. I always have. I’m fine with not being a size two. I love food, and I love to eat. I won’t be apologetic about that. But your interest in me made me doubt my own confidence about my body initially. How could someone as gorgeous as you want a plain Jane like me? I couldn’t see it.”
“You are not plain,” I tell her, taking another step in her direction. “You’re perfect. I dream about your curves, baby. Do you believe me now?”
“I do,” she says with a nod. “It took me longer than it should have, though. Every woman in my family is smaller than me, and while no one has ever made me feel like I’m less than because of being curvier, I think I subconsciously put that on myself. And the last few weeks, as you’ve been slowly filtering into my soul, I realized that I don’t care about what anyone thinks about me. I only care about whatyouthink.”
“Do you want to know what I think right now?” I ask.
