Page 25 of Hushed Guardian
“Privy to know.”
“Exactly,” Grayson pushes out with a laugh.
He stops chuckling in my ear when Isabelle throws open the front door of her apartment as astounded by Isabelle’s figure-hugging dress as me. Even with her not being on my radar doesn’t stop me from dragging my eyes down her body. She has an extremely enticing form.
When my eyes land back on Isabelle’s face, she greets me with a smile, acting oblivious to my gawk. “Brandon, hi. Come in.”
As my eyes float over her impressive crash pad, a whistle sounds from my lips. “Wow, Isabelle, swanky residence.”
She presses a hurried kiss to my cheek before guiding me into the foyer. Grayson makes gagging noises when I hand her a floral bouquet of irises and baby’s breath. He can forget the morals his mother instilled in him the instant he left for university because it was only his mother reciting them to him. I wasn’t so lucky. I didn’t just have my mother reminding me about how to be a gentleman, I had Melody’s mother as well.
“Thank you,” Isabelle replies before offering to take my coat.
Once she has it hung in the coat closet, I follow her into her state-of-the-art kitchen.
Grayson mimics my earlier wolf-whistle when we enter the modest yet well-fitted space. “Is the dodgy camera you installed in your button this afternoon playing tricks on me, or are they high-end appliances I’m seeing?”
Since I can’t reply to Grayson, I flick the microphone in the third button of my shirt to shut him up instead. People can have nice things without being suspected of criminal activity. I had to prove that before I was offered a position in Tobias’s team. He was more suspicious of wealthy men than me.
Grayson laughs before the familiar creak of his office chair sounds through my ears. Why am I not surprised he’s still at work this late on a Saturday?
My annoyance takes a back seat when a delicious scent filters through my nostrils. Years ago, I would have recognized the smell without a second whiff, however, since it’s been a very long time since I’ve sampled these scents, I take a second undignified long sniff to authenticate the claims of my hungry tummy.
“It smells delicious in here.” When I rub my stomach like a hungry gorilla, Isabelle giggles. “It smells just like my grandma’s kitchen used to smell.” My mouth salivates when I finally distinguish one of the scents. “Mariana meatballs?”
“Nah, dipshit. It’s the smell of desperation.”
Ignoring Grayson’s swipe at my non-existent dating skills, I raise my index finger in the air. “Hold on.” A smidge of hesitation crosses my features when I discover the cause for the extra grumble of my stomach. “Oh, for the love of God, please tell me that’s homemade peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies?”
“They’re due out of the oven any minute,” Isabelle replies before she makes her way to the oven to check on two trays of baking cookies.
“She has good social awareness skills. Tobias taught her well,” Grayson murmurs in my ear as shocked that she unearthed my favorite cookie flavor without asking me. “Now we just need to work out whose team she’s on. Time to bring out the charm, big boy. Just try and do it without drooling on the camera. I’m smelling your spike in body temp all the way in New York. I don’t need to witness the travesty firsthand.”
I roll my eyes at Grayson’s comment before joining Isabelle in the kitchen. When I attempt to snag a cookie from the tray she places onto the counter, she slaps away my hand. “They need to cool and harden.” She pushes a memory of my mom to the forefront of my mind when she adds, “And you’ll spoil your dinner if you eat them now.”
My mom never let me eat cookies before dinner, and don’t get me started on how much of a scrooge she was with the uncooked cookie dough. Fast hands were a much-needed skill in my childhood, and I’m not just talking about the times Melody and I fooled around under a thick blanket.
Mistaking my reminiscing face as one of disappointment, Isabelle sets down a tray of still-warm cookies in front of me. Her eyes roll when she asks me if I’d like a glass of milk with my cookies is as cute as hell. It also explains Isaac’s immediate interest in her. She’s beautiful, but there’s something in her eyes that brings out men’s protective sides in an instant. It makes you desperate to keep her safe, even knowing you’re too late. She’s already been hurt.
I recognize that look anywhere. I saw it in Melody’s eyes, and I was only five at the time. The second time it was just shy of her nineteenth birthday. It was when she galloped down the stairs of my family ranch demanding to know why I wasn’t there for her. That was the last time I saw her up close. She kept her distance at Joey’s funeral, and the angry blonde I wrangled at the airport wasn’t the Melody I knew. She was a ghost of herself. Almost soulless.
My thoughts snap back to the present when Grayson reminds me that I haven’t answered Isabelle’s offer for a glass of milk.
“Yes, please.” I cringe when I spray her counter with cookie crumbs. I either spoke with a mouth full of food or drifted off into my memories for another awkward thirty seconds. I went for the earlier. It didn’t make it any less awkward, though.
Smiling at my apparent daftness, Isabelle moves to the fridge to secure a jug of milk. She fills a glass to the brim before inquiring, “Brandon, can I ask you something?”
I swallow down a cookie almost whole before jerking up my chin. “Anything.”
The silent pledge I made to her months ago is still current. If she wants to flip the lid on everything right now by confessing she’s romantically involved with Isaac, I’ll help her through this because I remember what Mr. Gregg taught me. It’s okay to tiptoe on the wrong side of the law as long as you find your way back. Isabelle is tiptoeing. She’s just failed to pivot back around. Tonight, might be the end of that.
Grayson’s balk isn’t as soundless as mine when Isabelle finally asks her question, “Do you think Isaac Holt is a criminal?”
Although stunned she’s commencing our ‘date’ by bringing up Isaac, I’m man enough to answer her question without the slightest bit of scorn in my tone. “His file—”
“Don’t tell me what his file says, tell me what you think,” she interrupts, her voice a cross between hopeful and panicked.
“Don’t do it, Brandon. Don’t fall into the trap. She’s not your friend.”
