Chris muted the Mariners game and listened. At first, he thought he imagined the knock. Nobody ever came here uninvited except his sister, and she always texted first. The second knock wasn’t subtle. It was loud, deliberate, and insistent. Someone was pounding on the front door.

He stood, the cold tile in the foyer seeping through his socks. Peering through the peephole, his stomach dropped. Of course, there she was.

Isabela Cruz, in head-to-toe black, dress, blazer, oversized sunglasses, even sensible flats. She looked like she was late for a funeral or prepared to host one. He opened the door.

“Who died?” he asked, eyes drifting over her with appreciation.

She didn’t miss a beat. “The man you shot. Why did you cancel?”

Ouch. He had walked right into that one.

“Today didn’t work,” he said with a shrug, trying for indifference.

She narrowed her eyes. “Why not? You don’t look busy.”

He had no good answer for that. Not one he could say out loud. He didn’t cancel because of an emergency. He didn’t cancel because he didn’t have time.

He canceled because she got to him. Because he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Because she was in his head all the time and in the wrong way. The kind of way that made a man want to confess things. Want to feel things. He didn’t like that.

He didn’t like what he saw in her eyes when he spoke about his past. For some reason he hated the thought of her judgement, or her pity.

“Well, I’m here. And you’re free. So, let’s do this,” she brushed past him before he could decide whether to protest.

The faint scent of something tropical, her shampoo maybe, hit him like a sucker punch. He wanted to groan. Celibacy was a bitch, especially when it was involuntary.

She paused inside the foyer, waiting like a guest, though she'd just marched in like a storm.

“Right this way,” he muttered and led her into the living room.

He caught her assessing the space. The minimal furniture, lack of personal touches, and bland colors screamed anything but homey. It was sterile and temporary. Somehow, Isabela made the space … more.

“My sister rents this place out,” he said. “My house is too busy right now.”

She nodded. There was no judgment in her expression, just quiet understanding.

Chris rubbed the back of his neck. “Want some water or something?”

“No thanks.” She stood awkwardly in the center of the room like she didn’t want to make herself at home.

“Here or the table?” he asked.

“Here is fine.”

He gestured to the armchair, and she took it. Grabbing the remote, he clicked off the TV and plopped on the couch. When he looked up again, her sunglasses were off and pushed onto her head, taming the wisps of hair escaping her low bun. Her face looked more drawn than usual, tired even. The smile she offered looked painful to wear.

“I noticed you didn’t return the new client questionnaire Kelly emailed Friday,” she said, flipping open her notepad.

“I thought it was redundant.” His jaw flexed.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Macklin…”

“Chris,” he corrected.

She met his eyes, hesitating only a second. “Chris. We aim to be thorough. Too much information is better than not enough.”

“How do you do it?” he asked suddenly.

 Isabela’s brows pulled together. “Do what?”

“That syrupy voice. That fake-ass smile.” His tone wasn’t cruel, just weary.

Her mouth quirked. “Right. Female attorneys are supposed to frown, wear neutral-colored suits, and drop their voices half an octave.”

She deepened her voice to a ridiculous baritone, and he couldn’t stop the smirk that pulled at his lips.

“That’s not me,” she said, back to her natural cadence. “I don’t want to start Botox early, so I save the frowning for when it’s truly needed. Kill them with kindness has always been my mantra. If that doesn’t work, I’m adaptable. And if I have to be mean? Trust me, I can be mean.”

“I know. I’ve seen it,” a laugh caught in his throat.

God, he liked Isabela way more than he should. He wanted to see her really smile. Hear her laugh when she wasn’t trying to hold it in. This was why he’d asked for a different attorney. She broke eye contact first, switching gears.

“I need more details on your time at the academy. A list of former partners, and there’s also a report on a ‘deceased on contact’ incident involving a minor.”

“I thought you just had a vacation,” he interrupted.

 “And?”

“You don’t look like someone who just had four days off.”

She lifted her brows, clearly fed up.

He held up his hands in surrender. “Just saying. Coffee?”

To his surprise, she sighed. The sound was soft and even better, it was real.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

He almost regretted poking at her. Almost. But seeing past her shield was riveting.

“You don’t have to be sorry. I take it no beachside umbrella drinks over the weekend, huh?”

She hesitated, then answered. “I flew halfway across the country to meet my girlfriends. It’s kind of a tradition. Spring meet-up. It wasn’t the best timing, but it was the only weekend that worked.”

He nodded, remining silent and prayed she would go on.

“It was eye-opening. Not in a great way.” She admitted. “I don’t know why I’m boring you with this.” A nervous laugh slipped out. “Maybe I will take that coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“None at all.” He stood. “Still have half a pot from this morning.”

He walked into the kitchen, surprised when he heard her soft steps follow. The domesticity of it all hit harder than it should have.

He opened the cabinet, grabbed a mug. “How do you take it?”

“Huh?”

He turned just in time to catch her watching him. Her gaze drifted over his body, slow and unguarded, as if she didn’t even realize she was doing it. The moment their eyes met, her head snapped away and color stained her cheeks. Jesus.