"We spent hours together today," I point out, aiming for reasonable. "Surely whatever it is could have come up then."
"I was distracted and forgot." There's something in his voice—intensity mixed with nervousness? "Come on, where's that curious artist I spent the morning with?"
"She's trying to be sensible." But I'm fighting a smile now. "Unlike some people who think seven AM is a reasonable time to exist."
"Scared to be alone with me again, Red?"
Yes. But not for the reasons I should be. "You wish, Saint."
"So that's a yes?" The warmth in his laugh does things to my insides that I refuse to acknowledge. "I'll bring coffee. That fancy hazelnut stuff you used to enjoy so much."
My breath catches. He remembers that? The simple detail hits me harder than any grand gesture could, stirring memories of shared mornings in his family's kitchen, before everything fell apart.
"Fine. Seven AM. But if there are photographers outside my building again—"
"There won't be. Trust me?"
Those two words shouldn't affect me like this. Shouldn't make my heart race and my skin flush with memories of the last time he asked me to trust him—behind the garden maze, his fingers fastening the compass necklace around my throat. "Seven AM," I repeat, ignoring his question. "Don't be late."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I end the call before I can say something stupid, like how much I enjoyed today, or how his hand on the small of my back felt like coming home. The window glass is cool against my forehead as I lean against it, trying to slow my racing heart.
"Get it together," I mutter, pressing my heated cheeks against the cool window glass. But as I try to return to Gran's diary, all I can think about is Ares in my space again, early morning light painting shadows across his impossibly perfect face, that cologne that makes me want to do very inadvisable things...
"I am so screwed."
My fingers trace the compass tattoo on the inside of my forearm—the one I got after his mother ripped away the real thing. A permanent reminder of lessons learned the hard way. But as I watch the city lights flicker to life outside my window, all I can feel is the heat of him pressed close in that narrow gallery, the electricity when his fingers touched my face. My skin still burns where he touched me, like his fingerprints have been seared into my memory all over again.
And suddenly seven AM feels both too far away and not far enough.
13
Ares
Seven AM sharp, and I'm standing outside Isabella's loft like a fucking teenager, complete with sweaty palms and a racing heart. The hazelnut latte in my hand is still steaming—a peace offering and maybe an apology for the ungodly hour. The folder Ethan prepared weighs heavy in my other hand, its contents making my stomach churn.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, the familiar ringtone signaling another call from my father. I grit my teeth and decline the call. The last thing I need right now is another round of his barely veiled threats and demands.
I should focus on what we discovered about Wells, about the payments and his suspicious "accident." Instead, all I can think about is yesterday at the museum, how right it felt showing her glimpses of who I used to be. Who I could be again.
Then there's that memory that surfaced through my migraine fog—Evelyn standing in Father's office, her spine straight as she answered his sharp questions about what she'd touched while cleaning.
My phone buzzes again. This time the screen lights up with a text from my mother. I ignore it and shove the device back into my pocket. Let them stew for a while.
The door opens before I can knock again, and every carefully prepared thought scatters. Isabella stands there in loose painter's pants splattered with color, a thin long sleeve top, and bare feet. Her hair is loose, falling around her face. She looks soft, real, absolutely fucking beautiful.
"You're annoyingly punctual." Her voice is still husky with sleep, but her eyes are alert, wary.
I hold up the coffee like a shield. "I come bearing gifts as promised."
Something flickers in her expression—amusement? "Hazelnut?"
"Would I dare bring anything else?"
She steps back, letting me in, and I catch a whiff of her scent—paint and that fresh watermelon that is so her. Early morning light bathes the loft, and the massive windows turn the space golden. Art covers every wall, each piece vibrating with energy and emotion. It's chaotic and beautiful and so perfectly Isabella that my chest aches.
"Your work?" I ask, moving closer to a large canvas dominated by swirling blues and golds.
