"What did Gran say?"
"That she cleaned his office like she always did and hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary." My hands fist at my sides, fighting the urge to reach for her. "But now I'm wondering..."
Her eyes widen with understanding. "You think she found something? Something he didn't want found?"
Something flashes in her expression—recognition, maybe fear. She moves to the bookshelf with sudden purpose, pulling out a worn leather journal. "Gran told me something, right before she passed." Her fingers trace the spine like a talisman. "She said if the Saints ever surfaced again, I should read her diaries carefully. That she'd left me everything I needed to know.”
My heart starts to hammer. "You think she wrote about what she found?"
"Maybe." She bites her lip, and the familiar gesture makes my chest ache with remembered tenderness. "I've been reading them, but..." Her eyes meet mine through her lashes, vulnerability warring with determination. "Help me look?"
Like I could deny her anything when she looks at me like that. "Where do we start?"
We end up on her oversized couch, the journals spread between us. Morning light streams through the windows, casting a warm glow over everything. Isabella sits cross-legged, her knee occasionally brushing mine. Each accidental touch sends electricity through my system.
"Listen to this," she says, smiling down at an entry.
Ares snuck into the kitchen again today. Third time this week. Claims he's looking for his basketball, but I notice he only comes when Isabella's helping me bake.
Heat creeps up my neck. "I wasn't that obvious."
"You really were." Her laugh is soft, nostalgic. "Gran used to leave cookies out on purpose, you know. Said you were too skinny."
"She caught me once, trying to climb the garden wall to your window."
"What?" She looks up, eyes dancing. "When?"
"The summer before everything went to hell. She told me if I was going to risk breaking my neck, I should at least use the service stairs. They were less visible from my parents' old bedroom."
"She didn't."
"Said she'd rather help than have to explain to my mother why the Saint heir was splattered across her roses."
Isabella's laugh echoes off the brick walls, and something in my chest loosens at the sound. She's leaning closer now, showing me another entry, and her scent surrounds me. My fingers itch to brush back the strand of hair falling across her cheek.
"Oh God," she says, turning a page. "Remember this? When you tried to get me on that horse?"
"You mean when you nearly broke my hand squeezing it so hard while insisting you were 'totally fine' with being ten feet off the ground?"
"I did not—" She breaks off, reading.
Poor Ares. Isabella nearly yanked him right off Shadow when the horse snorted. Never seen someone so determined to teach someone so determined to stay on the ground. Though I notice she didn't mind clutching his waist when he finally convinced her to sit behind him.
Heat floods my face. "Your grandmother missed nothing."
"She saw everything." Isabella's voice softens, and suddenly the air between us feels heavier. "Every moment, every secret..."
She's so close now, I can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes, count each freckle dusting her nose. If I moved just slightly, I could...
She clears her throat, looking back down at the journal. But I don't miss the flush creeping up her neck, the way her breath catches when my arm brushes hers as I reach for another diary.
"We should focus," she says, but her voice is unsteady. "Look for anything about your father's office."
Right. Focus. But how the hell am I supposed to focus when she keeps biting her lip like that, when every accidental touch feels like lightning across my skin?
I'm so fucking screwed.
We fall into a rhythm, reading passages, sharing memories. But then Isabella goes still, her breath catching on what sounds like a sob.
