38
ISABELLA
The walls in my apartment were bland and uninteresting. Painted a nondescript creamy color by someone who hadn’t been me, there was absolutely nothing noticeable about them. A fact I was only realizing now because I was sitting on my sofa staring at them.
I’d challenged myself not to spend the night working. Instead, I’d decided I’d find something else to do. The plan had been to read a book, go for a jog, build a puzzle, or just find anything to occupy my time that wasn’t in any way related to my job.
The only thing I’d done so far was to sit here, staring and wondering when I’d become so damn lonely and one-dimensional. Years ago, when I’d moved into this apartment, I’d had plans for it. I’d pictured art on the walls and interesting items on the shelves that I would’ve collected along the way.
There was no art on the walls yet. Not even cheap pieces from a grocery store that I’d picked up just because something about them had spoken to me. In fact, I didn’t even think I’d looked at the grocery-store variety art to check if something about any of them might speak to me.
Not because I’d forgotten but because I never slowed down enough when I was there. Even shopping for essentials was a rush for me these days. A chore I only made time for because I literally didn’t have a choice but to eat if I wanted to survive. I also drew the line at running out of toilet paper.
Because I was so often not at home, I couldn’t always have stuff delivered. Which meant I had to pop into a brick-and-mortar store from time to time, and yet, I had nothing lasting to show for it.
My shelves were still as empty as my walls. I was so pathetic that earlier, when I’d wanted to find a book to read, I’d realized I didn’t own any books that I could read just for fun. Every paperback I had in my possession on this beautiful Sunday night was in some way tied to my work or the studies I did before it.
As I looked around, I realized that anyone could’ve lived in this apartment. There was absolutely nothing in it that was unique tome.
The saddest part of all was that I didn’t even really know what I could change about it that would make it unique to me because all I was was my work.
Put that in your pipe of sadness and smoke it.
I let out a long sigh, just about jumping when my buzzer suddenly rang. It was the first sound I’d heard in hours that didn’t come from the street below, and it startled me so badly that for a minute, I couldn’t even place where it’d come from.
When it rang again, I finally managed to get up to answer it, though I had no idea who it could be. I wasn’t expecting a delivery and none of my neighbors knew me, so I never had to accept anything on their behalf.
“It’s Parker,” his voice came through the intercom when I pressed the button. “Can I come in?”
My frown deepened, but I let him up all the same. Surprised but curious, I opened the door and waited for him on the landing. When he appeared a few seconds later, my heart skipped a beat and I felt a little dizzy but in the best possible way.
He was so gorgeous, inside and out. Auburn hair swept back from his face, he had day-old stubble on his jaw, and his eyes sought mine out immediately. Wearing faded jeans and a black T-shirt, I somehow got the feeling he hadn’t even changed yet after returning from Niagara Falls. I could swear I’d seen that exact outfit in the wardrobe we’d shared there.
“Is everything okay?” I asked when I realized I’d been caught staring at him again. “Did you find Colt? How is he? Also, what are you doing here?”
“I need to tell you something and I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow.” He jerked his head at my open front door. “Can we go in? It’s fine if you don’t want me to, but this is a conversation I’d rather not have with your neighbors listening in.”
“Sure,” I said, taking a step back in and motioning for him to follow. “What’s wrong? Is Colt okay?”
“He’s fine. Torn apart and gutted, but he’ll be okay. I was going to be here hours ago, but I ended up waiting with him for his flight.”
“That’s… fine,” I said hesitantly. “Since I wasn’t expecting you, it’s not like you’re late.”
“I am late,” he replied with finality ringing from his voice and a fiercely determined look on his face. “You might not want to hear this, but I’m here to tell you that I love you.”
“What?”
“I love you,” he repeated, slower this time but with even more weight behind the words. “I’m in love with you and I needed to say it. Obviously, it doesn’t mean that I’m expecting you to say it back or that it’s going to change anything between us, but I love you and I wanted you to know it. Know it and believe it. I, Parker Holmes, love you, Isabella Atkins.
“You’re the smartest, most capable, most infuriating woman I’ve ever met, but I love you. Maybe I don’t know if you had a pet or a broken arm when you were a kid or if some asshole broke your heart when you were a teenager, but it doesn’t matter because I love you for who you are now. In fact, I think I’d still love you even if you used to be a serial killer. There’s nothing I could learn about you that will make me love you less.”
“You’d love me if I was a serial killer?”
“I said if you used to be one,” he corrected lightly. “But sure. Why not? Because I fucking love you. To quote Colt, I’ve loved every single minute we’ve spent together.”
“Even the bad ones?”
“Even the bad ones. Maybe even especially the bad ones. Because it might sound like a cliche, but the bad moments proved to me that I’d rather fight with you than to spend that time doing anything else with anyone else.”