The sudden shift in her pallor has me ignoring the blaring horn from a pissed-off truck driver and darting across the road before—
No.
The results of my investigation into her tells me that Isabelle is irate. Erratic at most.Notsuicidal.
Could Joy’s ill-timed intervention be the straw that broke the camel’s back?
Ignoring the fact I almost got my ass flattened by an eighteen-wheeler for her, I quickly run a hand through my hair and plaster on the cocky grin that’s gotten me pussy since sixth grade. Then, I stroll over to the disaster that’s waiting to happen.
“I refuse to feel any worse than I already do,” she mumbles then looks at her hands. “This is not blood. It’s soup.Bisque.” A laugh escapes her. “Bisque. Like this place is a Michelin-starred restaurant.” The laugh morphs into a sob.
“Bisque is pretty awesome. Have you ever been to Maine? The best lobster bisque comes from there, I swear,” I drawl, trying to edge into this… whatever the fuckthisis.
Rejection from an unrequited love has to hurt, but I don’t think that’s what’s going on here.
Isabelle looks like she’s having a psychotic episode or something.
Having worked adjacent to Aidan O’Donnelly Sr., the previous head of the Five Points’ Mob, I know the signs, but I haven’t seen Isabelle act so out of character the entire time I’ve been tracking her.
Isabelle blinks at me. “Who are you?”
I tip my head to the side—doesn’t she recognize me from the diner? “I’m Cade.”
Her eyes narrow and she huffs. “Cade. Of course, even your name’s cute.”
It’s weird to preen that shedoesremember me, right? “Thank you. I think?”
“Not like you can take credit for it,” she snipes, pointing an accusatory finger at me. It wobbles in midair. Yeah, those drugs are starting to kick in. “Your mom picked it out. Not you.”
“Ma told me that my da picked it out, actually,” I answer calmly, trying not to be amused even as my alarm bells are shrieking.
Whatever she swallowed, the pills are clearly hitting her system hard and fast.
Fuck.
“Ma?” Her brow furrows. “Da?”
“I’m Irish. Her boys got American-sounding names; the girls were graced with Gaelic ones.”
From how she’s squinting at me, I reason she understood about five percent of that. “Huh. You don’t have an accent. And you don’t look like Colin Firth.”
“I think you mean Colin Farrell. Irish people don’t tend to always look like him,” I reply stoically, but the urge to snicker is growing.
Damn, she might be a train wreck, but she’s a funny one.
“You’re cuter than Colin.” Her bleary eyes focus on me for a split second. “Where’s your accent?”
“Never had one. My parents do, but Lucas says he lost his on the flight over here, and he was the only one of us technically born on Irish soil,” I inform her, wondering why the fuck we’re talking about this when she needs either an ER or a bed.
She lets loose a wistful sigh. “You have a brother. That must be nice.” On those wobbly heels, she staggers back and crashes into a wall. “I always wanted a sister.”
Cautiously, I step over to her. “I have three and trust me, they’re pains.”
Her smile is more genuine. “Wow.Three? And a brother?” She holds up a hand and shows me three fingers.
Amused, I nod. “I had two brothers.” I have no idea why, but I admit, “One died.”
Her mouth forms the most perfect goddamn circle I’ve ever seen, and the genuine sympathy in her eyes does something to me—something I can’t put words to.