CHAPTER TWELVE
THECLOCK’SGREENdigital display read seven minutes after three. Just past the witching hour. And Isaac had no doubt Rachel Sullivan had worked some type of magic on him. There was no other explanation for what he was experiencing. Thinking. Feeling. And it was the latter that most terrified him. He had worked to become immune to feelings, capable of shutting down his inner self with brutal efficiency. Yet in only a couple of days, one woman had unraveled what had taken him twenty years to build and then master.
She had him thinking about how they might make things between them work.
In the dark beside him, his bewitching woman shifted but didn’t wake. Easing onto his side, he studied her profile. Even now, seenby nothing more than the alarm clock’s faint glow, she was beautiful. Not a traditional beauty, exactly, but more the girl next door who suddenly, one day, stepped out of her house a grown woman. A woman who had come into her own, who commanded the space around her and drew people—men—like bees to pollen. Her nose was narrow and straight. Her mouth was a little wider than convention deemed attractive, but it made her smile all the more radiant. Her jawline was strong but perfect. Her eyes were expressive, although, if she tried, she could shut down their communication.
Then there was her body. It was lithe, pert and perfect for him. Small, firm, high breasts. Trim waist and narrow hips. An ass that would stop New York traffic. Toned legs that turned a pair of high heels into weapons of destruction.
And then there was her mind. She was sharp. Brilliant, really. Accomplished and successful in a male-dominated field, and that was no small feat.
He’d never wanted any woman like he wanted Rachel...despite the fact she often infuriated him.
She turned her face toward him, eyes open just a bit, a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “Hey, you. What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?”
“Watching you.”
Her laugh was thick with sleep, little more than a heavy exhale. “That’s weird, Isaac. Stop watching me sleep.”
“Make me.”
“Jerk.”
“Not denying it.”
“Look, then. I’m too tired to care.”
“Rachel?”
“Hmm.”
Her eyes drifted closed and her breathing settled into a slow and rhythmic pattern. Moments passed and she said nothing more, so he whispered her name again. “Rachel.”
No response.
Her silence empowered him to ask the question that had been dogging him, the question that would have explained to her why sleep had eluded him—would continue to elude him—tonight. “Where do we go from here?”
As he had expected, she didn’t answer.
That was actually preferable to the alternative. He didn’t want to hear her say they went back to New York—to their own lives—and never looked back. He didn’t want to hear that he was allowing emotion to confuse the signals between them.
Damn his brother for forcing his hand where this app was concerned.
“I don’t know, Isaac.”
He jolted as if he’d been shocked. “What?”
She yawned and rolled toward him, eyes still closed. “I said I don’t know where we go from here.”
Oh, God. She’d heard him. He’d been sure she was asleep. What did he do now? He couldn’t have this conversation. He couldn’t—
“Calm down,” she muttered into the arm covering part of her face.
“I’m calm,” he said, ignoring the way his voice lacked conviction and hoping she’d do the same.
“Really?”
“Yes.”