She presses her lips together, sweeping her hands over her dark hair one more time. Isabella is a vision in the water, every droplet glistening against the curves of her body. I run my palms down over her hips. She shivers, a smile playing over her lips, and closes her eyes.

“Don’t...”

“Are you telling me that I can’t—” I run my fingertips around the front of her hips and she twists under my hands, a satisfied laugh bubbling up from her chest.

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“I beg to differ.” I move my hand back to her waist. The water is hot enough to make her skin rosy. I’ve had my hands all over her for most of the day, and it’s still not enough. “But you don’t need to convince me that you can’t take another—”

Isabella puts her hands on mine, hesitating, then leans in, her head against my chest, the water cascading down over both of us. “This is not related to the original question.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Ha.”

“You still haven’t given me an answer.”

“I’m still thinking.”

“It normally doesn’t take you very long to decide.”

“I’m normally not coming down from a day of...” Her voice trails off, and she takes a deep breath in, lets it out, her shoulders relaxing.

“Getting well-fucked?”

I can feel her smile against my chest. “I don’t know if I’d put it exactly that way. But it’s accurate nonetheless.”

I wrap both arms around her, curling one hand through the thick wet fall of her hair. “Stay.”

“I shouldn’t. I already missed brunch, and if I stay—”

Her voice goes soft at the end of the thought, and I have the sense that if I stay doesn’t have anything to do with whether she missed brunch or not. I have the sense that staying means something to her, means something more than a game of constantly raising the ante or even an afternoon and evening of sex.

“If you stay, you’ll get a world-class dinner, and world-class company for the rest of the night. You don’t need to worry about clothes—I can have a selection sent up by the time you’re finished drying your hair.”

“You have a hair dryer, too? The amenities here are second to none.”

“Damn right they are.”

She pulls back, looking up into my eyes. There’s a smoldering heat behind the green. I want to look into those eyes until the moment I fall asleep tonight. “I shouldn’t,” she says.

“You shouldn’t have come here on such short notice, with such an attitude, either,” I tease. “It seems to me that Isabella Gabriel doesn’t care much about what she should or shouldn’t do. She mostly cares about getting what she wants.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“That’s why we’re such a perfect match.” I laugh, but it doesn’t feel like a joke. The moment the words are out in the air, I know they’re true. 

Isabella narrows her eyes, a new light shining there. “I shouldn’t stay. But you know what? I will anyway.”

“Don’t make me eat in the dining room.” 

Isabella walks by my side down the hall in bare feet, the yoga pants and matching long-sleeved top I had sent up the moment we stepped out of the shower both perfect fits. I’ve got to tell Maryanne, my personal shopper, that she absolutely nailed it. Somehow, in fifteen minutes, she found clothes in exactly Isabella’s size that are both elegant and comfortable as hell judging by the graceful, relaxed movement of her body.

That could also be from the sex. “What do you have against the dining room?”

She makes a face. “It’s so formal.” 

“There’s a second living room in it.”

“There’s a tablecloth.”

“I can have it removed.”

“It’s not really about the tablecloth.”

I laugh out loud, and Isabella looks up at me with raised eyebrows.

“It’s not. I don’t like to eat in the dining room when I unwind,” she insists.

“Do you have a formal dining room in your apartment?”

“Of course I do. Or at least I would, if I were going to host a dinner party.”

I laugh again. Her hair is twisted into a low bun at the nape of her neck—she opted not to dry her hair after all—and she doesn’t bother to hide her grin. “You’re telling me that you would create a dining room in your apartment for a party?”

“If I ever had time to throw a dinner party that needed a dining room, I’d...rent one. The furniture, at least. I’m sure I could rearrange enough to make it work for one night.” Isabella makes a beeline straight for the sofa and falls into it. “So, what’s on the menu? Takeout?”

“By world-class meal, I did not mean takeout, no.”

“We are in New York City.”

I take my phone out of my pocket and send a quick text to Lucas. The dining room table was already set, but I’m not giving Isabella the satisfaction of being right about at least one of my dinner instincts. Lucas emerges from the hallway a moment later, a wide tray in his hands. He winks at me as he hands me the tray.

“We’re good from here. Thanks for staying late. Oh—Isabella, this is Lucas, my personal chef.”

He nods at her, and she beams back from over the back of the couch. “Nice to meet you, Lucas.”

“Enjoy.”

Then he’s going back down the hall, walking fast, like he has somewhere to be. He probably does, but I’ve paid him handsomely enough that putting it off didn’t seem like such a hardship. 

I take the tray over to the sofa and slide it across the coffee table. Below us, the Manhattan skyline twinkles against a backdrop of light pollution. It’s absolutely beautiful. 

“Now all you have to do—” I uncover the plates, setting aside the thin silver covers. “—is choose a world-class movie to go with this meal.”

“That’s a lot of pressure.” Isabella smiles at me, scooting closer across the surface of the couch until our legs are pressed together. 

“I trust you.”

“I’m flattered.”

There’s a bowl of gleaming fruit pieces to go along with each of our dinners, and I lift a strawberry out, holding it in the air between us. Isabella shakes her head. “I’m not eating out of your hand.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“That it might lead to other things.”

I lean in closer, grinning. “There’s only one way to find out.”