Page 62 of The Perfect Mistake

The cab is obscenely expensive, and I unfurl my umbrella from the safety of the car. The clouds that had threatened earlier with their shuttering darkness have erupted now, and they’re drenching New York in rain.

Alec’s building is dark. It’s past midnight, and the night concierge is the only one around. I ride up the gold-wrought elevator to the penthouse.

My siblings would never understand, I think. His world. How it works, why it works. That the kids aren’t spoiled. Maybe materially, but not with time and attention. Alec. They’d never understand Alec or what makes him work the way he does. Act the way he does.

Maybe I don’t either. But maybe I want to.

I open the front door to the Connovan penthouse as quietly as I can. The foyer is dark and quiet, and I walk on the balls of my feet to keep my heels from making sharp sounds against the hardwood.

I tiptoe through the living room, turning into my hallway.

“Made it home at last,” a voice says.

It startles me. My heels drop back onto the floor with a thud, and I turn to face Alec. He rises from the couch. His hands are in the pockets of his navy slacks, and a gray T-shirt stretches across his broad chest.

And he looks angry.

Isabel

But the anger on his face doesn’t stop his eyes from running up and down my body, too long for it to be only in concern. There’s a tenseness in his form. Behind him, a glass of amber-colored drink stands on the coffee table.

The TV isn’t on.

“Didn’t know I had a curfew,” I say. Liquid courage burns in my veins, along with the irritation of last week. Wanting someone who wants you back sometimes is the definition of frustrating.

He blows out a breath. “You don’t.”

“And yet you’re awake,” I say. “Have you been waiting for me?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and a thrill races through me. He has. He really, really has. “Wanted to make sure you got home safe,” he says.

“I’ve lived in New York my whole life. Same as you.”

He frowns. “Then you know that things can turn wrong on a dime.”

“You could have texted me,” I say. “If you were worried.”

His eyes narrow, and I know he won’t say it. Won’t admit to it. Maybe texting would have been too much capitulation—to his feelings, to his concern. I can see the war reflected in his eyes.

“You took a cab?” he asks.

“Yes. I took a cab.” I shrug out of my coat and throw it over the back of an armchair. Then I meet his gaze with my own.

We’re standing there, in his living room, in silence. Two people who are well aware of the tension that dances between them, but who won’t act on it.

“Isabel,” he mutters. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me, too. Like you’re okay with this.”

“What if I do, and I am?” I ask. My heart is galloping. Want me too, he said.

Alec shakes his head, slowly, but his eyes don’t waver. “You shouldn’t be.”

“Don’t tell me what I should feel.”

His eyes spark. “Not even when it’s in your best interests?”

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