Page 5 of The Perfect Mistake

Maybe that’s exactly what my daughter needs. We head to the exit, and with every step, Isabel tenses. It’s nearly imperceptible, but I catch it.

I frown at her. “You can’t bike home.”

She pauses by the door frame. “Of course I can.”

“You’re hurt.”

The dark eyes flash with something akin to protest. But then she sighs. “Yeah. So?”

I turn toward the elevator. “Come on. I have a car outside.”

“Alec, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

She starts walking beside me down the corridor. “I need my bike, so I might as well just ride it home.”

“We’ll fit it into the car.” I have no idea how, but Mac will figure it out.

Isabel shakes her head. There’s something unsettling about walking next to her in her outfit. The times we’ve met, she’s always been in jeans. Shirts. Normal clothing. Not this ballerina getup that leaves much of her bare, with so much skin on display.

I didn’t need to add this imagery to the things I’ve already noticed about her.

“No, I can’t accept that,” she protests.

“Connie would kill me if I don’t help you,” I say.

Her lips curve. “Yeah, that’s probably true.”

“Which means you’re the one doing me a favor.”

Isabel looks up at me. There’s a question in her eyes and something else. Curiosity maybe? But then she nods. “Okay, thanks. I’ll go get my things.”

“I’ll wait downstairs.”

She disappears through another door, and before it swings shut, I spot rows of lockers. Of course. I lean against the wall and text Mac to bring the car around. While I wait, I open my emails and see the deluge that has flooded in during my brief absence from the office.

The London acquisition hasn’t gone through. Our Chief Financial Officer wants an urgent meeting. Confirmation from my assistant about the jet we’d chartered for the executive team next week.

I scroll through all the messages, marking them read, when the door opens again. Isabel comes out carrying a giant backpack, her face set in grim lines. She’s thrown on a sweater and sneakers, leaving her long legs still exposed to view.

The bag dwarfs her slight form.

“Let me take that.”

I must have sounded gruffer than I realize, because she hesitates. But then she nods and lets me grab the monstrosity from her. It’s heavy. “You bike with this?”

“Not every day,” she says. “I had more stuff to take home today. Clothes to… wash.”

We walk in silence down to the elevator. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken as much as we have today. In my mind, I’m still seeing her twirl in that empty studio. To think she’d been able to do that all along. The few times we’ve met, it’s been…

Uncomfortable. Electric. Dangerous.

Every chance encounter, I’ve found myself far too aware of her. Of her expressions, her smiles, her words.

We ride down in the tiny elevator. She’s quiet, but when I glance down, I see her wipe her cheek. Is she crying again?

Fuck.

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