Page 34 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

“Ready to head back?” I ask, starting the engine, the low rumble grounding my wayward thoughts.

“Let’s do it,” she replies, her focus already shifting back to business.

But in that split second, I catch something in her eyes—a flicker of something more—and it’s enough to stoke the embers of possibility.

Chapter thirteen

Isabella

Ikill the engine and sit for a second in the driveway, the fading Friday afternoon sunlight casting a soft glow on the two-story house I grew up in. It’s got that middle-class Pasadena charm—neat lawn, a porch that’s seen better days, and shutters that probably needed a fresh coat of paint last summer. Home.

Before I brave the familial chaos, I rummage through my bag, fishing out the phone. Adrian’s name lights up the screen and I can’t help but grin like an idiot.

“What are you up to?” he writes.

“Having dinner with the parents,” I text back, thumb hovering over the send button. “Why do you ask?” I add.

“Would’ve been nice to see you tonight.” The response pops up almost immediately, and I let out a giggle that’s embarrassingly high-pitched for someone who’s negotiated multi-million-dollar settlements without breaking a sweat.

“Is this guy for real?” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head. But there it is—that flutter in my stomach that feels suspiciously like butterflies. Or food poisoning. Definitely one of the two.

Reluctantly, I type a sad face emoji—because apparently, we’re teenagers now—and drop the phone into my purse.

I step out of the car, heels clicking on the concrete as I approach the front door. It’s still got that old brass knocker from when I was ten and thought it was the height of sophistication. With a quick press of the doorbell, I brace myself for Mom’s inevitable third-degree about my love life—or lack thereof.

The door swings open and there’s Dad, looking like he’s just stepped out of one of those commercials where the father is inexplicably grilling in a sweater vest. He sweeps me into a hug that says I’m still his little girl.

“Isabella! Come in, come in,” he ushers, warmth blooming around us. “I hope traffic wasn’t too bad getting here. You come straight from Beverly Hills?”

“Yep, fresh from work. It’s been a long week.”

Stepping over the threshold, I’m hit with the comforting scent of home-cooked meatloaf—a throwback to every Friday night of my childhood. But as I shed my coat and kick off my heels, a familiar timbre weaves through the aroma of herbs and spices, tugging at my senses. A voice I would recognize in the midst of Armageddon—and sometimes wish I could forget.

“Is somebody here?” I ask, but Dad’s already back in the living room, relaxing before dinner.

I cross toward the living room, the archway to the kitchen framing the most unexpected scene. Adrian Cole, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Infuriating, is manning the wooden spoon like it’s his scepter, standing next to Mom by the stove.

“Seriously?” My eyebrows shoot up so high, they’re one surprise away from leaving my foreheadentirely.

Adrian catches my look and offers up a wave that’s more smug than friendly. “Hey, Isabella. You made it.”

“And apparently so did you.”

“Purely coincidental,” Adrian assures with a grin that tells me it’s anything but. “Had some work nearby and thought I’d drop in.” His eyes glint with mischief, and oh, how I want to wipe that smirk off his face—with a skillet, preferably.

“Adrian, here, was just showing me a new way to sauté vegetables,” Mom explains, oblivious to the silent Mexican standoff happening right under her nose.

“Is that what they call it these days?” I quip, arms folded as if they might shield me from whatever game Adrian’s playing.

The timer on the stove goes off, and Mom claps her hands together. “Dinner’s ready! Isabella, darling, can you help set the table? Adrian, go sit down. You’ve been such a great help already.”

“Actually, I don’t mind—” Adrian begins, but Mom cuts him off with a practiced maternal “no-nonsense” look.

“Go on, take a seat. Isabella can handle it.”

“If you insist.” He holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary, a silent challenge before he turns and saunters off. It’s a look that sends an uninvited shiver down my spine, heating my blood in a way that has nothing to do with the kitchen’s oven.

“Right,” I mutter, grabbing plates with a clatter louder than my racing heart. “Setting the table. I can do that without any ... distractions.”

---