Page 69 of Boiling Point
“And you’re letting her?”
She dabbed at her lipstick with a finger, unbothered. “She’ll wear herself out eventually.”
“And the groom?”
“Not getting cold feet,” Isabel said dryly. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
I gave her a look of mock innocence.
She sipped her tea, watching me with sharp blue eyes over the rim. “Youarecoming, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, the resolve in my voice apparently surprising us both. “Which brings me to my point.” I hesitated. The pause dragged until Isabel’s eyebrow crept higher, expectant. “Would it be possible…for me to bring a guest?”
Her jaw practically hit the floor. There was the barest hitch in her response, like a needle skipping on a record. Then she laughed—a short, bright sound that crackled through the quiet. “Of course! You don’t even have to ask. But you can’t just leave it there. Tell me everything.”
I shifted in my chair, painfully aware of how uncharacteristic this was—how reckless, how bold, how necessary. “It’s…complicated.” The inadequacy of the word hung between us.
Isabel leaned toward the camera, curiosity sharpening every pixelated line of her face. “Since when is anythinguncomplicated with you?”
“Since never.” I rubbed my temple with one hand. “But this is more than usual.”
“You’ve piqued my interest,” she said, settling back into her chair with feline satisfaction. The game had taken an unexpected turn. “Is she brilliant? Beautiful? Actually interesting enough to distract you from your work and your self-imposed exile?”
“Yes,” I said quietly.
She tilted her head. “You’re serious about this one. I thought you’d go stag forever. I never imagined you’d bring someone home again.”
Her words lanced through me. I winced but kept steady, the old wound throbbing beneath its polished bandage. Isabel’s gaze softened as she watched me walk the tightrope of silence.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” she said gently, reaching for her tea.
I cleared my throat, fumbling for a safer path. “It’s still early days.”
“But you’re ringing at six in the morning about it.”
My breath turned heavy, snagging in my chest. “It’s…someone I met through the university.”
She pounced on the hesitation like a cat with a cornered mouse. “Not saying much, are we?”
“There’s not much to say.” I paused, reconsidering my approach.
“I know you better than that, baby brother. What’s the real story, then?”
I hesitated. “She’s one of my students,” I said finally, the words unsteady but irreversible.
Isabel blinked—once, twice—then let out the most unladylike snort. She bit it back quickly, coughing into her hand to cover the sound. “Oh, Cal! You’ve truly outdone yourself!”
The familiar heat of disapproval flared in my chest. “It isn’t?—”
“I knew your standards were impossibly high,” Isabel cut in with a grin sharp enough to draw blood. “But cradle robbing? Really?”
“It’s not like that,” I said slowly, deliberately. “She’s mature. Brilliant. And it’s?—”
“It’s an ethical minefield, darling.”
I wrestled for the right words—something to capture the chaos and clarity of it all—but came up short. “It’s real.”
She leaned back, eyes narrowing. “You’re serious then,” Isabel repeated, softer now. “More than I realized, clearly. Or you wouldn’t have brought it to me.”
