Page 70 of Boiling Point
“Yes.” My voice came low but steady. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Her expression eased, a thread of warmth slipping through the curiosity. “What’s her name?”
“Gabrielle.”
“Pretty,” she said with approval. “American, I assume? Is she terribly young?”
“She’s twenty-five.”
Isabel nodded with a thoughtful tilt of her head. “Not quite an ingénue, then. That’s something.” She studied me a moment longer, gaze sharp and considering. “Family?”
“Respectable, but not much left. Her father’s deceased, and her mother’s been absent since the start.”
“Well, at least you don’t have to worry about meeting her parents.”
“No…but she’ll have to meet ours at some point.”
Isabel’s gaze cut straight through me. “That’s what’s keeping you up, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m worried about dragging her into the family circus. But I don’t see any way around it. I can’t keep her hidden forever.”
“Nonsense.” She flicked a dismissive hand, long fingers slicing through the air. “You’ve weathered far worse.”
I leaned forward, imploring in a way that felt painfully foreign. “I can take whatever they throw at me.”
“But you’re worried they’ll rip her to shreds,” she finished for me.
“Precisely.”
Isabel tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Since when have you cared what Mother and Father think?”
“I don’t,” I said, my voice colder than I meant it. “They’ll think what they like. They always do.”
“Then why the nerves?”
I leaned back, jaw tight. “Because she doesn’t know them. She hasn’t learned to decode every insult wrapped in charm and etiquette. And I’ve no intention of watching her be dissected by people who dress up cruelty as civility.”
Isabel stilled, amusement draining from her face. She paused, quietly, carefully, before saying, “That’s…surprisingly gallant.”
A beat passed. I wasn’t sure if it was approval. But it wasn’t disapproval.
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Do you want my advice? Or are you just looking for moral support?”
“Advice,” I said without hesitation.
“Bring her anyway.” Isabel set her teacup down and leaned in, all trace of sarcasm gone. “You can’t make them see her as you do. They won’t. But you can frame her first, before they decide who she is. Give her armor, Cal.”
I swallowed. “Will you…help me?” It came out low. Fragile in a way I loathed.
She blinked, then nodded. “Of course I will.” A pause. Then, quieter, “But do it before Mother starts in on bloodlines over the starter course.”
I let out a breath that might have been a laugh. “I’ll try.”
“So when do I get to meet her?”
“She doesn’t know about any of this yet.” The admission felt raw, unguarded. “I wanted to see if it was even possible first.”
“It is. And it’s high time, Cal.” She checked her watch. “Right, off with you. I’ve got a bridal tasting at two and a florist who thinks I’ve gone completely mad.”
