Page 40 of 1 Last Shot

"I can do that."

I nod my chin at her front door. "Let's get you inside, princess," I say softly.

The familiar nickname—even though it's not spoken with my usual derision—is enough to snap her back to action. She immediately looks down at her keys, and starts to fumble with them in the lock. When she finally gets it open, she almost seems more nervous to beinher house than she was walking the street.

I study her out of the corner of my eye as I step inside, trying to determine ifI'mthe reason she's nervous—if maybe she regrets inviting me into her home.

But when she finally settles on the couch after tossing her bag on the kitchen counter, Oscar following her every move and settling right beside her, I realize she's fidgeting in her seat without even glancing at me.

After a moment, she notices me watching her and flattens her hands against her thighs. "Sorry," she says with a laugh. "I guess I'm still a little wound up."

And then my dog does that thing that only animals are capable of—when they sense the emotions of those around them, and immediately become their comfort. I watch in awe as he crawls closer to Isabella so he can drop his head into her lap, his tongue darting out to lick her hand.

Isabella smiles down at the dog. Her other hand pets his head, which makes his tail start to wag.

“Does he need anything?” she asks suddenly, her attention whipping over to me. “Do you need to get food for him? I can give him water.”

I shake my head. “He already ate. He just needs a bowl of water. Though it doesn’t look like he’s going to move anytime soon.”

Satisfied that Isabella isn’t second-guessing letting me into her home, and that my dog is comfortably settled, I turn away from them and stride into Isabella’s kitchen, taking in her apartment as I go.

Her apartment is a replica of mine, but you’d never know it at first glance. The layouts might be identical, but Isabella’s home looks like an interior decorator came in and decorated it with an unlimited budget. Isabella’s only been in the city a few weeks, and it already looks like she’s made herself perfectly at home. I round her kitchen peninsula and reach immediately for the teapot I see sitting on her stove, glancing subtly around the home, taking everything in, and trying to hold back a whistle of appreciation at how nice everything is.

I take the teapot over to the kitchen sink and begin to fill it. I can’t think of a single time in my life that I’ve ever made a cup of tea, but it’s the only thing I can think of that might have a calming effect on Isabella.

Sure enough, Isabella’s giving me a confused look from where she's frozen on the couch. But I see it click when she realizes what I'm doing, and then she's on her feet and stumbling toward me.

"No, you don't have to—" she starts.

"I know I don't," I interrupt her. The teapot full, I place it back on the stove and light it. Then I grab a mug from her girly little mug holder on the wall and place it on the counter.

My gaze lifts to meet hers. She's still standing frozen on the other side of the counter, but I see a flicker of appreciation at my action. It doesn't outshine the nerves, though, so I try to put her at ease.

I slide the mug back toward myself. "Besides, the tea is for me. I can't end the day without a cup."

The startled laugh bursts out of her, and I couldn’t help my answering smile even if I wanted to.

We're silent as I fill a Tupperware container with water for Oscar, and as we wait for the water to boil. But it's a comfortable silence. Isabella takes a seat at the counter, and she absentmindedly traces patterns on the marble as she lets me look around her house.

My attention is stuck on a black-and-white professional photo of Isabella dancing when the teapot starts to whistle. I have to rip my gaze away from the tantalizing lines of muscle that adorn her body as she holds some dance position that I probably can't pronounce.

I force myself to turn around and lift the teapot off the burner. I start to twist so I can ask Isabella what kind of tea she wants, but she beats me to it.

"Over your right shoulder. I could probably use some chamomile right now."

I finish making her tea, then I slide it in front of her.

"Thanks," she murmurs, shooting me a grateful smile. She cups her hands around the hot mug, waiting for it to cool down.

We're silent again, but this one feels fraught with tension. Normally I'm not one to initiate conversation, but I want her to feel better, so I find myself asking, "Want to talk about it?"

I see her hesitate again, like she knows I'm not a huge talker.

But then it all spills out.

"I didn't think Philly was going to be any different from New York," she blurts out in a rush. "I mean, New York City is a million times bigger than Philly. And we’re not exactly in a bad part of Philly, so it never evenoccurredto me that something like this could happen. How stupid is that? I don't even carrypepper spray, for god's sake!" It all comes out in a rush, like now that she started, she can't stop the word vomit.

I just listen, realizing I'm soaking up her thoughts like I would drops of water in a desert.

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