"Life is a swift tumble through the clouds, too fast to spend time searching for regrets or chasing wrongs."
~Lucian Patras
"SORRY ABOUT THAT," Isadora apologized, stepping further into the room.
Sawyer's focus shifted, a troubled look flashing in his eyes. His jacket now draped over the chair he'd occupied earlier, but he looked as if he were thinking of putting it back on. Maybe he was mentally collecting his belongings before he made another excuse to leave. She didn't want him to go—mostly because she didn't want to be alone.
"Toni's in bed," she informed, not sure why that information concerned him.
"Did they have a nice time?"
"Yes. Jamie's wonderful with her. He took her to Patras."
He nodded, but made no further comment.
Unsure what to make of the shift in energy, she collected her glass from the bar to buy time, but something was definitely different, and she didn't understand why.
"Is something wrong, Sawyer?"
His gaze followed her as she came to sit on the empty side of the settee. "When did you stop calling me Mr. Bishop?"
The soft, cajoling rumble of his voice was more soothing than probing.
Voices like that could make audio instructions sound like Shakespeare.
Thinking over his question, her brow tightened. "I'm not sure. I suppose I was a teenager when you invited me to call you by your first name. Should I go back to calling you Mr. Bishop?" she teased. It seemed silly to think of him as anything other than Sawyer.
Turning his wrist, the ice in his glass shifted. "The boys … they've been friends for a long time."
"And hopefully they will be forever."
"And I've been your father's friend for as long as I can recall. He gave me a job when I was fresh out of college."
"And now you run one of his companies. What is it you're trying to say, Sawyer?"
"You're very young, Isadora. Too young to have a boy in college and a ten-year-old in your care, but you do it with the maturity of an experienced woman."
"Thank you, but Lucian's my brother, not my son. And Toni… I may act like her mother, but I'm not. I take no joy in erasing our mother's memory."
He glanced at his empty glass, the filtered moonlight reflecting in the crystal as he placed it on the table. "I should go."
Tipping her glass over his, she filled it with a finger of scotch. "Not before you finish your drink."
Peering through thick, black lashes, he gave her a questioning look that made her feel immediately foolish. Why had she done that?
He twisted to face her. "What are you doing, Isadora?"
"I don't know. I've had a lot to drink." Her voice dropped to a rasp as her gaze latched onto his, holding so tight she could hardly spare a blink.
"Is that it then?"
Her lashes fluttered, breaking the spell, and she laughed nervously. Those eyes were hypnotic, especially when he looked directly into hers. She shook her head, shaking off the affect. "Is that what?"
Lifting his glass, he finished her offering in one swallow, placed the tumbler on the table, and stood. She rose as well, the camaraderie they'd shared earlier rapidly evaporating. Perhaps thirty-seven wasn't such a good year.
Tension closed in on her, its impending heaviness puncturing the inebriated haze cocooning her mind. The unfamiliar imbalance was more than the effect of alcohol. Maybe she was coming down with something.
She didn't want him to go and his proximity to the door filled her with panic and heat. Stay, she wanted to say, but something kept her quiet. She wanted him to make the decision without her prompting his response.
It became a game of guessing what he might do or say next and she liked the uncertainty, found it unsteadily thrilling. Her heart beat too fast as she tried to identify a time she'd ever felt so nervous in such a fulfilling way. She didn't typically favor anxiety, yet she coveted the feeling now, a dark anticipation for every motion, every word. So much to lose in such a simple decision, yet she hadn't a clue what she'd gain if he chose to stay.
"I apologize for intruding on your evening," he said, stepping around the table.
Her heart jerked. Her disappointment was a physical jolt that convinced her something else was happening here—something she shouldn't feel.
She stepped around the other side of the coffee table and met him on the carpet, frantic to keep him there a while longer. She didn't want to be alone, but maybe he was feeling this strange energy too and figured it best to leave.
"Sawyer, what changed?"
"The fact that you don't know is a testament to your young age."
Affronted, she drew back. Perhaps she was a bad drunk, because his words hurt more than they probably should.
She wasn't an idiot and though she didn't have much experience with men like Sawyer—or any men for that matter—she wasn't a prude. Something changed between them tonight. A sort of chemistry had evolved. She never felt this kind of attraction around him before and maybe he felt it too and that was why he was trying to escape. But she was drunk, so perhaps her perception was off.
Rather than further embarrass herself, she stepped aside. "I'm sorry if I did something to offend you."
Gah! She always said the worst things. What was she trying to get, a sympathy stay? That was not what she was after.
"You did nothing offensive. It's just … not appropriate for me to be here —alone with you. It's late."
Embarrassed that her eagerness reeked of inexperience, she looked away. She shouldn't let him see her like this. She'd have to see him again and it was utterly humiliating to think he might assume she was some sad, desperate woman trying to seduce her father's colleague when she just wanted a little company. Oh, God, she was desperate.
Her gaze dropped to the carpet as a dark sense of inadequacy swallowed her. "I understand. I didn't mean to…" …whatever I've done.
"Goodnight, Isadora."
She didn't look up to see if he was staring at her. She didn't need to. She could feel his stare measuring her. He hesitated as he approached the door.
"You'll call if you need anything?" he asked softly.
Never. "Of course."
With nothing more to say, he left, his leather-soled footfalls drifting almost silently as he made his way to the foyer.
Humiliated, she turned to the bar and lifted the expensive bottle. No matter how much her life resembled that of an adult, she never stopped feeling apart from the actual authority figures. A little girl with a license to leave the kiddie table for one meal before an early bedtime.
Rethinking the last couple hours and degrading herself for every unflattering impression she might have left, she wished desperately to erase the entire evening. She was not on his level and he saw her as his colleague's pathetic kid who was astoundingly short on friends.
Collecting the glasses filled with watered down ice, she decided not to return to her father's study anymore. Every time she left this room she felt like half a person—tonight more so than usual.
She dumped the ice in the sink at the wet bar and sat the glasses on the counter. "What a waste."
The door to the office creaked and she pivoted, gasping as she found him still there and staring at her from the threshold.
"My…" He shook his head, brow tense with lines of tension. "I forgot my jacket."
Her ches
t tightened as she blinked at him in question. His jacket was behind her, yet she lacked the will to move.