Out of Sight

by Cleo White

This is Evie's wedding week and, no matter how shitty our parents make me feel, I refuse to make it even a little bit about me.

He looks like a silver-haired Clark Kent, and I realize with a jolt I've been pressing my thighs together as heat pools low in my belly. Um. What?

I always rolled my eyes at the girls in school who became gooey, fluttery messes when the right boy smiled their way, but I'm feeling pretty gooey and fluttery right now.

He grins sheepishly, like I've caught him in the act. “Washington D.C. But I, ah, was on the same connecting flight. I noticed you.”

“We'll be at the resort in no time," he tells me smoothly, completely ignoring his other passenger. “Please let me know if you need anything to improve your stay, Miss…” He trails off, waiting for me to give my name.

I grimace, but before I can make something up, my stranger does.

“Mrs,” he informs the driver nonchalantly, so casually he might have been reporting the weather conditions. Without hesitation, he reaches across the aisle to weave his fingers through my hand where it...

My stranger doesn't release my hand, though. “Should I hold your hand a while longer, just to be safe?”

“I—Yes. Yes, please.”

I can't believe this is happening. It's like I've stumbled out of a depressing black-and-white indie movie into a rom-com meet cute. Or I would, if it weren't for the fact he's at least twenty years older than me, and I'm pretty much the definition of emotionally unavailable. I can flirt with him, though, can't I? “So, our anniversary, huh? How many years? In case he asks, of course.”

“Two years, I think.”

“Why two?”

“We arrived at the shuttle separately, didn't we? It would take at least two years for me to be able to let you out of my sight. Do you know what? No. Three. Definitely three.”

I don't ever go out of my way to talk to people, but there's something in how this guy looks at me that makes all those usual worries disappear. “Don't you think you should learn my name before signing up for that kind of commitment?”

“No.” He shakes his head, still grinning. “Tell me anyway. It might be useful.” “Isobel.”

“Ju...

I have no one to blame but myself, but the gnawing, disquieting feeling of regret never let up. Or it didn't until I finished digging around in my carry-on bag for my phone charger before

my last connecting flight took off and straightened up just in time to see a young woman with dark-blonde hair slide into the seat two rows up from mine.

I barely had a glimpse of her, and still, I felt… ...

I looked up whenever there was movement in the aisles, hoping for another sighting of her, but didn't get one apart from the back of...

It's a miracle I didn't have a heart attack when I finally stepped into the van and met the warm, brown eyes of the woman from the plane. She was even more beautiful up close, a fucking goddess in yoga pants and a wrinkled t-shirt, and it was like every cell in my body ignited in unison at the sight of her. The extraordinary thing, though, the thing I never expected, was that she was looking right back at me.

We're staying at the same resort. I knew I would likely bump into her again, but the moment she walked out the door, I knew that probably wasn't good enough. I have enough regrets. I refuse to go back to D.C. with one more “what if?”.

All it took was one look at her, and my whole soul woke up.

Isobel is very much the exception, not the rule, but an exception I intend to pursue.

She's off limits now. I need to back off and do my best to put this behind me. Pining after a woman half my age was dubious enough, but Evie's sister? Unthinkable.

Oh good, so he's also an expert in vaginas and a feminist saint.

That beautiful, glowing woman I glimpsed earlier today was reduced to a ghost by her parents, and I had to bite my tongue so many times that there's a swollen ridge along it now.

Maybe I'm getting old, but I don't remember ever feeling this burning, possessive need for a woman, never mind one I barely know. I can't get involved with her.

Something knots inside me as Judah plows on, his voice low, “I was angry at how your mother spoke to you, nothing else. I hope you can forgive me for not being clear on that. I'm sorry.”

I know he's right, but twenty-three years of gnawing inadequacy and self-doubt, fueled by my parents’ steadfast indifference, has pretty much trained me to look for my own fault in any given situation. It's a little uncomfortable for someone to see that and call me on it.

On the rare occasions I've imagined what it would be like to fall in love, to really fall in love, it wasn't like this. It wasn't a fucking battle.

Every time I get a hint of who she is beyond that stoic, cold facade, I fall harder, and a part of me knows it's already too late. I can't not feel this.

“I call you Issy because nobody else does. Maybe I want a piece of you all to myself. Did that ever occur to you?”

“We can't, Judah.”

We can't, not I don't want you or leave me alone.

“Swim with me.”

“Why?”

“It will help you sleep.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“It's just a swim," I cajole. “I promise not to fuck you senseless tonight, but just so we're clear”—I unbutton my shorts and kick them away so I'm standing before her wearing only black boxer briefs—”I want to. Very badly.”

“You don't understand. I'm not… You don't want me.”

“I want you more than I want my next breath, sweetheart. Not just the pieces you've decided are good enough to show the world, but fucking all of you.”

It's a promise, and one I intend to honor until this woman stands in front of me in a white dress, ready to make vows of her own.

The best things in my life have come at the end of a long fight; I should have guessed that my future wife would be no exception. I'll fight for her, as long as it takes, until I've stripped away all those perfectly valid reasons she's using to keep me at arm's length.

Isobel Bradley ...

“You probably do dozens of exams a day. I'm sure you've seen breasts before, Doctor Hale.”

“Not yours.” I see her tremble as I stalk toward her, not stopping until her tight little nipples brush against my chest. We're wrapped up in each other, breathing the same air, and I have to ball my fists at my sides to stop myself from taking it further. I won't touch her until she asks me to. “You're so fucking beautiful, Is. Every inch of you.” I let my eyes roam hungrily over her body. “I’m not hiding what you do to me anymore.”

I've had a lot of first kisses in my life, but I know this one will be my last from the moment I get my first taste of her.

“I’m coming for you, Isobel Bradley,” I joke quietly, my voice strained from the effort it takes not to kiss her all over again. “You can run, but you can't hide.”

This isn't something I do, just so you know,” he offers, suddenly sounding a little worried. “I haven't dated anyone in years, and certainly not a woman your age. I didn't want you to think⁠—”