Looking at her, I just know that those women were thinking only one thing, and it had been clear in their eyes as they moved from Isabel to me. And I hate that there’s a kernel of truth in their assumptions. Hate myself for being so cliché. Even if it’s hard to admit it to myself. Because yeah, I’d accepted her beauty. I’d admitted to myself that she’s interesting and kind. Our interactions over the years, brief and far in between as they were, had always been charged with enigmatic energy. Feeling her dark eyes resting on me. Evaluating. Seeing. Even when it was for just five minutes in
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