Cherish Hard
Page 57
Grief stabbed Ísa’s heart. “My paternal grandmother,” she said softly. “I lived with her for five years in Iceland, starting at age eight. I loved her more than I’d ever before loved anyone.” The best thing was that her grandmother had loved her back just as much. “She was warm and soft, and she rocked me if I had a nightmare.”
Running the back of his hand over her cheek, his gaze dark, Sailor said, “She’s gone?”
“A month after I turned thirteen.” A month after a birthday picnic her grandmother had helped Ísa put together for her friends. “That’s when my father brought me back to New Zealand and told Jacqueline it was her turn to take responsibility for me.”
“That’s a hard age to adapt to a country you last saw as a child.”
Ísa made a face. “Especially when you have a ‘funny’ accent and weigh more than average.” Shrugging off the old memories, she said, “I’m trying to give Catie and Harlow the kind of love Amma Kaja gave me.”
“You’re succeeding,” Sailor said without even a heartbeat of hesitation.
Something warm and fuzzy burst to life in inside Ísa’s heart.
“Try this.” Sailor held out a spring roll.
Leaning in, Ísa took a bite. He popped the other half into his own mouth. The small intimacy of the moment caught her breath. What would it be like to have this with him every night? These simple, sweet moments of connection as they grew together into the future?
33
The Gauzy Tragedy Gown
IT WAS DIFFICULT NOT TO clutch at the dream. Because despite how hard she intended to fight to make it work, the risk that it would all fall apart remained perilously high. It was a bad risk all around—no woman with a killer instinct and business-black blood would ever pour more resources into the campaign.
Unfortunately for her future self, Ísa was a romantic who was probably destined to produce her own personal Shakespearean tragedy, complete with a bloodied and broken heart and shattered dreams. Though she drew the line at wearing a flower crown and running through the streets in a diaphanous gown while rambling madly.
“A woman has to have certain standards,” she murmured.
Sailor paused in the act of eating another spring roll. “I think they’re pretty good,” he defended. “Crunchy on the outside, delicious on the inside.”
“What? Oh.” Ísa’s shoulders trembled, her smile cutting into her cheeks. “No, I just had an idea for a poem.” She raised her hand to her mouth after the words escaped. “Forget you heard that.”
Demon-blue eyes gleamed. “Not a chance, spitfire.” Spring roll demolished, he tugged her fingers away from her mouth. “You write poetry?”
Blowing out a breath, Ísa nodded. “Finding just the right combination of words to get across a thought or an idea within the tiny, perfect form of poetry, it makes me happy.” It was that simple. “I’m not hoping to be the next poet laureate or anything. It’s a… passionate hobby.”
“If you did become a famous poet,” Sailor said to a laugh from Ísa, “would you give up the teaching?”
“No. I love teaching.” It felt like a calling.
“Can I hear one of your poems?”
“I’ll think about it.” Ísa felt oddly shy about sharing her work with him, showing him those quirky little pieces of her soul. “You must be tired,” she said to give herself time to think. “You’ve achieved an incredible amount in a short a time.”
“I’ve got probably half an hour of workable light left.” He finished up the last of his food. “You done for the day?”
Ísa made a face. “No, I’m handling something for Jacqueline that’s sucking up my time.”
“Is it to do with that megastore idea that was in the business news the other day? Not your mother’s usual style—revealing her plans before she’s got everything in place.”
Ísa should’ve known he’d figure out that something was off; Sailor Bishop was too smart for his own good. Going with her gut, she told him what was going on.
His eyes cooled when she began to talk about her investigation into anyone who’d been in Jacqueline’s office during the applicable period. “You think I did it?”
“Don’t you start,” she snapped, shoving her used chopsticks into their makeshift trash bag with unnecessary force. “I already spent far too long convincing my mother that it couldn’t be you. You’re not that dumb.”
He let out a loud laugh, throwing back his head, a beautiful creature kissed by the late-evening light. Ísa’s heart, it hurt.
“Who do you think it is?” he said afterward, his eyes sparkling.
“I’ve got nothing right now.” She wanted to pull out her hair from the frustration of it. “But if someone does want to hurt Crafty Corners, they might try something here. A lot of people are watching to see if Fast Organic will fail or succeed.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.” Sailor stared at the garden he’d laid out. “I didn’t get a loan from the bank today,” he said abruptly. “Or more specifically, I got half of what I need.”
Ísa stomach clenched; she understood instinctively that the setback was a bad one. She also understood what it meant for her fiercely ambitious and determined lover to trust her with this.
Closing her hand over his, she said, “Impact?”
“If I don’t do anything to mitigate the loss, things will change too much for me to realize what I’ve been planning for the past two years, ever since I identified a gap in the market.”
He would’ve been twenty-one at the time. Already dreaming huge dreams and with the drive and willpower to make those dreams happen. Was it any wonder she was so hopelessly in love with him?
Oh God.
Why the hell had she done that, admitted the truth? How could she hide from it now?
“It sounds like you have a plan,” she said through the lump in her throat.
Weaving his fingers through hers, Sailor held on fast. “I’ll have to double my workload,” he said, as if he wasn’t talking about an insane time investment.
As if he wasn’t breaking Ísa’s heart.
She braced herself to hear that he’d have no time for a relationship. No time for her.
“I’ll probably be a zombie,” he said, lifting their clasped hands to press a kiss to her knuckles. “But if you’ll let me, I’ll be your zombie.”
Ísa’s lungs hurt, she was finding it so hard to breathe. “Oh?”
“We could make it work,” he said, that same determined flame in the blue of his eyes that she’d seen when he talked about his business dreams. “Breakfast together at the crack of dawn”—a playful grin that asked her to smile with him—“then sophisticated dinner dates like this.” He waved a hand. “Followed by mutual nakedness at night.”
His passion was a wildfire that licked over her and asked her to believe even though she’d seen firsthand that no relationship could survive this kind of relentless stress. And no one as ambitious as Sailor would be satisfied with a single triumph.
There would always be more mountains to climb, more glories to achieve.
More important things than Ísa.
Running the back of his hand over her cheek, his gaze dark, Sailor said, “She’s gone?”
“A month after I turned thirteen.” A month after a birthday picnic her grandmother had helped Ísa put together for her friends. “That’s when my father brought me back to New Zealand and told Jacqueline it was her turn to take responsibility for me.”
“That’s a hard age to adapt to a country you last saw as a child.”
Ísa made a face. “Especially when you have a ‘funny’ accent and weigh more than average.” Shrugging off the old memories, she said, “I’m trying to give Catie and Harlow the kind of love Amma Kaja gave me.”
“You’re succeeding,” Sailor said without even a heartbeat of hesitation.
Something warm and fuzzy burst to life in inside Ísa’s heart.
“Try this.” Sailor held out a spring roll.
Leaning in, Ísa took a bite. He popped the other half into his own mouth. The small intimacy of the moment caught her breath. What would it be like to have this with him every night? These simple, sweet moments of connection as they grew together into the future?
33
The Gauzy Tragedy Gown
IT WAS DIFFICULT NOT TO clutch at the dream. Because despite how hard she intended to fight to make it work, the risk that it would all fall apart remained perilously high. It was a bad risk all around—no woman with a killer instinct and business-black blood would ever pour more resources into the campaign.
Unfortunately for her future self, Ísa was a romantic who was probably destined to produce her own personal Shakespearean tragedy, complete with a bloodied and broken heart and shattered dreams. Though she drew the line at wearing a flower crown and running through the streets in a diaphanous gown while rambling madly.
“A woman has to have certain standards,” she murmured.
Sailor paused in the act of eating another spring roll. “I think they’re pretty good,” he defended. “Crunchy on the outside, delicious on the inside.”
“What? Oh.” Ísa’s shoulders trembled, her smile cutting into her cheeks. “No, I just had an idea for a poem.” She raised her hand to her mouth after the words escaped. “Forget you heard that.”
Demon-blue eyes gleamed. “Not a chance, spitfire.” Spring roll demolished, he tugged her fingers away from her mouth. “You write poetry?”
Blowing out a breath, Ísa nodded. “Finding just the right combination of words to get across a thought or an idea within the tiny, perfect form of poetry, it makes me happy.” It was that simple. “I’m not hoping to be the next poet laureate or anything. It’s a… passionate hobby.”
“If you did become a famous poet,” Sailor said to a laugh from Ísa, “would you give up the teaching?”
“No. I love teaching.” It felt like a calling.
“Can I hear one of your poems?”
“I’ll think about it.” Ísa felt oddly shy about sharing her work with him, showing him those quirky little pieces of her soul. “You must be tired,” she said to give herself time to think. “You’ve achieved an incredible amount in a short a time.”
“I’ve got probably half an hour of workable light left.” He finished up the last of his food. “You done for the day?”
Ísa made a face. “No, I’m handling something for Jacqueline that’s sucking up my time.”
“Is it to do with that megastore idea that was in the business news the other day? Not your mother’s usual style—revealing her plans before she’s got everything in place.”
Ísa should’ve known he’d figure out that something was off; Sailor Bishop was too smart for his own good. Going with her gut, she told him what was going on.
His eyes cooled when she began to talk about her investigation into anyone who’d been in Jacqueline’s office during the applicable period. “You think I did it?”
“Don’t you start,” she snapped, shoving her used chopsticks into their makeshift trash bag with unnecessary force. “I already spent far too long convincing my mother that it couldn’t be you. You’re not that dumb.”
He let out a loud laugh, throwing back his head, a beautiful creature kissed by the late-evening light. Ísa’s heart, it hurt.
“Who do you think it is?” he said afterward, his eyes sparkling.
“I’ve got nothing right now.” She wanted to pull out her hair from the frustration of it. “But if someone does want to hurt Crafty Corners, they might try something here. A lot of people are watching to see if Fast Organic will fail or succeed.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.” Sailor stared at the garden he’d laid out. “I didn’t get a loan from the bank today,” he said abruptly. “Or more specifically, I got half of what I need.”
Ísa stomach clenched; she understood instinctively that the setback was a bad one. She also understood what it meant for her fiercely ambitious and determined lover to trust her with this.
Closing her hand over his, she said, “Impact?”
“If I don’t do anything to mitigate the loss, things will change too much for me to realize what I’ve been planning for the past two years, ever since I identified a gap in the market.”
He would’ve been twenty-one at the time. Already dreaming huge dreams and with the drive and willpower to make those dreams happen. Was it any wonder she was so hopelessly in love with him?
Oh God.
Why the hell had she done that, admitted the truth? How could she hide from it now?
“It sounds like you have a plan,” she said through the lump in her throat.
Weaving his fingers through hers, Sailor held on fast. “I’ll have to double my workload,” he said, as if he wasn’t talking about an insane time investment.
As if he wasn’t breaking Ísa’s heart.
She braced herself to hear that he’d have no time for a relationship. No time for her.
“I’ll probably be a zombie,” he said, lifting their clasped hands to press a kiss to her knuckles. “But if you’ll let me, I’ll be your zombie.”
Ísa’s lungs hurt, she was finding it so hard to breathe. “Oh?”
“We could make it work,” he said, that same determined flame in the blue of his eyes that she’d seen when he talked about his business dreams. “Breakfast together at the crack of dawn”—a playful grin that asked her to smile with him—“then sophisticated dinner dates like this.” He waved a hand. “Followed by mutual nakedness at night.”
His passion was a wildfire that licked over her and asked her to believe even though she’d seen firsthand that no relationship could survive this kind of relentless stress. And no one as ambitious as Sailor would be satisfied with a single triumph.
There would always be more mountains to climb, more glories to achieve.
More important things than Ísa.
