She shrugged, then smiled. “Is it too early for me to blame stupid questions on being pregnant?”
“I’d take that pass every chance I got if I were you. Does it count for expectant fathers too?”
This time, she laughed as she got out of bed and went through a door I saw led to the bathroom.
After she left,the cottage felt too quiet.
I made coffee with what I found in her kitchen—a French press, beans that smelled expensive—and stoodat the window, watching the morning mist burn off the vineyard rows.
My phone sat on the counter. I picked it up, scrolled to Snapper’s name, and stopped.
He’d want to know. All my brothers would. But the baby wasn’t my news to share—it was Isabel’s. Until she gave me permission to tell people, I’d keep my mouth shut. Even with Snapper. Even though keeping something this big from him went against everything the Avilas stood for.
I typed out a text instead.I’m with Isabel. Baron knows she’s safe.
My phone rang almost immediately with a call from him, but I let it go to voicemail.
He’d have questions I couldn’t answer.Where are you? What’s going on?And I wasn’t ready to lie to my brother or explain why I couldn’t tell him the truth.
The phone buzzed with an alert. I ignored it.
Twenty minutes later, the front door opened.
Isabel looked…lighter. Some of the tension she’d been carrying had eased from her shoulders.
“Well?” I asked.
“He was kind.” She crossed to the kitchen, and I poured her a cup of coffee before remembering. “Actually?—”
“I can have one cup.” She took it and wrapped her hands around the mug. “He said he’d already suspectedsomethingwas going on. That I’d been off.”
“And?”
“He told me to focus on the marketing director position—if I feel up to it. No pressure. No timeline.”
“That’s good.”
“He also said he’d like to meet with you.”
I set down my own cup. “Me?”
“He asked if you were planning to stay. I told him I didn’t know.” Her eyes met mine. “Are you?”
“You know I am.” No hesitation. “As long as you’ll have me.” By that, I meant forever, but I didn’t want her to drop her coffee in shock and burn herself.
She looked away, but not before I caught her smile.
“He’s in the production building. Between here and the main house.” She paused. “He said as soon as possible, if you’re willing.”
The production building was a long,low structure with corrugated metal siding that had been weathered to a soft gray. Nothing like the Spanish-style architecture of Avila Estate, but solid and functional.
Thomas Whitmore stood at a stainless-steel tank, making notes on a clipboard. He looked up when I entered.
“Kick Avila.” He set the clipboard down and extended his hand. “I’m sure we’ve met in passing a time or two.”
His grip was firm, and his gaze direct. He was maybe sixty, with silver hair and the kind of face that had seen too much sun and didn’t apologize for it.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “And, if I may, I’d like to thank you for taking care of Isabel.”
