The SUV rolled forward, the hospital fading behind them as the highway opened up. Isla stared out the window for a moment, collecting her thoughts before she went on.
“Randall does some portraits, but most of his money comes from commercial work,” Isla explained. “Logos. Packaging. Ad campaigns. It pays, especially when you’ve got the right connections. And Leah’s connections are the reason he made it work. She gave him a huge infusion of cash to get the studio up and running.”
“So without her, he might not have gotten off the ground,” Garrett threw out there.
“Exactly,” Isla said. She tipped her head back against the seat, her mind spinning with what Leah had confessed. “Money, opportunity, the ability to pick and choose clients… Randall owes most of it to her. And yet she’s the one pointing the finger at him now.”
The miles slipped by, the voice of the GPS cutting in now and then, but the air in the SUV felt heavy with the weight of what they might find when they reached Randall’s studio.
The GPS droned out the next turn, but Isla hardly heard it. The quiet inside the SUV stretched long, heavy with thoughts neither of them had voiced. She turned her head, watching Garrett’s profile, the hard line of his jaw, the way his knuckles were tight on the wheel.
She cleared her throat. “About that kiss,” she said, letting the words come out light, almost playful. “I don’t want you beating yourself up over it.”
His gaze flicked her way for a second before returning to the road. “Isla—”
She held up her hand. “Don’t. We were always a little mindless when it came to each other.” She smiled, though there was a nervous hitch to it. “Half the time we didn’t know if we were fighting or flirting. Sometimes both.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek, but he didn’t say anything right away. The silence filled with memories of late nights, stolen touches, laughter that had turned to kisses before either of them thought it through.
Isla shifted in her seat, eyes still on him. “It doesn’t have to mean more than it does. I’m not saying it didn’t knock me sideways, but… well, it wouldn’t be the first time.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but his hands stayed firm on the wheel. She couldn’t quite tell if he was amused, exasperated, or something else altogether.
Garrett finally let out a low breath, almost a laugh but not quite. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “Mindless fits. You had a way of turning my brain to mush.”
That tugged a real smile out of her. “Still do, apparently.”
His eyes slid her way again, longer this time, before he returned his attention to the traffic ahead. “Guess some things don’t change.”
The warmth of that settled in her chest, surprising her. She had expected him to brush it off or smother the moment under all that guilt he carried. Instead he had let it sit there between them, the acknowledgment of what they had always been—wild and reckless with each other, hearts too tangled to be careful.
Isla tucked her hands into her lap, staring out the window at the blur of highway and trees. “Well, for the record, I don’t regret the kiss,” she said softly.
Garrett gave another of those not-quite laughs. “I don’t regret it either,” he admitted, his voice low. “But I know I should.” He tipped his chin toward the bandage on her head, then lifted his arm just enough to remind her of the fresh graze. “A good kiss can distract. Can overtake what shouldn’t be overtaken.”
Her smile thinned, but she managed a small nod. “True,” she said, even though the word caught in her throat.
What Isla didn’t say aloud, what pressed hot and undeniable against her ribs, was that it wouldn’t stop them from kissing again. The barriers they had kept so carefully stacked between them had been yanked down, dissolved into dust, and in its wake was the same heat that had always been there, smoldering, waiting for the smallest spark.
And the spark had already happened.
No way to undo that.
Isla forced her thoughts back where they belonged. Not on Garrett’s kiss. Not on the heat still curling in her chest. On the road. On the man they were about to see.
The GPS guided them off the highway and into the outskirts of San Antonio. They passed newer developments, manicured landscaping, and finally turned into a lot edged with stone planters and tall glass windows. The building ahead was sleek, modern, and unapologetically expensive. It was both a studio and gallery, Randall’s name etched in polished steel on a sign near the entrance.
Garrett pulled into a space, killed the engine, and together they walked toward the front doors. Inside, Isla’s eyes adjusted to the soft lighting, and she took in the place.
The place was tasteful, elegant in a way that spoke of both money and careful curation. Polished floors reflected recessed lights above. Wide walls held paintings in heavy frames, some portraits, some more abstract pieces, all clearly crafted to impress. A glass counter at the far end displayed brochures and business cards, and beneath the faint scent of lemon polish and expensive coffee lingered the unmistakable air of wealth.
Everything about it told her that Leah’s infusion of money hadn’t gone to waste. Randall’s art world wasn’t struggling. It was thriving.
A young man sat behind the sleek glass counter, dressed in a slim gray suit that looked a little too sharp for his boyish face.His hair was dark and neatly parted, and when Isla and Garrett stepped inside, he pushed quickly to his feet with the kind of eager politeness reserved for clients with money.
“Good afternoon,” he said with a professional smile. “Welcome to Randall Hayes Studio. How can I help you today?”
Garrett didn’t waste time. “We need to see Randall.”
