I held out my hand. “Ma’am. Thank you for having me.”
Her palm slid into mine, delicate and cool, but her eyes were not cool.
They moved over my shoulders. My chest. My face. Back to my shoulders.
“Well,” she said, smiling wider. “Isa did not exaggerate.”
Isa made a small sound beside me. “Mom.”
“What?” Mrs. Calloway laughed. “I’m allowed to compliment a handsome young man.”
Compliment.
Right.
That was one word for it.
She held my hand half a second too long before letting go.
“Come in, come in. Your father is in the den pretending not to be excited.”
Isa looked at me.
I squeezed her hand once.
Her mother saw that too.
Her smile sharpened.
Inside, the house smelled like cinnamon, pine, money, and the kind of candles women bought in multiples and called “holiday atmosphere.” There were garlands on the staircase, silver bowls full of ornaments, framed family photos arranged on a console table, and stockings hanging over a fireplace that had probably never been used for actual heat.
A man stepped out of the den with a glass in one hand.
Isa’s father.
Trent Calloway, if I remembered right from the stalker-level background Isa had given me on the plane after deciding I needed to understand “the terrain.” He had the look of a man who had been handsome once and still expected people to respond accordingly. Tall enough. Softening around the middle.Nice watch. Expensive sweater. Face already arranged into skepticism before I took one step into the room.
His eyes flicked over me, then to Isa.
“Isabella.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
She hugged him.
He hugged her back, looking at me over her shoulder.
Not hostile exactly.
Measuring.
I knew that look.
Men did it when another man’s money made them feel crowded in their own house.
Isa stepped back. “Daddy, this is Drew.”
I held out my hand. “Sir.”
