Page 7 of In Hot Water (The Hot Brothers #3)

CHAPTER SEVEN

DAWSON

Bella Notte sits right on the corner of Main Street and Broadway, its brick facade meticulously maintained with glossy black trim and a single discreet gold sign.

The second we step through the front door, the intimate space unfolds.

There are only twelve tables arranged with mathematical precision, each draped in crisp white linen and set with gleaming silverware.

A hint of garlic and butter drifts from the partially visible kitchen, where a chef in spotless whites works with quiet intensity.

Dean Martin croons "That's Amore" overhead while the candles on each table provide just enough glow to navigate between chairs without tripping.

A host with a pencil mustache appears, does a double take at us, and then leads the way past a sea of red vinyl booths.

He leads us to a secluded table in the back corner that’s tucked away behind a fake potted olive tree and a wall of framed spaghetti-eating contest photos. The hostess hands us menus and does a weird little bow before scuttling off.

We’re finally alone and Italian food is the last thing on my mind. My cock is urging me to throw Isla’s gorgeous ass up on the crisp white tablecloth and eat her for dinner.

Isla glances around, taking everything in all at once without any clue of the fantasies coursing through me.

She straightens the salt and pepper shakers, not once but twice, and then smooths her napkin over her lap.

The whole time, she keeps her chin tipped up, eyes scanning the restaurant with that sharp, restless energy she pulls around herself like armor.

I decide to push her buttons. Fuck it. “You can relax, you know. I’m not going to have my way with you here in this restaurant.”

She flicks me a look, mouth twitching. “I never doubted your self-control, Mr. Hot.” Her tone is dry as gin, but the way she says it? Fuck, I feel it in every muscle.

Her voice does something to me. Shit, I can’t even admit the effect it has on me out loud. Heat crawls up my neck. I can’t help it—I grin at her. “The way you say my name makes me sound like a stripper.” I smirk at her, mimicking, “For your entertainment pleasure, we have Mr. Hot.”

She lets out a short laugh and immediately covers it with her hand, which is adorable. “I can picture it.” She smirks back with a raised eyebrow.

I throw my head back and laugh. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m resourceful.” She’s smiling now, for real, and it’s so damn beautiful I have to look away before I say something insane like “marry me.”

A waitress shows up to take our drink orders. Isla orders a glass of cabernet with the precision of someone who’s done their research. I get a Shiner Bock because it’s my go-to drink.

The waitress walks away, and I notice Isla’s actually leaning forward and making direct eye contact.

Her hand goes for the same chunk of garlic bread as mine and our fingers brush.

It’s a split second, but it feels like a live wire.

She snatches her hand back so fast she almost knocks over her water, then laughs at herself, cheeks turning a perfect shade of pink.

“Sorry,” she says. “I’m used to eating alone. Or with Oreo, who doesn’t care about table manners.”

“Fuck table manners.” I rip off a piece of bread and hand it to her. She takes the bread, and I watch her relax another notch.

We spend the next several minutes talking about small-town bullshit—how everyone knows your business, how nothing exciting ever happens here, and how Riverbend Ridge has a grapevine that moves at the speed of light.

When the waitress brings our drinks, Isla takes a long sip and lets the glass linger at her lips.

I can’t stop watching her mouth, the way her lips curve around the rim, how she tilts her head back just enough to expose the line of her throat.

I feel my pulse kick up. I try to focus on my beer, but all I can think about is that brief flash of her hand in mine and how badly I want more of it.

She catches me staring and sets her glass down, mouth quirking. “What?”

I shake my head. “You’re just fucking gorgeous.”

She blushes bright red before whispering, “Thank you.” She looks at me for a long time, and it feels like the whole world shrinks until it’s just the two of us.

The appetizers arrive, shattering the moment. As we eat, I watch her, memorizing everything: the way her pinky finger lifts slightly when she picks up her fork, how she dabs the corner of her mouth with her napkin after every third bite.

Sometimes she covers her mouth when she laughs, her fingers splayed like a delicate fan against her lips, like she's afraid she'll lose control if she lets it out fully.

Other times she rolls her eyes, the hazel flecks catching the candlelight, especially when I describe how Atlas once got arrested for streaking at the Fourth of July parade, wearing nothing but a fireman's helmet and a strategically placed flag.

“Wait,” she says, eyes wide. “You’re telling me Atlas Hot, the golden boy, ran naked down Main Street?”

“He did.” I laugh at the memory. “He lost the bet and had to pay up.”

She snorts again, the sound bubbling up from deep in her throat. Her shoulders drop half an inch, and I know I'm winning her over.

Between bites, she starts to relax enough to ask her own questions. The candlelight catches in her dark lashes as she looks up. "So why fire inspection?" she asks, twirling her wine glass by the stem. "Why not just stick with the station like the rest of your brothers?"

It's a fair question, and I give her the honest answer, leaning forward so my forearms press against the cool tablecloth.

"I like knowing why things happen. Figuring out the patterns, putting the pieces together.

My brothers, they want to be first on the scene, all adrenaline and heroics.

Me?" I tap my temple with one finger. "I want to know what set it all off in the first place. "

She nods, thoughtful, and a strand of hair escapes her ponytail and falls across her cheek. She tucks it behind her ear with a quick, practiced motion. "I can see that."

We settle back in our chairs, both a little buzzed from the wine and the laughter.

There's a lull in the conversation, but it doesn't feel awkward anymore. It’s just the comfortable silence of two people who don't need to fill every second with words.

I take a long pull from my beer, cold and bitter against my tongue, then look at her with my heart hammering against my ribs.

“You know,” I say, “tonight has turned out even better than I could’ve hoped for.”

She looks down, smoothing her napkin one last time, then glances up at me. “I know.” She bites her lip, looking suddenly shy, and I swear to God my heart can’t handle any more.

The waitress swings by to clear our plates and says the mains will be out soon. I watch Isla relax into her seat, see the last of the tension leave her shoulders. She’s fucking perfect. We’re fucking perfect.

I get the feeling she’s thinking the same thing.

The main courses hit the table with a sizzle and a cloud of herby steam.

My plate is stacked with a bone-in pork chop and a mound of creamy polenta, while Isla’s is a plate of linguine tossed with shrimp and cherry tomatoes.

She sits back, looking almost pleased. She even does a little eye roll at the presentation, but she’s smiling when she does it.

For a while, we eat in comfortable silence.

I watch her twirl the pasta with the kind of precision that must come from years of practice.

Her quiet moans are enough to turn my cock to stone.

I fidget in my seat, trying to find a more comfortable position, while she takes careful bites.

Every few minutes, she sneaks a glance at me like she’s still not sure if this is actually happening.

After a few bites, she looks at me for a long second, like she’s weighing what she’s about to say.

“You should know, I grew up in foster care. Bounced around a lot,” she says, and even though her face is like stone, her fingers start tracing patterns on her napkin.

“Got placed with a family in Houston when I was twelve and ended up staying with them until I graduated high school. They were nice. Not perfect, but better than the others.”

I don’t say anything. I just let her talk, because I can tell she’s not used to having anyone just listen. I see her shoulders relax, just a fraction.

“After high school, I went to college for criminal justice on a merit scholarship. I wanted to be a detective, but I wasn’t cut out for big-city politics. Too much bullshit.” She twirls a strand of pasta but doesn’t eat it. “So, I applied to Riverbend Ridge and the rest is… history.”

She says it like it’s nothing, but I know it’s a hell of a lot. I let the silence hang for a few seconds, then say, “That’s pretty damn impressive.”

She shrugs. “Is it? I mean, I work hard, but sometimes it feels like I’m just… I don’t know. Treading water. Trying to keep everyone happy.”

I lean in, resting my forearms on the table. “Do you want to keep everyone happy?”

The question seems to catch her off guard. She considers it, then shakes her head. “No. Not really.”

I smile. “Good. Makes it easier to do the right thing when you’re not trying to please all the assholes in the room.”

She laughs, and it’s a full, rich sound that makes her eyes light up. “That’s… not bad advice.”

“Years of experience,” I say, raising my beer in a mock toast. “Dealing with my asshole brother as my boss.”

She taps her glass against mine, and for a second, her hand lingers on her stemware. She looks up at me, and I see something open up in her—something raw and real and unguarded.

“Can I ask you something?” she says.

“Anything.”