I grab extra blankets from the hall closet, my hands moving on autopilot while my mind races. What the hell am I doing? I've invited a complete stranger—a runaway bride, no less—to spend the night in my bed. In my house. With my daughters sleeping just down the hall.
It's completely unprofessional. If any of my deputies pulled something like this, I'd have them on desk duty for a month with a lecture about boundaries and protocol.
But Isabella isn't just any stranger. There's something about her that bypassed all my usual defenses… The ones I've spent four years constructing.
Maybe it's the lost look in her eyes that mirrors what I see in my own reflection some mornings. Or maybe it's the way she immediately connected with my girls, reading to them with such natural warmth that for a moment our broken little family felt whole again.
I grab a spare toothbrush from the bathroom cabinet, one of those extras from the dentist that I keep for the girls, and add it to the small pile of necessities: towel, washcloth, t-shirt that might work as a nightgown.
When I return to the living room, Isabella is sitting exactly where I left her, looking small and vulnerable on my oversized couch. Her makeup has long since worn off, and without the armor of her wedding dress or even the casual clothes she bought at Libby's, she seems younger somehow. More real.
"Here," I say, setting the pile beside her. "It's not exactly the honeymoon suite, but it should get you through the night."
She looks up with those clear green eyes, and something in my chest tightens. "I'm the one who should be apologizing for putting you out of your bed."
"It's fine. I fall asleep on this couch half the time anyway." It's true. Many nights, after the girls are in bed, I sink onto this couch intending to watch just a few minutes of TV and wake up hours later with a crick in my neck.
"Thank you." She takes the towel and toothbrush, her fingers brushing mine. "For everything. Most people wouldn't have gone to all this trouble."
I shrug, uncomfortable with her gratitude. "It's my job to help people."
"Is it your job to bring them home and feed them mac and cheese?"
"No," I admit, a warmth spreading through me at the gentle teasing in her voice. "That part's... not standard procedure."
"I gathered." She smiles slightly. "Your daughters are wonderful. You’re a great single dad. You're doing an amazing job with them."
Most people either avoid mentioning my single-parent status or offer pitying platitudes about how "strong" I am. But there's a genuine admiration in her words.
"I'm sorry about Sophie," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "About what she said regarding her mother's chair. Kids that age don't have filters."
Isabella shakes her head quickly. "Please, don't apologize. She's processing her loss in her own way. It's healthy."
"Still. It couldn't have been comfortable for you."
She considers this. "Actually, I appreciated her honesty. Adults spend so much time talking around difficult subjects. It's refreshing, the way children just say what they're thinking."
I sit down on the opposite end of the couch, maintaining a respectful distance even as something in me yearns to be closer.
"Claire, my wife, she was like that too. Straightforward. No games." The memory brings both pain and comfort, as it always does.
"How long were you together?" Isabella asks softly.
"High school sweethearts. Married right after college." I find myself calculating the years. "Would have been fifteen years this December."
"I'm so sorry, Jake."
It's the first time she's used my first name, and something about the way she says it makes my chest constrict. Not just grief—something else. Something I'd almost forgotten existed.
"Four years ago," I continue, surprising myself with my openness.
"Car accident on Highway 14. Drunk driver crossed the center line.
She was coming home from her book club." I swallow hard, the memory still razor-sharp despite the passage of time.
"I was supposed to pick her up, but there was an incident at the station. I asked her to drive herself."
Isabella moves closer, and I feel the couch dip slightly with her weight. "It wasn't your fault."
"Logically, I know that," I say, staring at my hands. "The drunk driver is serving fifteen years. But if I'd just left work on time..."
"You can't live in that alternative universe," she says gently. "Trust me, I've tried. The 'what-ifs' will destroy you."
Something in her tone suggests personal experience. "What's your what-if?" I ask.
She looks down at her hands, twisting them in her lap.
"What if I'd stood up to my parents years ago?
What if I'd pursued art instead of the business degree they wanted?
What if I'd refused the first date with Sebastian instead of agreeing because my father thought it would be 'advantageous'?
" She gives a small, bitter laugh. "Today was my first real act of defiance. "
"Better late than never," I offer, wanting desperately to comfort her.
"Maybe." She sighs, and the sound carries the weight of years of suppressed desires. "My entire life has been a curated performance—the right schools, the right clothes, the right fiancé."
"Until today."
"Until today," she agrees. "When I realized I couldn't breathe inside that dress, inside that church, inside that life."
We fall silent for a moment. Outside, an owl hoots softly in the darkness. Inside, the refrigerator hums and the old grandfather clock in the hallway—a wedding gift from Claire's parents—ticks steadily.
"It's been hard," I find myself admitting, my voice rough with emotion. "Since Claire died. Not just the grief, but the practical stuff. Being both parents. Working full-time. Trying to remember permission slips and softball practices and dental appointments."
"You seem to be managing it all beautifully," Isabella says, her voice gentle.
I shake my head, a lump forming in my throat. "I'm drowning most days. The girls deserve better than a dad who's always distracted, always rushing, always forgetting something important."
"They adore you," she counters, and there's such conviction in her voice that I almost believe her. "That's obvious to anyone who spends five minutes with them. The way they look at you—like you're their whole world."
"They're mine," I say simply, emotion making my voice crack. "But I worry it's not enough. That I'm not enough."
"I think that worry is probably the hallmark of good parenting," Isabella observes softly. "The bad ones never question themselves."
I've never thought of it that way. "Maybe. Still feels like I'm failing more often than not."
"Join the club," she says with a rueful smile. "I've spent my entire adult life feeling like I'm failing. At being the daughter my parents wanted, at becoming the wife Sebastian deserved, at figuring out who I actually am beneath all the expectations."
"And who is that person?" I ask, wanting desperately to understand her. "The real Isabella Rosewood?"
She considers this, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear.
"I'm not entirely sure yet. But I know she loves art—creating it, studying it, being surrounded by it.
She prefers quiet evenings with a book to elaborate charity galas.
She wants a family someday, but one built on genuine connection, not social advantage.
" She pauses, her voice softening. "And apparently, she has the capacity to run away from her own wedding, so there's that. "
I can't help but smile, "Sounds like someone worth getting to know. But, hey, it's late," I say, standing abruptly. "You must be exhausted."
Isabella nods, rising as well. "It's been... quite a day."
"I'll show you upstairs," I offer, "You'll need clean sheets."
"Please, don't go to that trouble. I can manage."
"It's no trouble," I insist.
"Thank you. But, look... Can we stay here a little longer?" She asks me, rubbing her rosy cheek.