His Older Obsession

The Man Who Wouldn’t Take No

“Have you lost your mind?”

The words left Isla before she could stop herself. She stood in front of Mr. Keaton’s desk, palms flat against the glass, fury burning in her chest. Isla and Keaton were friends in law school before he started his own firm and gave her a job in it.

Mr. Keaton blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Isla, I get that you’re upset…?”

“You sold the firm to him?” she snapped. “To Travis Rossi?”

Keaton straightened, flustered. “Technically, he didn’t buy the firm; he invested. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, please,” Isla shot back. “There’s no difference when a man like that signs your checks.”

“Isla,” he began carefully, “this is good for us. For you. He’s expanding the client base, bringing exposure…”

She laughed, sharp and humorless. “Exposure? He’s a headline waiting to happen.”

Keaton sighed, rubbing his temples. “Look, Isla, I understand you don’t like him, but he’s not going anywhere. In fact, he specifically requested to work with you.”

Her stomach turned. “Of course he did.”

She grabbed her files, muttering under her breath, “Unbelievable.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” she said tightly. “Before I say something that costs me my job.”

By the time she reached the parking lot, her anger had shifted to something heavier, worry. She glanced at the clock. Fiona’s school had called earlier about a meeting she’d forgotten to confirm. She sighed and started the car. Work could wait. Fiona couldn’t.

The principal’s office smelled faintly of chalk and stale coffee.

“Ms. Simmons, thank you for coming,” Principal Adams said, folding her hands neatly. “I wanted to discuss Fiona’s recent behavior.”

“Behavior?” Isla frowned. “What happened now?”

Adams hesitated. “She’s been skipping classes. Several, actually. Her grades have dropped significantly, and she’s been…distracted.”

Isla blinked. “That’s impossible. She leaves for school every morning.”

The principal gave her a sympathetic look. “I understand this must be hard to hear. Fiona’s a bright girl, but she’s been struggling for a while. I think she needs guidance, perhaps counseling.”

Guidance. The word hit Isla harder than she expected.

She forced a polite smile. “Thank you, Principal Adams. I’ll handle it.”

Fiona was already home when Isla walked in, slouched on the couch with her phone in hand, music blaring through her earbuds.

“Fiona,” Isla called.

No answer.

She snatched the earbuds out. “We need to talk.”

The teenager rolled her eyes. “About what now?”

“I dropped you off at school, and you came back home. What is wrong with you?

Fiona ignored her as she continued what she was doing previously.

What is this I hear about you skipping classes?” Isla said sharply. “And failing half your courses. Care to explain?”

Fiona’s jaw tightened. “You went to my school?”

“Of course I did! They’ve been sending you letters to give to me, but you refused to. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking maybe you’d stop trying to control my life!” Fiona shot back, standing now, voice trembling with anger. “You’re not my mother, Isla! You never will be!”

The words hit like a slap.

For a moment, Isla couldn’t breathe.

“Don’t you dare,” she whispered. “Your mother…my sister…trusted me to take care of you.”

Fiona’s expression flickered, but only for a second. “Then stop trying to replace her.”

Isla’s throat tightened. “I can do whatever I want, young lady, but right now and the next 6 months, you’re grounded.”

Fiona’s laugh was bitter. “Oh my God, Isla, you are evil, and I hate you.”

She stormed off, slamming her bedroom door hard enough to rattle the walls.

Isla stood there, heart aching, the silence pressing down on her like a weight.

Three years since Leslie died, and Isla still didn’t know how to fill the emptiness she left behind.

She tried to be strong, tried to be enough, for Fiona, for Ethan, for herself…but sometimes, it felt like she was barely holding everything together.

Her phone buzzed.

A new message.

Travis Rossi: Still angry, counselor? I’d say we should talk about your attitude over dinner.

Isla’s hand trembled as she stared at the screen.

He must be out of his mind to think she’d be going out with him.

But somehow, it felt like the man trying to take over her career was about to walk straight into her home, too.

—

The sky had fallen into that deep violet haze when Isla heard the crunch of tires outside.

She frowned, peering through the blinds.

A sleek black car idled at the curb.

And stepping out, flowers in one hand, confidence in the other, was Travis Rossi.

Of course.

This man looks like a Greek God.

Isla groaned under her breath. “You have got to be kidding me.”

She marched outside before he could even ring the bell. “What are you doing here?”

Travis smiled, the picture of sin in a suit. “I was told this is where the infuriating attorney with perfect timing lives. Thought I’d drop by with peace offerings.”

He held out the bouquet like a weapon.

She didn’t take it. “Try the florist. Maybe they’ll appreciate the gesture.”

“Ever so graceful.”

Isla rolled her eyes at him.

He tilted his head. “You’re not dressed.”

Her brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“For dinner,” he said easily. “I told you to get ready.”

Isla blinked. “Are you insane? You actually thought I’d go out with you?”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she said, folding her arms, “you are clearly used to women falling at your feet. I’m not one of them. And you’re… what? Five years younger?”

He smirked. “Six. You’ve been thinking about my age?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Travis stepped closer, closing the space inch by inch until the scent of his cologne wrapped around her like a dare.

“Then tell me,” he murmured, “what is your type?”

She forced a laugh. “ First off, men my age and men who don’t act like they can buy the world.”

“So… men who can’t keep up?” His tone dropped, smooth as whiskey.

He was close now, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating off him, to catch the clean spice of his cologne. Her pulse betrayed her, thudding loud enough she swore he could hear it.

Travis’s eyes dropped to her mouth. “You keep saying no,” he murmured, “but you keep standing right here.”

Her breath hitched, but she masked it with a scoff. “You’re impossible.”

“Persistent,” he corrected, eyes glinting. “There’s a difference.”

Another step. Their reflections shimmered in the hood of his car, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath.

Her breath caught. “I’m deciding whether to throw those flowers or you off my porch.”

“Either way,” he said softly, “you’ll have to touch me.”

For one suspended heartbeat, everything stilled. The night hummed. His hand brushed her arm, light as static; her lips parted on instinct. He leaned in, slow, deliberate, the air between them shrinking until she could feel the whisper of his breath on her skin.

“Travis…” Her warning came out in a whisper.

He smiled, inches away. “You say my name like you’re afraid of it.”

And just when her knees went weak, he moved…swift, unexpected…catching her off balance with a laugh as he lifted her off the ground in one swift, effortless motion, he lifted her, laughter catching in his throat as she gasped.

“Travis! Put me down, you lunatic!”

“Gladly,” he said, shifting her over his shoulder, the bouquet dangling in his free hand. “Right after you stop pretending you don’t like this.”

Her fists pounded weakly against his back, but her voice betrayed her. “You’re insane!”

“Obsessive,” he said lightly, carrying her toward the car. “We’ve established that.”

He opened the passenger door, setting her down with infuriating gentleness.

For a heartbeat, they just stared, her cheeks flushed, his grin lazy and dangerous.

“Still not your type?” he asked softly.

She swallowed hard, refusing to answer.

“Didn’t think so.”

He handed her the flowers, slid behind the wheel, and the engine purred to life, low, smooth, and full of trouble.

“Hope your lawyers' contacts are on speed dial because I am literally suing your ass for kidnapping.”