Nathan wasn’t the type to lose sleep over things. He had built his life on logic, on calculated decisions, on knowing exactly where he stood in every situation. But tonight, as he drove back home, he couldn’t stop replaying the conversation at the gala.
It wasn’t just the way that old bastard had sneered when asking if he had “cracked” Isla yet. It wasn’t even the way he’d instinctively snapped back, defending her like it was second nature. No, what really dug under his skin was the way Vanessa had looked at him after.
She knew something he didn’t.
And that bothered him.
Because if she could see it—if she could tell something had shifted in the way he thought about Isla Wells—then maybe he needed to admit it to himself, too.
With a sigh, he loosened his tie and leaned against the marb
