The bathwater is hot. Isabella prefers it a touch cooler, then likes to add more hot water once she has become accustom to the heat. But she would never think of complaining, after all, she has never had a man draw a bath for her before. This is a first, and there may be other firsts ahead of her tonight. She is not sure, but she is entertaining these thoughts as she slides deeper into the tub.

Downstairs, she hears William in the kitchen. Pots clang, knives chop, cupboards slam. He does make a lot of noise, she thinks, but, again, she is not about to complain. She knows he is trying. It is kind of sweet, actually, that William Fryer is cooking up a storm down there while she relaxes in the bathtub upstairs. He wouldn't have it any other way, he said. She had a stressful day with the lawyers and has so much to think about, so much information to process, that he insisted that she take a long bath. He already had the water in the tub and a glass of white wine, chardonnay she thinks he said, on the floor next to the tub when she entered the bathroom. The soaker tub is in the centre of the room, with a full-length glass window between her and the Pacific Ocean.

Isabella is starting to think that William isn't really much of a chef. Not that she is a culinary expert herself, by any means, nor has she dined at many upscale restaurants, but she senses from the way he moved around the kitchen earlier, it was nothing like the way her mother prepared meals for her family. There seemed to be a lot of trying this pot, then that pot, or re-reading the recipe, then watching a video clip on how to mix something. He won't tell her what he is making, but the smell of something burning downstairs tells her that he isn't exactly a professional chef. Isabella smiles and takes a long sip of wine.

She thinks about her day. Fryer is right, she has a lot to think about. What Amelia told her about the chances of a getting a criminal conviction based on her claims of sexual misconduct seem pretty unlikely. A civil suit against him or Alpha is more likely to be successful, but, as she understands, will be difficult to prove. She might get some money out of them, but that really isn't what this is about. On the drive back to the beach house she asked William what he thought she should do, but he offered no advice. It's not like he doesn't care, but the way he put it was that he isn't the victim, so he can't presume to know how she feels. He wants to allow her to make her own decision.

Fryer has been more distant since they visited the lawyers. Maybe not distant, but she notices that he seems preoccupied. He has been on the phone a lot, more than usual. Often he reads a message, gives her an apologetic grimace, then steps away to make a call. He says it is work, and adds, 'you know', and ducks around a corner or into another room. He doesn't let her use her phone. He took it away from her when they left Angelo's, telling her that Angelo might be able to track her whereabouts if she had her phone on, so it was best to let him hold on to it for a few days. She trusts that he knows what he is doing.

"How are things up there?" His voice echoes up the stairs. She receives it with a stab of excitement. Isabella shouts back that the bath is beautiful and thanks him for asking.

"How is your wine?"

Isabella looks at her half-filled glass, swallows a large gulp, and answers back down the stairs, "Well, I wouldn't mind a re-fill."

She is surprised that she has just invited him to come into the room where she is naked in the bath. This is not like her at all. She knows that he will think that she is teasing him, or that she is making the first move. Maybe she wants him to think that. Maybe she wants him. Maybe.

When the sound of his feet on the steps get closer to the top of the stairs Isabella sinks a little deeper into the bath. The soaker tub is huge. Her body seems so small in here; there is lots of room for William. He could slide in next to her. She would let him. They could face each other and talk, the two of them, sipping wine and adding hot water now and then. Maybe his hands would caress her bare leg, the one that would be pressed against his.

Isabella knows she has the kind of body that men like. Her friends back home are envious of her slender figure, petite but not tiny, athletic without being overly muscular, the flat tummy and the oh-so-important thigh gap, well-proportioned boobs and bum, as the magazine in the check-out line puts it. Most times Isabella would love to trade her shape for the more rounded look of Tammy, or the butchy frame of her friend Ally. They aren't the ones who are always being stared at; they are not undressed by men's' eyes on the bus or subjected to the grinding of a man's pelvis on the way to the dance club washroom. But tonight, lying here naked in the soaker tub as this man steps out of her dream and into the bathroom, she is glad that she has the body that she does. Tonight, she wants his attention, she wants to be naked. She has given him permission.

The door is already open. William Fryer enters the room and Isabella turns to him. Her eyes are level with the top of the tub as she turns to look at him. She presses against the back of the tub and slides a little higher—just a little—so he can see her bare shoulders and her face. She wants him to see that her lips are curled into a welcoming smile. Underwater, her heart is pounding.
Fryer is careful to turn his eyes away from her and he looks to the floor, to the wine glass. Isabella regrets not having the glass in her hand, so he would have to move above the tub in order to fill it, or at least he would have to take it from her. But she left it on the tile floor, and William, sweet William, fixes his gaze to the wine glass as he fills it.

He places the bottle on the floor, next to the glass and says, "here, I will leave you the rest of the bottle. My glass is full, downstairs." And he turns, and walks out of the room.

Isabella's heart sinks. He didn't even look at her. He avoided her the whole time. Was there something wrong with what she did? It's like he is embarrassed, or more like he is ashamed, as though he was the one who was naked. It was as if he ran out of the room as fast as he could. Maybe she had misread him. She reaches for the wine and notices that he has closed the bathroom door.

William Fryer sits across the table from Isabella. It is a small, grey, circular iron table, two cast iron chairs facing each other, the Pacific sunset to her right. On the plate before her is Fryer's creation. The pastry that encases the creamy goo of seafood is charred in places, sticky in others. She hopes the scallops and shrimp inside the cream sauce are fully cooked, as they look a little translucent. But she doesn't say anything. He has worked so hard on this meal, she would rather die from food poisoning than hurt his feelings right now. Across the table, in the candlelight, she sees the poor man still has flour in his hair. He is perfect in his imperfection.

They talk. Isabella can't believe how much they have talked over the past three days. She is used to running out of things to say. Usually, before long, comes this awkward silence that leaves her scrambling to come up with something more to talk about. She is not, by nature, a talkative person. But not with William. Things just flow out of her: her childhood, her youth, her dreams, her fears. There is something about the way he smiles when she speaks, or how he seems to listen, so attentively, to everything she has to say. She wonders how it is that he doesn't get bored with her continual rambling, but he doesn't seem to. He actually asks her questions and prompts her further, like he wants to know every little thing about her.

She wishes he would be a little more open about his past. He still hasn't revealed a lot about himself. It is almost like he is ashamed of something. It seems obvious to Isabella that he prefers not to talk about himself tonight, and tonight, Isabella will give him that peace.

Throughout their dinner and the desert that follows—an ice cream cake that, thankfully, he bought on the way home—Isabella is thinking about what will happen after dinner. She knows that she wants to be with William tonight. She wants to see where things go, to test herself, to see if she is ready. She has never felt like this before; the burn of excitement, the grip of fear. Not fear of William—she trusts the man like she has trusted no other—it is the fear of herself, the fear of losing herself to this man.

So, now that the dinner is finished and the table is cleared comes the moment when someone needs to make a move. They are both standing there, both looking out at the sea through the window above the sink full of dirty dishes, and more pots than Isabella has ever seen used in a single meal. They stand in silence.

Fryer speaks: "feel like a walk?"

They walk. Isabella has changed out of the sundress she wore to dinner. Too bad, she thought as she slid off the light dress to put on her jeans and T-shirt, the dress was so—accessible. She even considered not putting on her bra, then decided she had better. She can't believe she is thinking like this.

And she is still thinking this way as they stroll along the beach. The night couldn't be better. They walk slowly, barely taking steps at all. It is like they don't really want to move, don't want to go anywhere. Finally, when she can no longer stand the fact that on this perfect night, this perfect man is walking with her, that they are alone, the two of them, and that this instant shall soon pass and never again will they be here at this moment in time, in this place, with a night ahead of them, she reaches her right hand to his, and slides her fingers into the gaps between his fingers. They fit like they were always meant to be there. She turns, looks up at him, and smiles. They are hand in hand.

Fryer looks back at her. His grin is accepting, but he is not at peace. She knows he is about to say something, and now, for the first time, she thinks she knows what he is thinking.

"Ah, Isabella, I need to tell you something." He loosens his grip and slides his fingers from hers. "I have not been completely honest with you."

If someone could actually have torn into Isabella's chest with their bare hands, ripped her heart out of her, and held it before her so she was forced to look at it, bloody and bruised and beating, she would, at this instant, suddenly become aware of the empty cavity from where the heart was removed. This is how Isabella feels, at the moment when she realizes that William Fryer must be married.

She can't believe she has allowed herself to fall for a married man. And he didn't have the balls to even tell her.

Fryer is talking, saying something to her, but she can't hear him. He might be explaining himself, making excuses, apologizing. It doesn't matter. His lips are moving, his eyes are teary, but the words never reach Isabella. They are swallowed by the ocean and the blackness of her rage. All she hears are the screams of her own thoughts.

She should be angry. She should yell, "how could you, you bastard." She should make him feel like the piece of shit he is. That is what she should do. Should.

But that is not how she feels. She has been the temptress, hasn't she? She has been the one who led him on, who led him astray. He was only trying to help her, wasn't he? She abused his kindness, she took advantage of his goodness, she used her youth and her beauty and her sex to draw him away from his wife, from his family. He probably has kids at home, their mother telling them that daddy is busy at work and can't read them a story tonight, but he will be home soon, because daddy loves them, and because daddy loves mommy too. She wonders if mommy knows that daddy can fall so easily.

Her hands cover her face and Isabella begins to cry. She has become the person she most despises: the seductress who has taken an innocent man with her into the realm of lust and temptation. She is the girl that they warn the boys about.

"I am so sorry William." She is sobbing now. She turns away from him, turns to the sea. But she feels his arms wrap her, first one side, then the other, and she feels him squeeze her, holding her together. She wants to pull away, but cannot. She feels his body, hard and warm, press into her back. His cheek slides against hers, gliding on the slick of her tears. His mouth rests on her shoulder and she can hear him again.

"No, Isabella, I am the one who is sorry."

As his jaw moves, she feels his cheek against her neck. She feels the wetness of his tears. "I am sorry. I wanted to tell you everything, but I wasn't sure if I was ready—if you were ready. I will go now. I will go back."

With those words he lets her go, turns and walks back to the beach house. Isabella falls to her knees and buries her face in her hands and cries. Full out sobs. Gut cleansing wails. She can't believe herself, the one man, the only man, who has ever made her feel so complete, the only time she has been willing to give herself fully to a man, and theirs is a forbidden love. And what is most upsetting about this, is that she wishes he had taken her first, before he left her to go home to his wife and kids. She is no better.

As Isabella raises her head and looks up at the beach house and sees, in the back driveway, the glow of car headlights pull out of the garage, turn and drive down the boulevard, she knows that this is last time that she will ever see Mr. William Fryer.