Chapter 184 Enrico

Chapter 184 Enrico
Enrico

I booked the inn on a whim that Tuesday, told her Friday morning, and gave her orders the way I always do. "Pack for five days," I said. "Be ready at eight."

She glanced up from her desk, that look she gets when she’s weighing if I’m actually serious. I met her eyes and held on until she made up her mind.

"Where?" she asked.

"You’ll see when we get there."

She frowned. "That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only answer you’re getting," I told her.

She gave me that stare she saves for things she plans to figure out. I’ve seen it plenty, during interrogations, in heated strategy sessions, even during our debates about security protocols. She always looks like she’s putting puzzle pieces in place.

"North or south?"

"Neither."

"Coastal or inland?"

"I’m not playing."

"That’s a coastal response," she shot back.

"That's not a thing."

"It is with you. You go still when I hit the mark." She cocked her head, eyes narrowing just a bit. "New England coast. Probably Maine. You’d go far enough that it felt properly out of reach, but not so far the drive turned into a hassle."

I gave her the kind of look that means nothing and everything.

"Am I wrong?"

"Pack for cold weather," I said, and left.

She tried a different angle on Wednesday evening. Showed up in the doorway of the security room while I was working through camera logs, holding out two coffees and looking like she just happened to be wandering by.

"I was thinking," she said, handing me one.

"Thank you," I said, taking it.

"About the trip."

I nodded. "Figured."

"Well, if I knew the destination," she said, lowering herself into the chair, "I'd know what to pack. If I pack wrong, we might have to buy things, which..." she paused for effect, "is a cost consideration…”

"You’ve got unlimited credit."

She waved it away. "Not the point."

"Then what’s the point?"

She laced her fingers. "The point is efficiency. It would be more efficient if you just told me where we’re going."

I drank the coffee, done exactly the way I like it. That’s probably her version of affection. Or it’s a strategy. Honestly, it’s both.

"Layers," I said. "And the green sweater."

She actually tilted her head as she digested that, thinking through what the green sweater meant.

"It’s for cold, but also…”

"Isla," I interrupted.

"What."

"Not telling you."

She left with her dignity perfectly intact. Not defeated, just temporarily diverted.

The third attempt was Marco.

I knew it was coming. She cornered him Thursday morning. I watched the whole thing unfold in real time through Marco’s smug text updates.

She’s asking about the weather in Maine. I told her I’ve never heard of Maine.

And then: She’s now asking about Camden. I told her you’re private.

Twenty minutes later: She brought me coffee. Real coffee. I held out.

And then: She asked directly. I said I swore an oath. She told me oaths to you aren’t legally binding. I said they’re morally binding. She just stared at me. I didn’t break.

I called him.

"You enjoyed that," I said.

"More than you can guess," he replied with glee. "Do you realize how often she knows things before I do? This is the first time in years I had something she wanted, and she couldn’t get it." He sounded almost giddy. "I’m going to remember this for a long, long time. Go enjoy your trip. You deserve this."

"Don’t get too comfortable," I warned.

Friday morning, she came down at seven-fifty, two bags in hand, wearing the look of someone who has decided to make peace with not knowing.

"I packed layers," she announced.

"Good."

"And the green sweater."

"Good."

"And a book I’ve meant to read for months."

"You’ll actually get through it," I promised.

She watched me for a moment, and then something in her face softened, the force of not knowing gave way to something like simple trust. She does that sometimes, lets go. It’s one of my favourite things about her.

"Okay," she said. "Let’s go."

The drive took four hours. The first two, we talked, about work, about Marco and Sofia, about Ivan’s ongoing research into American romance, which apparently now includes a bibliography. She drifted off somewhere after Portland, her head against the window, hands loose in her lap.

I drove the way I always have when someone I love is sleeping next to me, steady, careful.

She slept for about an hour. Woke up right as we crested the last hill before the coast, the Atlantic suddenly spread out below, grey and massive and wildly indifferent to everything we’ve carried all year.

"Oh," she said. Quiet, but solid.

I let her have the moment. Let the ocean do its thing.

The inn was exactly what I wanted, small, stone, tucked slightly above the tide, windows facing the water, a fire in the hearth that looked like it hadn’t gone cold in months. The woman at the desk didn’t ask questions, just handed us the key, led us to the room, and left.

Fireplace. Sitting area. Bed with thick quilts, the kind you only get when someone really knows how cold these nights get. Windows faced east, perfect for the sunrise. That’s why I picked it.

Isla went straight to the window and just stood there, watching the water. I watched her. You could almost see the last eight months draining out of her, layers of tension peeling away, letting the cold Atlantic and the November gray unravel it all.

"Five days," I told her. "Nobody needs anything from us for five days."

She turned to me. "You actually pulled that off?"

"I did."

She watched me with those eyes that look right through whatever’s professional or guarded, all the way to the real thing.

"I love you so much," she said.

"I know," I answered, and pulled her close.