There were worse things to be then late from your lunch meeting on a Friday afternoon, though Isabel Targo would've been hard pressed to say otherwise. With a coffee stain splotched across the lapel of her blazer, oversized purse teetering off her shoulder, and laptop at hand, she marched into The New York Times lobby late from lunch and on the phone, if not determined.
Receiving a curious look from the reception intern, Isabel hustled down the corridor to the line of elevators, which were currently being unloaded for a journey up to the floors above. Sunlight shone brightly through the pane-glass windows overhead, hitting the stationary chandelier just enough to cast bright diamonds of reflection across the marble floor, currently busy with bustling activity.
Focusing her attention on the elevator farthest on the left, Isabel attempted to cradle her phone against her shoulder, her fingers trying to shuffle through her stack of notes, taken from the aforementioned lunch.
The press of people was enough to drive anyone outside the Times mad, but it was truly nothing more than common place, if not normal to office personnel like herself. Desperate for a ride up, she squeezed between two men, both busy reading last week's issue with stained fingers. She shuffled onto the packed elevator car, slipping into the corner across from the control panel.
She rolled her eyes against the constant string of hypothetical questions blaring at her from the other end of her call, belonging to none other than Jackson, the head attorney for the editorial staff. He was currently reaming her about a submitted article from last Tuesday; questioning her source legitimacy, rather loudly, and for the past fifteen minutes.
She sighed, "Jackson, I told you already – the source is anonymous. All I'm required to report is that he's an expert in genetic mutation, that's it. I can't be on a first-name basis with everyone in biological science this side of Manhattan," this shut the attorney up briefly, enough for her to collect her thoughts and watch the floors tick off on the overhead display.
She continued, "I quoted peer-reviewed journals, for God sakes. There just isn't any more to be said about genetic mutation in covalent bond experimentation at the VA right now," adding again, "He's concerned about publicity, Jackson; the man's a recluse."
If not already a mess to begin with, the project in question was so far beyond any reporter's scope that she was surprised anyone had been assigned the task. In most cases regarding scientific phenomena such as discussing experimentation of the covalence of molecular bonds, news organizations ran submitted opposite-the-editorials, or op-eds. This was so far out of her wheelhouse as not only a military liaison and general beat reporter, that it wasn't even funny.
The only reason Isabel was writing it to begin with was because it had come from a military contact at the local American Legion, who had a son working in genetics at one of New York's well-established labs. He'd discussed it with her over drinks and pull-tabs two weeks ago, and she'd been pining to pin the lead down since.
The attorney was less than pleased with her response, his silence hanging over the line like a plague. A veteran of the legal team, he'd been more than exasperated with her closed sources; her work challenging readership by asking rhetorical questions and quoting anonymous sources. He'd confronted her more than once at the pressing of her direct supervisor, though she hadn't capitulated her stance.
Isabel watched the elevator level at their floor, and listened for the brief ding, which signaled the arrival of her stop. Shouldering her way in front the mob of people, she hurried out, her stilettos ticking against the marble of the editorial floor heavily. Her shoulder was beginning to burn from the weight of her oversized purse, and she was beginning to sweat through the underarms of her suit.
Jackson mulled around a few minutes more, until he seemed content with an answer. "I'm telling you, Targo – you'd better start supplying some legit sources, or we're going to have to investigate your leads. People are starting to think –"
Her brow furrowed, though she dropped her tone. "If I cared what people thought, Jackson, I'd never have gone into journalism," she snapped at him with a low snarl, "I'm not revealing my source. Call me when you actually have something to say that'll make me sweat."
She ended the call, dropped the phone into the corner of her purse, and raked back a handful of her untamed curls, throwing open the doors to the editorial room with a smack of her hand. Immediately, the electric buzz of activity in the room assailed her in a familiar way, and she immediately turned left, to walk the perimeter of the hive of cubicles occupying the center of the room.
Though they'd already gone to print for the day, things never slowed in the Times editorial room, especially for investigative reporters. Many of these people were out on their beats throughout the day, working late into the night to compile articles for issues two, three, even six weeks down the line. Countless leads flooded the phones, as did questions, and this place rarely slept, even in the night.
Herself among them. Isabel kept irregular, often-late cubicle hours, though she was one of the few reporters her age who did so. Low on the pay scale but high in responsibility, she'd come to New York to not only write, but to publish, and establish her career as a stabilized, trustworthy writer.
The first year had been nothing but coffee stains and mail calls, though she'd gained notoriety among the staff when she'd spent her nights intercepting leads from the never-ceasing phones. From there, discovering her major in relational communication with a focus in history, she'd been offered a job as an entry-level reporter, working up the ladder in long, over-stressed strides.
Her job was often difficult, though she loved the adrenaline. Mostly a military liaison for updates in legislature regarding the country's armed forces, she spent many hours on calls with Pentagon interns, the various military establishments about the state, and of course, the Secretary of Defense's Office. Her role had been established after the 9/11 attack, and had been a very steady – and read – section of the Times, though some of the most confidential and heavy reading the entity could offer.
She occupied the section with two others; another reporter, and a photojournalist. They were never in the office, opting to work away from the complexity that was the Times existence.
Tucked between an aging copyeditor and a headline writer was her workstation, surrounded by thick cubicle dividers that provided little solace, and even less privacy. Plastered with family pictures, awards, plaques, and letters of appreciation was her workspace; a place of pride and enthusiasm for democratic knowledge and empowerment. Her filing cabinets were as overflowed as they were plastered with magnets and snipped articles, as well as photographs.
The smell of day-old coffee assailed her nose suddenly, and Isabel was jerked from her absent-minded review of her notes when she brushed shoulders with an exiting reporter, currently on a Bluetooth call and struggling to button her overcoat. Isabel furrowed her brow and watched the woman go, only to come about face-to-face with her supervising editor, standing just outside her cubicle and looking both peeved – though relieved – to see her.
Eddie Carlyle, supervisor extraordinaire, glared at her. His five o'clock shadow was both scruffy and peppered with what appeared to be stains from a red-sauce-related lunch; probably his wife's leftover spaghetti, since it was Friday. Eddie was as predictable as the sun.
"You're late, Targo," was his gruff greeting, thrown at her with an attitude.
She rolled her eyes, unshouldering her bag as she slipped by him into her cubicle. "Only by this much," she pinched her fingers together to indicate a small amount, as well as wrinkled her nose to emphasize her point, before resting her purse in the chair beside the cubicle's exit. "I had a lunch meeting that ran late," she finished.
He let his head fall back, scratching at the front of his wrinkled button-down shirt, which was struggling to exist beneath suspenders, both fading and old-fashioned. Eddie was 58, with two divorces, four kids, and a second mortgage under his belt. He practically lived here, if not to reign her in more than anything. His was a common practice to meet her at her workstation, as she always insisting meeting with sources and leads outside the office.
Eddie despised her scheduled flits more than anything, though he respected her.
Carlyle rolled his eyes. "With who this time? The man on the moon?" There it was – Eddie had called Jackson, which is how he'd known she was meeting with anonymous sources in the first place. Given the arch of his disgruntled and overgrown brow, Eddie knew exactly where she had been, thanks to Jackson's blabbering legal mouth.
Isabel pinned him with a disbelieving look and let her head fall back. She sat in her seat with a plop, covering her eyes with the pad of her palms.
"You called Jackson," she sighed quietly, her elbows hitting the desk roughly, jostling the odd items tossed about the furniture loosely. Peeking through her fingers, she saw the voicemail icon lit on her desk phone, as Eddie came to lean back against her desk to her left.
Eddie propped his glasses on top of his head, nodding slowly. "Yeah, you bet I called Jackson. You've been gone for three hours, Isabel - I let you have your time out of office, but someone's gotta be here to field your frickin' calls," while he sounded upset, the look on Eddie's aging features told her otherwise - Carlyle was more of an uncle to her than a supervisor, though he never let her forget the latter.
She perked up. "I got a call?" Her tone was surprised, and she looked to the lit icon once more.
It was rare for her to get calls over the working hours, hence her surprise, since most of her people knew her schedule pretty clearly, thanks to her written scrawl on the back of her business cards. However, on the odd occassion - usually an important one - she did get calls over working office hours. What was immensely strange, however, was the fact that Eddie hadn't given out her cell number, which he had a habit to do.
He nodded, gesturing to the phone. "Yeah, from the Legion. Some gal called asking if you planned to be at tabs tonight." He looked at her, warningly. "You know how I feel about personal calls, Targo." Her surprise deflated almost immediately.
She grinned up at him, genuinely. "I know how you feel about me, Eddie, don't worry," she picked up the phone, punched in her voicemail passcode without even glancing at the number pad, and scrounged around the desk for an empty paper corner and a pen as the voicemail confirmed the date, time, and caller's phone number.
Eddie shook his head, exited her cubicle, and mumbled something she could hardly decipher as the call connected. She knew this phone number well - her best friend, Maxine, worked at the Legion as not only a volunteer doctor, but also as a supervising waitress. Being married to a disabled veteran put her at the Legion more times than not, and the fact that she'd organized for her own medical office to build a clinic in the back hadn't helped her commitments, either.
The call picked up after Isabel entered the appropriate extension. "Legion bar, this is Max," was the familiar, semi-professional troupe.
Always called Max, Dr. Maxine LaFave was a resident, in-house cool-girl, though more professional with the "Doctor" aspect of her name. They'd met in an online chat room while in high school, and had been friends ever since - Max had moved to Putnam after marrying Nick, her husband, who had previously worked as a liaison for the Stark Industries Purchasing Department for Military Affairs, a member of the Air Force jag.
Isabel smiled as she twirled the phone's cord around her index finger. "Hey Max, it's Isabel," she replied, casually.
She looked over at the computer screen, which was dark and plastered with a sticky note from Eddie, which she assumed he'd planted earlier. The arrow on the note was precisely aligned with the icon on her desk phone, and had a series of question marks and special characters to indicate an expletive remark penned in thick, black ink.
"Isabel, thank God. I was hoping you'd call back." The background noise of smooth country and activity only was evidence of the night's progression at the American Legion bar, if not an explanation to Max's desperate tone. "I thought maybe you'd be on your way to tabs tonight, but I guess you're still at work?" It was more of a question than a statement, though a veiled one at that.
Isabel rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and opened the bottom drawer of her desk, withdrawing a more practical set of heels from the empty space. Kicking her stilettos into the lower drawer, she switched shoes easily, a strand of curl falling into her face.
The crooked grin on her face was evidence of her amusement, Max's need of her all the confirmation she needed to be convinced of her night's progression.
"How many waitresses are you short?" was her direct interrogation. Mostly teenagers, Max never had waiting staff at the Legion on Friday nights. Isabel was more reliable than many of the paid employees were, though she enjoyed the work.
The Legion provided not only great cash tips, but also great sources and leads for opinion pieces and more human-interest related stories for her section.
Max heaved a sigh in relief at Isabel's understanding. "Two. Katie's on maternity leave; Marvin didn't schedule to cover her, and Jasmine's out for the night with the flu," she sounded annoyed, "Though I doubt it's the flu, since she's plastered all over Instagram at some resort in the Florida Keys."
Isabel bobbed her head understandingly. "Sounds nice,"
"Must be nice to have daddy's credit card out of guilt," Max intoned sharply, "I could use you as a body tonight if you're up for it. Tabs are busy; I just had a group of guys walk in that mean business and are ordering rounds. Could mean some good money at the bar if you're feeling especially flirty or anything." Max was attempting to make the job sound appealing, though Isabel knew the night wouldn't be anything more than drunken, racious laughter and regretful mid-morning hangovers.
Isabel eyeballed the work currently spilling out of her purse from the corner of her eye, and sat back in her chair. She had all weekend to compile the information from her interview regarding covalent molecules, and she could really use the cash for grocery money. Lifting her leg to rest over her other, she bit her lower lip, rubbed the back of her neck, and closed her eyes slowly, nodding as if Max could see her response.
She rubbed at a knot forming in her neck along her spine. "Give me forty-five minutes to get a cab and I'll be there," she said quietly, plucking Eddie's note from her computer monitor. Taking her pen and writing a clap-back to her boss, she cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder once more, Max's relief almost tangible, even across the city.
"Sweet Jesus you're the best," Max said with a chirp, "I'll let Bobby know you'll take over the bar, and I can get someone back in the kitchen. I owe you hugely for this, Iz," Max intoned over her shoulder to the bartender, Bobby, and quickly asked for just a moment longer on the phone, presumably talking to a customer. "Hurry over and I'll be sure to save a steak for you."
Isabel chuckled and rolled her eyes again. "Fine. I'm on my way," she said passively, dropping the phone back to its home on the desk. Circling her note to Eddie, she worked on her heels the rest of the way, reached for the abandoned clip she'd taken out of her hair earlier, and pulled back her curls as best she could manage without a mirror.
Abandoning her blazer on the back of her chair, Isabel retrieved her purse, a pen, and the hoop earrings she'd left behind yesterday before exiting her cubicle. She worked her sleeves up over her elbows, and swiftly passed by Eddie's office, sticking the note to his door with a slip of her finger against the glue strip. Eddie was at the door before she even left, intercepting the note with a disbelieving look on his face.
TTYL, was all her scrawl read below his expletive special characters, a resounding XOXO, Iz following the abbreviation. Eddie would've called after her, but Isabel had already crossed the room quickly, wiggling her fingers in a good-bye wave from the other end of the space, tossing her boss an empathetic wink and shrug of her shoulders as she did so.
Eddie just rolled his eyes, waved her off, and tromped back into the office, dropping his note among the dozen others left behind from his protege.
"Another round for ya?"
It was a common question at any bar, but this time it sounded more inviting when it came from the lips of a reporter with nothing else to do on a Friday night. Amidst the blaring music, pull-tab announcements, and dumbed chatter of the American Legion crowds, Isabel had all she could do to not scream the question from behind the bar, surrounded by stacks of unwashed glasses and lines of top-tier liquor.
She'd tracked down a cab relatively easy, tipped him well, and arrived just as Max's aforementioned group of guys were beginning to dig in to the night's promises. All presumably working men from the upper-crust New York business life, they'd ordered the most expensive mixes in the place. They'd just received food when Isabel had slipped behind the bar, prepared for anything.
Except, she hadn't been prepared for the rowdy crowd beyond the men, who seemed nothing but patient and...civilized, which surprised her. Isabel had never seen them before, and they'd seemed kind enough as they ordered food, though they were upbeat and your typical dude group of elbow-rubbing, teasing men.
They'd played a couple tabs unsuccessfully, and were content to eyeball the female presence in the room, be it otherwise directed away from behind the bar.
Which was fine, Isabel was used of being the fat, behind-the-scenes brains. She'd spent her life in the midwest hiding behind books and in the library, content to be alone with her imagination and writings. Unattached, driven, and professionally sound, Isabel had spent the majority of her New York residence in a cubicle or conducting an interview, not out in the city's social scene.
Not for lacking trying by her friend, however. Max was the trendy and athletic half of their friendship, always running marathons and training for some up-and-coming sport. She'd tried to get Isabel involved in social groups throughout the years, though they'd never sparked into anything lasting. Her husband, Nick, was just as desperate to get Isabel hooked up, wanting a male companion to "come round," as he always suggested.
It wasn't to be. At least, that's how it seemed.
The man Isabel had been talking to looked up from his intent study of his drink, which had been nothing if not drowning in melting ice for the past hour. He'd come in after the group of men, though he did seem to be a more relaxed member of their party, and had spent the majority of their night seated exactly where he was, in front of her.
Dressed primly in a button down, perfectly-fitted jeans, a Yankees ballcap, and boots, he was the picturesque specimen of New York testosterone any woman could've hoped to meet.
Save her, right now, dressed in a stained shirt and sweating her makeup off behind a bar in a musty American Legion on a Friday night.
If it wasn't bad enough, he was built like a god, complete with thick arms the size of trees which were carved with corded muscle. Isabel was pretty sure he had not one gram of body fat in his immediate presence, and she had wondered briefly if she'd seen him before in those mouth-watering Calvin Klein commercials plastered around New York advertising.
He, frankly, was gorgeous. It had taken every ounce of her usually-approachable personality to take his order the first time, and she'd been mustering up the courage to ask him if he wanted another drink for the past ten minutes, until it had just slipped out of her mouth, sounding ridiculously cheesy.
The man studied her from beneath the brim of his cap for a moment, a crooked grin pulling at the corner of his mouth as she stood there, stupidly, shining the same shot glass for what felt like an eternity. Glancing down at his empty glass, he lifted it slightly, his eyes scanning her form for a brief second before nodding his compliance.
"Sure, why not?" he said evenly, setting the glass down in front of her. He curled his thick arms beneath him, leaning partially over the bar as if he were waiting for something to transpire. Isabel half expected him to glance over his shoulder.
Plucking the glass from the counter, she set it beneath the bar, grabbed another, and began pouring his drink, remembering he had ordered the strongest whiskey on the shelf the first time around. The throbbing noise of the room almost made her head spin, but she focused on dropping in two cubes of ice with the scoop.
Isabel poured the liquid smoothly, dropping a stir-stick into the amber-colored liquid with lithe fingers as she replaced the bottle. She felt him staring at her again, though she had to admit, it didn't feel strange. She'd felt the stranger looking at her throughout the night on and off, and she was delightfully surprised that he had the sweetest, most sincere brown eyes she'd even seen in a man before.
He cocked his head to the side when she slid the glass in front of him. His brow was slightly furrowed. "You must be new," he commented suddenly, his tone open for conversation.
She blinked at him, dropped the towel she'd been using, and smiled at him flatly. How would he know that? "What makes you say that?"
He reached for the drink, pulling it toward himself without breaking eye contact. "I've never seen you here before," he answered matter-of-factly, "I'm here a lot and I don't think I've noticed you working the bar."
She shrugged a shoulder, corked the whiskey bottle with a smack of her hand, and wrinkled her nose at him teasingly. Why not flirt a little? "You make a habit of noticing all the bartenders at the Legion?"
"Only the pretty ones."
It was stated so plainly that Isabel almost died when he didn't drop his eyes, managing to toss back a drink while staring what she presumed to be a hole in the front of her face.
Never before had she been in a situation when she didn't have something to say immediately. She'd prided herself to be quick-witted and intelligent, and had established her notoriety on the sole fact that she could argue herself out of anything, or if not, she could provide light conversation with a twinge of sarcasm - it was her behind-the-scenes MO.
She blinked at him, stunned. Say something, you idiot! "Oh. Thanks."
If she could've mentally rolled her eyes at her own comment, she would've.
He seemed to catch her surprise, because he smiled genuinely, the corners of his eyes wrinkling slightly in a way that was both happy, and extremely attractive. Isabel had never been so directly flirted with by a guy like him, and she found herself at a sudden loss, which felt strange and...horrible, even though he was grinning.
Get a grip, Isabel! You've interviewed Senators, soldiers - even the freakin' Secretary of Defense. This is one guy! Even with the internal montage, her could feel her stomach twisting with anxiety.
This was not how she had trained herself to react to conversation - her job demanded daily interaction with people, which she was accustomed to. But this banter was an entirely new ballgame, and Isabel realized she was not up to par as she stood there, stupidly staring at him. The little quirk in his lips told her that he knew exactly what the comment had done to her, and was enjoying her devastation, though the innocence in his eyes said otherwise.
Something about this stranger was oddly wonderful, and Isabel wasn't quite sure what it was - his posture, his way of speaking, even his body language were just so different that it rattled her more than she would've liked. But, he was delightful, and she felt a rush of heat flutter across her face, and was thankful for the low lights of the bar.
Setting the glass she'd been shining back on the counter, she dropped her gaze to arrange bottles, unsure of how to proceed with conversation, or if she should walk away.
Isabel only registered that he had said something else when he moved, his action grabbing her attention. "I'm sorry, what?"
He had sat back in his chair, looking at her in a curious, summarizing way; thick arms crossed in front of him, front and center and mouth-watering. He reached up, tipped the bill of his Yankees cap back, and blinked his brown eyes, Isabel noticing thick and perfect lashes. He snorted, raised a slight shoulder, and nodded in her direction.
"I asked you how long you've worked here," he inserted again.
She nodded, understanding. Absentmindedly, her lower lip rolled beneath her teeth before she spoke. "I don't technically work here. Just helping out my friend," she nodded across the bar to Max, who was waiting on a table of older men, all sporting Vietnam hats with matching jackets.
Dressed in her skin-tight Air Force t-shirt and an army-green skort, Max was doing a great job of holding the table's attention, legs alone.
Giving Max a brief glance, he turned back in his chair to face her. "Max? She's a friend of yours?" he sounded surprised, given the slight lift in his brow, though she could tell he was mulling things out, because he was ever-so-slightly shifting his bottom jaw in a contemplative way. It was a common tick among military men, who were trained to control movements and limit them to subtle cues.
She nodded. "Yeah, she runs the place, and the clinic here. She's a doctor." Hoping to change the subject, she nodded to the man who quickly approached the bar, and smoothly switched out his empty bottle of Coors for another, sending him off with a small smile.
"She never mentioned she had...friends."
She swallowed back a dry breath. So he was still flirting with her.
He reached for his drink, finished it off, and scooted it to her with a light hand, her watching his hands as if they were carved from gold. They were a massive set of paws, complete with callouses and, surprisingly, clean fingernails. Though she didn't have dainty hands herself, she guessed his hand would smother hers, if given the opportunity.
Isabel reached for the glass, and nodded to him. "Max doesn't mention a lot of things," she flitted her eyes to stare at her friend, before looking back to him and gesturing to his drink. "Another?"
"Might as well. Can't feel 'em anyway," he replied casually.
It was a curious statement, one that made her brow furrow. Men that didn't feel straight whiskey? She'd never heard of it before. "High tolerance?"
He paused. "I guess you could say that that," the way his voice trailed was evidence enough that he was done with the subject, content to watch her pour the drink instead. In a matter of seconds, another drink materialized before him, and she crossed her arms in front of her after tossing the rag she'd been using beneath the bar.
She decided to maintain conversation. "From around here?"
He shook his head, setting his drink back to the counter. "Nope. Brooklyn."
"Ah," Isabel nodded her understanding. Brooklyn Boys, they were certainly a type. "What brings you to Manhattan then?"
"Work," was his simply reply.
"What do you do?"
He paused, for a long moment. Given the look on his face, Isabel would've thought he was searching for a way to simplify his job title, which was always an interesting sign. Coming from a woman who interviewed Senators and military officers on a regular basis, no title he could've spat at her would've been surprising. She'd heard pretty much all of them, or had read the other half.
His smirk was increasingly attractive, sending a clench to her ovaries. "I work for the government," was the vague answer.
Isabel's snort was a bit derisive, though she masked it with a chortle. "Don't we all?"
He pinned her with a serious look. "No, not really."
His tone was to-the-point and even, almost military. It made a shiver rush up Isabel's spine, and she masked the uncomfortable moment by grabbing a bottleneck of the nearby alcohol and slinging it through her fingers. Deciding to switch gears, she left out her current employment situation, suddenly getting the vibe that the stranger wouldn't appreciate her being a media rep.
Without warning, she shot out her hand toward him. "I'm Isabel."
He glanced at it for a split second before slipping his hands into hers, shaking it politely but with a firm grip.
"Steve."
It was difficult to ignore the jolt of electricity that raced down Isabel's spine, sending her brain whirling into girlish fantasies and desires that would've made a mother blush. His hand was oddly warm, though it offered a sense of security wrapped around her own that Isabel had never before felt. Her stomach was floating. For a moment she hoped her hand wasn't sweating, but instead relaxed into the handshake, not realizing they were sitting hand-in-hand for a matter of awkward seconds.
Steve released her hand, the corner of his mouth upturned with a white smile. Isabel noticed the twinkle in his eye at her increased blushing. "Nice to meet you, Isabel," he said cooly, his eyes glancing over her not once, but twice, in very obvious ways.
For a brief second, his stare was trapped on her waist, which flared from her torso in an overblown hourglass. Thankfully, her shirt veiled her soft stomach, which offered her a few moments of peace. Her trousers were a flare-legged deep navy, with nautical-esque buttons, and her shirt had been French-tucked in the front. She'd shed her accessories in favor of just simple earrings, offset by her clipped-back hair. She hoped her make-up was still in-tact.
He tipped back the rest of his drink, his eyes still firmly cemented on her, but not in a perverted or disgusting way. He was genuinely sizing her up, a fact that Isabel was oddly appreciative of.
"So," his glass hit the counter with a clack, "What time are you finished -"
"- Steve! Get yourself over here!" came the sudden interruption, "We gotta go!"
That made Isabel's eyes flutter closed in disappointment.
Steve turned almost instantly, nodding in acknowledge to the black man raising his phone in a beckoning gesture. The men Steve had walked in with were gathered around a table, watching some kind of video on a cell phone, and by the sight of their current stirring, they were getting ready to leave, intent on taking their companion with them.
Steve draped an arm on the back of his chair, waved at them lightly, and turned back in his chair to face her, with an apologetic expression.
He quirked his mouth, looking a bit flustered, given the fresh blush sprouting on his cheeks. "Work," he rolled his eyes.
She nodded, her lips only slightly flattened. "Duty calls," she let her statement hang in the air.
He was going to ask to see you again, was the only thought rolling around in her head. At least, she hoped her optimism was correct. She wouldn't mind seeing beefcake-Steve again a thousand times, even if it meant just staring at him.
He grinned at her. "Listen, Isabel," he glanced over his shoulder, noticing his friends tossing money on the table to cover their checks, "I gotta run, but this..." he seemed to search for the right word, gesturing between them with a hand, "...this was terrific."
His buddies were stretching off the night's drinks in a way that told her they'd be going directly back to work after their departure from the Legion, though Isabel was far too busy noticing the way Steve's arm flexed as he fished his wallet from his back pocket to notice that Steve was winding up to ask to see her again.
She flecked her eyes to look up at him. "Yeah. It's been nice," she said, baiting him to continue.
"I want to -" Steve began, halted by the abrupt, piercing chirp of his cell phone. She could've sworn she heard him mutter "Rats," beneath his breath.
Isabel closed her eyes, this time her head dropping to hang in a slightly defeated manner. Steve noticed, pausing for only a second before accepting the call, holding out a single finger in hope that she'd stay planted.
Her unfortunate task for the night was to stay planted behind the bar, but given the fact that the progression of their conversation regarding another meeting had been interrupted not once, but twice, she got the feeling that Steve wasn't in her cards.
Grabbing the series of empty glasses, she ignored Steve's hushed conversation, and tucked a tray beneath her arm before spinning on her heel. She started to walk the length of the bar, picking up dirty dishes and trash, Steve turning to find her previous spot vacated. Suddenly, his friends were upon him, and he promptly ended the call just as Isabel spotted the swinging kitchen door propped open by one of the cooks.
Seeing her moment of escape from not only Steve, but her disappointment, she ducked inside, staying just long enough to watch Steve leave with his group of comrades. He glanced around before grabbing Max's arm as she circled back to the bar, appearing to ask her a question. Max shrugged a shoulder, and shook her head no.
Steve left just as swiftly as he'd come.
Whipping her tray against the serving counter, she crossed her arms at her chest, rolled her eyes angrily, and released a low huff of disappointment. "Probably for the best," she muttered to herself, cursing her girlish emotions and squashing all heat that had fanned alive in the pit of her stomach.
• Author's Note • Hi, guys! So this is my first dive into Avengers, and Captain America. I wanted to write something that very loosely followed the films, but focused on the relationship between a working girl and Steve Rogers, since I absolutely adore Steve and find him the kind of guy that would fall for an everyday girl. I had tried posting a few stories that followed a series idea I had, but they weren't well-received at all, so I decided to take another approach.
Please, please, leave your thoughts behind in a review! I love hearing how you guys react to stories, and I'd really like to know what you think of Isabel. I hope to kick this off right before Age of Ultron, though I'm unsure if Isabel is going to be involved with heroics or not. I have a loose idea of how she could fit into AoU, but I'd like to really get everyone's thoughts first! Where do you think I should take this? Leave your thoughts behind, and make sure to like and follow!
