This isn't like how I imagined it. It's far from how I thought it would be. In fact, every word that tumbles from her cabernet lips, surprises the everloving fuck out of me. And I'm not often surprised. Or taken off guard. That's because generally, I can make reports before the action has occurred. I make graphs and expectations based on different pointers and guesses daily. I foresee the unforeseeable, basically twenty-four-seven. But Laurent was wrong on this one. He gave me counterfactual information, therefore I have made inaccurate assumptions.

"Mr. Cullen, your company is ready for you to join them at your usual table."

I nod at the hostess' words, a little piqued by her interruption. And just like that, she wears a mask. And operates perfectly with it in place.

"Thanks, we'll be right out. If we could continue in private, though, please?"

Her tone is perfectly poised, accompanied by a sympathetic, well-rehearsed smile. The kind of smile that tells people to get the fuck out of your shit, and to leave you alone.

I watch how slender fingers brush through her hair, the curls a little disfigured because of the rain. I'm actually not mad about it. Even though I told her to dress casually, and she showed up in black denim and an appropriate red blazer, she looks intimidating. The hair softens that a little, and makes her more human than goddess. Because of the rain, she looks perfectly imperfect. Plausible. Perhaps.

"If I had known you had to walk through this weather, I'd have sent a driver," I tell her, not quite knowing how to proceed. The plastic smile sinks from her face, replaced by a genuine one that makes her dark eyes twinkle.

"Traffic was taking forever so it was a spur of the moment kind of thing." She shrugs, shaking it off. But spur of the moment isn't really something I practice. But I nod, feeling a tad awkward. Her beauty is something they used to write about in the classics. It's what made composers write symphonies, how poets were able to capture devine allure and capsule that.

"Hello, Edward, by the way. Nice to meet you in person," she says warmly. It's odd, someone I haven't met before calling me by my first name. So few people use it, it's unfamiliar.

"Likewise, M—Isa." Don't be weird, Cullen. I've never been flustered by a woman, since it's always the same interaction. You meet, you eat, you disappear into a bedroom and say goodbye. This, however, isn't anything like that.

"Let's not keep them waiting any longer, shall we?"

"Do you have enough information?" I wonder. I strive for data. The more I know, the better it feels. So this entire thing feels like going in blind. I don't like it. It's too unsure, too unstable.

"Trust me, I know what I'm doing." There's something about her tone that makes me believe her.

She knows what she's doing. I bet she knows more about these kinds of situations than you ever will. She knows more about people than you ever will, too.

So I follow her lead, my anxiety rising to the surface, overflowing. Yet, when Isa takes my hand and entwines her fingers with mine, I feel better somehow. I feel the heat of her skin, the cool metal, or silver of her dainty rings, the chain links of her bracelet soothing the overheating sensation that bubbles inside me.

I realize this is not going in blind. Far from it. It seems that Isa is a seer, a beacon of light leading me through the darkest of tunnels. My juvenile anxiety melts like a snowcone on an Ibiza beach. Their meddling will end, finally. And it will end tonight. Even if it's the last thing I do.