Chapter 4: The Unexpected Visitor
The quiet that followed was dense and sweet. Aidan traced the line of Catriona’s spine through her sundress, feeling the gentle shift of her breathing. The deleted text, the blocked number—they hung in the air not as a problem solved, but as a threshold crossed. The breakfast china was cool beneath his other arm.
Then the knock came.
Three firm, distinct raps on the grand oak front door downstairs. Not the tentative tap of a delivery driver, but a confident, knowing sound.
Catriona went still. Aidan felt the muscles in her back tighten.
“Who the hell is that at nine on a Sunday?” he murmured.
“No one good.” She slid off his lap, smoothing her dress down with a practicality that seemed at odds with the wetness he knew was trickling down her thigh. She didn’t look flushed or embarrassed; she looked focused, like a vet assessing an unexpected complication. “Stay here.”
She padded barefoot out of the nook and down the hall. Aidan followed, not heeding her instruction, pulling on a loose t-shirt. He lingered at the top of the staircase, watching as she peered through the sidelight.
He saw her posture change. The defensive straightness left her shoulders. A low, incredulous laugh escaped her.
She opened the door.
Isla stood on the stone step, drenched. A sudden, violent summer downpour had erupted, silver sheets of rain cascading off the portico behind her. Her striking auburn hair was plastered to her skull, and her thin white shirt was translucent, clinging to every curve and the dark points of her nipples. In one hand she held a leather portfolio case, held protectively against her chest. In the other, a scrap of emerald green silk—Catriona’s scarf, from the night before last.
“Hi,” Isla said, her smile wide and unapologetically sheepish. Rainwater dripped from her nose. “I am so, so sorry. I found this in my bag when I got home. I thought it might be important.” Her eyes, that bold hazel, skipped past Catriona and found Aidan on the stairs. They lingered, taking in his bare legs, his rumpled hair.
Catriona didn’t move to block her view. She just leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “You could have posted it.”
“I could have,” Isla agreed cheerfully, shaking her head like a wet dog. Water sprayed. “But then I wouldn’t have had an excuse. Can I come in? I’m making a puddle on your antique stoop.”
A beat of silence. Aidan held his breath. This was the test, the real one, after the morning’s reclamation.
Catriona stepped back. “Get in before you catch pneumonia. The vet’s bill will be extortionate.”
Isla ducked inside, leaving glistening footprints on the polished floor. The smell of rain and her petrichor perfume filled the hall. She handed Catriona the scarf, their fingers brushing. “Thanks. God, it’s biblical out there.”
“Coffee’s still hot,” Catriona said, turning and leading the way back to the kitchen without another glance. It was a move of effortless dominance, treating Isla’ dramatic reappearance as a minor inconvenience. Aidan followed, his mind racing.
In the bright nook, the atmosphere shifted again. Isla stood dripping, looking out of place and entirely at ease. Her gaze swept over the table, the two used teacups, the phone facedown. A knowing glint touched her eyes.
“Sit,” Catriona said, fetching a third mug. “You’re staining the floor.”
Isla sat, placing the portfolio carefully on an empty chair. She accepted the towel Catriona tossed her and rubbed at her hair, making the red curls erupt into a chaotic halo. “So,” she said, her voice muffled by the towel. “How’s the morning after the night before?”
“Quiet,” Aidan said, leaning against the counter near the espresso machine. “Was.”
Isla peeked out from the towel, grinning. “Until now.”
Catriona set a steaming mug in front of her and retook her seat, regarding Isla like a fascinating specimen. “The scarf was a pretext.”
“Obviously.” Isla took a sip, sighed in pleasure. “Good coffee. And yeah, it was. I was halfway home in the taxi and I just… couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you both. It felt too neat, you know? Like a full stop. And it didn’t feel like a full stop to me.” She looked at Catriona, then at Aidan, her playfulness softening into something more direct. “It felt like a comma.”
The rain lashed the windows. The kitchen clock ticked.
“What are you suggesting, Isla?” Catriona’s voice was calm, clinical.
Isla put her mug down. She reached for the portfolio, unzipped it, and slid out not a photograph, but a simple, printed sheet. She pushed it across the table towards them.
It was a mood board, of sorts. A collage of textures: rough linen, smooth skin, the grain of old film. In the center, written in a sleek font, were the words: The Walters Series. A study in intimacy.
“I’m a photographer,” Isla said, as if they didn’t know. “Last night was… incredible. But it was also dark, and stormy, and a bit frenetic. I want to document this. With light. With intention.” Her eyes met Aidan’s, and her voice dropped, a confidential murmur. “I want to capture what it looks like when you’re really inside me, Aidan. Not a quick Polaroid. Proper film. The sheer scale of you, the stretch. I want Cat to direct it, to be part of the scene, not just in it.”
She took a breath, her confidence flickering for the first time, revealing the earnest artist beneath the hedonist. “I’m not talking about crashing your marriage. I’m proposing a… a collaboration. A weekend thing, now and then. When the mood strikes. You have the control, you set the boundaries. I get the shots. And we all get…” She trailed off, a blush blooming beneath her freckles. “We all get the experience. A better one. One we can actually remember in detail, not just in feeling.”
The proposal hung in the steam from the coffee. Aidan’s skin felt tight, hot. He looked at the mock-up, at the phrase A study in intimacy. It was audacious. It was dangerous.
It was, undeniably, thrilling.
Catriona had not looked at the paper. She was staring at Isla, her head tilted. “You want to make us your muses.”
“I want you to let me try,” Isla corrected softly. “The camera would be a participant. It changes the energy. It makes you look at each other differently. I think you’d like it.”
Catriona finally glanced down at the sheet. Her fingers traced the edge. She was quiet for a long time, the only sounds the rain and the clock and Aidan’s own heartbeat in his ears.
Then she looked up, not at Isla, but at him. Her eyes were deep, unreadable pools. In them, he saw no jealousy, no fear. He saw the same analytical curiosity she’d had when examining the Polaroid. He saw the flicker of the woman who had straddled him on this very chair less than an hour before, claiming him utterly.
A silent question passed between them, carried on a decade of shared language. Are we in?
Aidan didn’t nod. He just held her gaze, and let a slow, deliberate smile spread across his face. It was answer enough.
Catriona turned back to Isla, a mirror of that smile gracing her own lips. It wasn't warm, not exactly. It was intrigued, predatory, and utterly captivating.
"Well then," Catriona said, lifting her mug in a casual toast. "You'd better finish your coffee. We'll need to discuss lighting."