Isabella had never seen the open ocean before this morning. But now, as she stands on the balcony, arms resting on the railing, overlooking the grey waves, she watches the white crests of foam rise, then collapse as the surf breaks. She takes in the orange sky, washed in streaks of purple and blue and believes that she was meant to be near the sea. She is also beginning to believe she is meant for something else too.

From the third floor deck, Isabella spots Fryer talking to an couple walking down Padaro Beach. They appear to be older and their small white terrier seems fixated on the sticks that toss and roll with each sliding wave. William—Fryer wants her to call him that now—can't possibly know them, she thinks, yet he convulses in a belly laugh, like they have been friends forever. Maybe he does know them, after all. He has a few contacts down here in Santa Barbara, like his friend who owns this beach house. She sees William give the couple a friendly wave good-bye and continues his walk back to the house. His khakis are rolled to just beneath his knees, his white long sleeve shirt, half-buttoned, one hand carrying his sandals, the other, a bag of takeout. Tamales, she hopes; Isabella has never tried a tamale before.

"Hey, Meester Fryer. What do you have in the bag?" Isabella's poor attempt at a Mexican accent brings a smile to William's lips. His dirty blond hair, loose and blowing in the evening wind, flies in front of his eyes as he looks up to meet her gaze. Right now, bathed in the warm orange of the setting sun, she admits that she has never seen such a gorgeous human. And, knowing that she will again be sharing an evening, a night, and another day with William Fryer, she feels as though the waves crashing on the beach are washing her in a bath of gratitude, a pang of nervousness, an ache of regret, and a flicker of hope.

A lot has changed since they left the laneway behind Angelo's mansion, early this morning. After hearing Mariana explain how she, most likely, had led Angelo to believe he had strangled Isabella to death, Fryer quickly improvised the next steps. Isabella would need to leave the area, and stay hidden. First, he thought he would put her up in his weekend place, the apartment he keeps in Russian Hill. That would buy them some time to decide what Isabella wanted to do about Angelo. Fryer assured her that returning to her intern position didn't matter anymore; she had a more important role to play now.

"You need to consider legal action," Fryer said after they dropped off Mariana that night. "I don't want to give you any advice, other than you need to find out what your options are, then, with the help of a good lawyer, you can decide what course to take." And that was the turning point. Because, when he snapped his fingers and turned the wheel to head South, rather than North to San Francisco, it was like he was struck with a sudden and brilliant idea. He said, joyfully, "I will come with you. We will go to Santa Barbara."

Had any man, especially an older man, someone who she first met less than a week ago and who remained very much a mystery to her, told her that he was taking her, without any consideration of her feelings, just taking her away to a strange city for an undetermined amount of time, without anyone else knowing where she was going, without any communication—well, she would have refused and, most likely, if she could, she would have jumped out of his car at the first red light, and ran. But she didn't. She smiled.

As they drove Highway 1 along the coast towards Santa Barbara, William told her about a friend of his, someone with whom he had spent a lot of time when they were younger. Isabella learned how Fryer's friend, Ryan, a surfer dude and coffee barista on South Beach, recently married a bright lawyer named Amelia. Her and her law partner Jake run a small firm that is, as he put it, not under the influence of Alpha. "All the Valley and San Fran firms are too close to someone at Alpha. Remember, we are just looking to get you some advice, not to start a media frenzy."

Isabella didn't mind. It meant that they drove and talked and laughed, and stopped at scenic lookouts, and saw dolphins, and ate ice cream and listened to music, and she learnt about Beck in the 1990's. She told him all about her home and how the shore of Lake Ontario is nothing like this, and how she never knew a sea lion wasn't the same thing as a seal. And when William pulled the car into the drive of the beach house on Padaro Lane, her mouth dropped. She realized that the next couple of days would be spent in this modern, three story architectural wonder of glass and wood on the beach of the Pacific Ocean, and that she would be spending it with the man for whom she knew she was, deeply and quickly and most certainly, falling for.

The tamales aren't as spicy as she had expected, and the cold beer that William bought actually tasted okay, a lot different from the Genesee they drank back home. Sitting together on the deck, the evening breeze cool now, Isabella places a blanket over her capris and looks at William. She takes a sip of beer. "You know, I have told you a lot about me, my family, my home. Tell me more about you. Who is William Fryer?"

She notices that Fryer, who throughout the day had been laughing and smiling, childlike in his demeanour, has suddenly become a little more serious. It is only a subtle change in tone, but Isabella can feel that it is like someone else has just entered the room, interrupting their pleasant conversation.

He takes a long sip of his beer. "Oh, nothing too interesting. I grew up in the Palo Alto area, son of a first generation Valley techie. Public school, suburbs, lots of malls. I was a videogame pioneer, you know. Survived the evolution from the pre-internet dark ages. Degree in Business Psychology from Palo Alto University, then HR training. Pretty boring life really."

"Never married?"

"To be honest, I never put in the time to find the right woman."

Isabella catches herself thinking, for a instant, that just maybe, this man, the man sitting next to her on the deck chair, his feet resting on a pillow lying on the teak coffee table, the same table where, inches away from his bare feet, her feet share the same pillow, and maybe, just maybe, this might be, for her, the—. No. She can't think that. That would be too perfect.

She needs to be a realist here. To think that this man, ten years older than her, would have any interest in her is absurd. He has an established career; she probably doesn't even have a job anymore. She still doesn't know much about him: in the full day they spent together, he hasn't told her about his family, his interests, his goals. He is very much a private man. It is little wonder that she has no idea how he feels about her.

This is the first time that a man, or a boy, has spent this long with her, alone, without making some type of advance. With the others, there has always been, at some point, a hand on her leg, or an arm around her, or the guy standing too close, or, usually, a suggestive comment that would make it clear what the guy's intentions really are. Isabella is not the kind of girl that guys are afraid of. She, sometimes, wishes she was the type that men would believe to be out of their league, one who would, by her very presence, command respect from them. No, she was just too nice. Too meek. Sometimes she feels like a lamb, preyed upon by the wolves.

But not with William. She watches him on the chair, the way he laughs with her, the way he treats her like a friend. He offers her the last beer. She declines. He puts it back, unopened, into the bag with the takeout food wrappers. "Go ahead", she says, but he gives a "Nah" motion with his hand, as if it is impolite to have a drink without her. But he is like that. He waits for her to sit before he does, he holds doors open for her, he stands when she does. He waits for her to finish speaking before saying anything, for her to start to eat before he does. She is unsure of how to respond to this. Should she take these acts as demeaning or as signs of respect? And why should she deserve respect? Because she is of a different gender than him? Because she is a woman? Because she is pretty, and young? It makes her feel uncomfortable, not because she thinks that he is intentionally degrading her, but that his courtesy is old-fashioned and, well, a little misplaced. Besides, no one has ever treated her like this before. Except maybe Father Luke, but that was different. He was a priest.

Or maybe Isabella just wishes he wouldn't be quite so polite. Because, maybe, deep down, she might be wishing that he would do something. She might want him to make some kind of move. If he did, say, slide his foot against her leg, he could pretend it was an accident even. Then she would have to decide how to respond. She expects that the instant his flesh were to touch hers, she would shiver with excitement. She might even slide lower in her chair so that her bare leg would slide against his foot again, or maybe she would close her eyes and he would think he heard a hushed moan buried in her exhaled breath. She might give him a sign, an invitation, that he could choose to respond, or ignore. And if he did respond, then what would she do?

Isabella thinks of the beach house. It is quaint, certainly not extravagant by any means, yet tastefully decorated and comfortably furnished. And it has bedrooms on separate floors. When they came in, with no luggage other than the the few things they bought on the drive today, William immediately made it clear that she could have the third floor bedroom while he would stay on the lower level. He told her how the balcony overlooking the ocean has an incredible view and that, after all, she has been through a lot, and might want some time by herself to figure things out.

And now, after a glorious day with this man, after sharing so many laughs, having a few beers, letting him wipe the salsa spill from her chin, they are almost lying together on the deck of a fabulous house on the beach, in the fading light of a Pacific sunset, the last thing she wants is to be alone. The thing she wants to figure out, right now, involves his lips touching hers.

Then, softly, he speaks. The first tone of his voice sends a shiver through her. His words are almost a whisper. "You know, Isabella—"

Yes, William, yes.

"You have had a long day. Do you know that we really didn't sleep last night? Except for that brief snooze this morning, we have been awake for two days now. You must be exhausted."

No, William, no. She does not want him to leave. She wants him to stand, to step in front of her lounge chair, to lower his arms to her and open his hands. She wants to reach up and place her hands in his, to feel his grip tighten and feel him firmly pull her to her feet. She wants him to help her rise, to encourage her to stand tall before him, to support her while she finds her balance, to let her stand by herself, before him and everyone else, and to become the person she can be, the person she is. Isabella, now. Then she will be able to love him.

But she says: "Yes, it has been quite an adventure, William. Thank you, for everything."

"Please, there is no need to thank me. You have been the brave one through all of this. But you do need to think through the next steps, figure out what it is that you want to do."

"What would you do, William? You know more about this kind of thing than I do."

He smiles. "You might not believe me Isabella, but this is actually the first time that I have helped a person escape an abusive situation by substituting her with a vengeful ex-fiancée who has sex with him, feigns death, and then runs away to a house on the beach with the presumed dead girl. Not exactly within my pay grade at Alpha."

Isabella sees the ridiculousness of this storyline: part comedy, part tragedy, part romance. This is a plot that no one would ever believe. That is why they are going to talk to lawyers tomorrow. Fryer has arranged that too.

"You are right. But, I am confused. I just wish I knew what I should do. I mean, Angelo deserves to be punished. Men like him shouldn't be able to be free to abuse and hurt women. Thanks to you, it wasn't me that physically suffered, but think of all the women who didn't have a Mr. Fryer to pull them out just in time. Think of all the women who have suffered because of Angelo, or because of all the other Angelos out there. I want to do something for them."

"I think you have done enough, at least for tonight." He stands and straddles her legs as her feet rest on the coffee table. He reaches his hands out to her. Like she had imagined, she takes his hands, she feels his firm grip on her. There is a tingle that starts down low, shoots to her spine and up her back. She feels her skin tighten. All from his touch.

Isabella stands and is facing him. They are inches apart. She can feel his heat, inhale his breath. And there is that moment: suspended, timeless. She is looking at him but not processing. Her thoughts are frozen in space, somewhere between his touch and her consciousness, those thoughts are stopped. They never reach her, she will never know what she feels at that perfect moment in time.

"Well, off to bed you go."

She breaks from her trance with the sound of his voice.

"Yes, William, yes."

Isabella drops his hands, turns and makes her way upstairs. From below, William Fryer says goodnight.