Fairytale Come Alive (12 page)

Sally chattered, Jason ate, Isabella concentrated on his pancake and Sally’s blather and Prentice felt, like last night, that she’d forgotten he was even there.

For reasons unknown to Prentice but likely because he found her new game immensely irritating and he decided instantly he too could play a game, he walked to the side of the stove, close to where Isabella was working. Turning his back to the counter, he rested his hips against it and sipped his coffee.

The coffee was fucking heavenly.

Christ.

“Will you give me a manicure before the picnic?” Sally asked Isabella.

Prentice turned to look at her and saw, to his surprise, that Isabella was fidgeting. Moving the handle of the skillet this way and that, she was twirling the spatula in her other hand in an absentminded way. Her eyes, however, were not on the skillet; they were on the counter behind Prentice.

“I can’t, Sally,” she answered the counter. “After breakfast, I’ve got to get to Annie’s to help with the picnic.”

“Can I go?” Sally yelled. “Can I, can I, can I?”

Isabella didn’t respond.

She stepped around him then halted in a jerky way. She tipped her head to the side, surveyed the counter, sighed, then tilted it back and looked at him.

Her face a mask of good manners, she said softly, “I’m sorry, Prentice, do you mind? You’re standing in front of the granola.”

He examined her makeup free face and, even with that detached expression he thought, since she’d been back, she’d never looked lovelier.

Feeling the need to be perverse, instead of moving out of her way, as she clearly wanted him to do, he twisted, grabbed the bowl of granola he was blocking, twisted back and handed it to her.

She took it.

“Thank you,” she said quietly and politely.

She moved to the stove and used a graceful hand to sprinkle granola on the pancake before she set the bowl aside, in the opposite direction to Prentice, and flipped it expertly.

Prentice watched her do this like it was fascinating which, bizarrely, it was.

“
Well?
” Sally shouted.

Prentice stopped watching Isabella’s hand and looked at his daughter.

“Can I go too?” Jason asked quietly, his eyes on the tiled floor of the kitchen.

Prentice froze at this request from his son who hadn’t been willing to participate in much of anything since his mother died.

Strangely, he felt Isabella freeze at his side too. Slowly, she turned and looked at Jason. Her profile was not polite and detached. It was soft and warm and unbelievably striking.

Again, Prentice felt that weight hit his gut.

Then her head twisted, her features rearranged swiftly back to aloof and she looked up at Prentice enquiringly.

“Sorry kids, you need clean clothes and I need to do laundry,” Prentice answered.

“No you don’t,” Sally proclaimed. “Mrs. Evangahlala and I’ve been doing laundry all morning.”

Prentice’s body turned to stone.

All except his eyes which narrowed and sliced to Isabella.

Instantly, Isabella whirled to the stove and started to fidget with the skillet on the burner.

“We’ve done two loads!” Sally announced triumphantly.

“You’ve been very busy,” Prentice murmured and he watched Isabella’s body get stiff, her hands fisted tightly and she moved to a cupboard. Unfisting her hands with visible effort which Prentice found peculiar and vaguely disturbing, she pulled down a plate, got cutlery, slid the pancake on the plate and handed it all to Prentice.

“The butter and syrup are on the counter,” she informed him softly, tipped her head to the counter and then immediately dismissed him and moved away.

Prentice put his coffee cup down next to Isabella’s, walked to the other counter and, while he prepared his golden, fluffy, delicious-looking pancake, he said to his children, “We’ll all go.”

Sally threw her hands up so fast she nearly teetered off the stool as she shouted, “Hurrah!”

Prentice smiled at his daughter.

He’d hoped that Annie and Dougal’s wedding would bring some happiness to his family, cutting through the undercurrent of despair Jason was always emanating that Prentice, for the life of him, had no idea how to chase away, likely because he couldn’t cut through his own.

It appeared this was working, even for Jason.

Regrettably, Isabella was the catalyst for it.

But Prentice would take what he could get.

Including her doing the laundry which was a chore he detested, something else Fiona did.
And
her brewing fucking heavenly coffee.

Prentice decided if Isabella wanted to play house and that came with good food and clean clothes, he’d fucking well let her.

Once he’d finished with the butter and syrup, he walked back across the kitchen and resumed his position next to Isabella while she cooked another pancake.

He thought, but wasn’t sure, he heard her suck in an exasperated breath.

This pleased him.

Then he tasted his pancake. It was superb.

He trained his eyes on his children. “If you’re done, dishes in the sink, beds made, showers, let’s go.”

Jason slouched off the stool and slunk to the sink, carrying his plate. Sally followed him doing the same but with much more enthusiasm.

Jason headed up the stairs.

Isabella gracefully strolled across the kitchen and took Sally’s plate from her.

“When are you going to give me a manicure?” Sally asked as Isabella turned to the sink and deposited Sally’s plate in it.

“We’ll find some time, honey.”

“Can we do it before the picnic?” Sally pushed.

“Sally,” Prentice warned but Isabella’s hand had lifted and she grabbed a thick hank of Sally’s hair and started twisting it gently around her finger.

She leaned down and smiled at his daughter, getting close to her face, this, unfortunately, gave Prentice an indication of just how short her nightie was as her dressing gown rode up and he saw more of her shapely thigh but he still didn’t catch a glimpse of the nightie.

Isabella spoke softly, taking his mind off her thigh (and ass
and
nightie).

“We’ll see, Sally. Do as your father said now. Okay?”

Prentice’s daughter knew that no’s came swiftly and maybes usually meant yes. Therefore she beamed at Isabella, nodded, turned and raced up the stairs.

Prentice finished his pancake while Isabella cooked the next one, alternately tidying the kitchen.

When it was done, she wordlessly slid it on his plate as if he was a statue holding a platter to display her glorious pancake. She switched the stove off and slid the skillet to another burner.

“Aren’t you having one?” he asked as he walked back to the counter for the butter and syrup.

“No,” she replied distractedly and he turned from his task to see her taking the bowl in which she’d mixed the batter to the sink.

It was empty.

“Isabella, have this one,” he offered.

She slowly turned and stared, aghast, at his plate. Then she carefully arranged her features, shook her head and turned again to the sink.

“No, thank you. I’ll have some toast.”

His annoyance returned.

He walked to her and demanded, “Isabella, take it.”

She didn’t look at him, busy rinsing dishes. “I’m fine, Prentice.”

His annoyance flared to anger.

“Christ, just eat it.”

She twisted her head to look at him and said in a flat, calm voice, “I said I’m fine.”

“Aye,” he returned, “as am I. I don’t need a second one. You can have it.”

Something lit in her eyes swiftly and, Prentice thought, intoxicatingly, as it also lit her entire face.

Then she snapped (but softly), “For someone who knows the English language you don’t seem to comprehend it very well. I said,
I’m fine
.”

Prentice felt an odd sense of satisfaction at her irate response no matter if it was
quietly
irate and his anger fled instantly.

He smiled at her and replied casually, “All right. I’ll eat it.”

Her eyes fastened on his mouth, her face seeming dazed for a moment before they lifted to his and she gave him a look that indicated she thought
he
was mental.

He nearly laughed.

And he thought perhaps this time, considering he knew the rules and the score, her game might be fun.

She busied herself tidying the kitchen and making herself toast.

Prentice ate and watched her knowing this irritated her and enjoying that knowledge.

“You’re good with the kids,” he remarked and she didn’t reply.

She was back to ignoring him.

He instinctively knew somehow, this morning he’d gained some advantage in their game.

Therefore, he pressed, “Why didn’t you have any?”

Her body stilled, her hands fisted then he could have sworn she actually forced herself to relax before she answered.

“I can’t.”

“Sorry?” he queried.

The toast popped up, she snatched it, put it on a plate and walked to the counter. “I can’t have children.”

Prentice stared at her back.

She had millions of pounds. Millions of her own; inherited from her mother and to be inherited from her father when the bastard thankfully left this earth, and millions in the divorce settlement given to her by her bastard ex-husband.

She could easily afford to pay top notch fertility specialists, the best in the world.

Regardless of the fact that it was absolutely none of his business, he asked, “Have you seen a specialist?”

He watched her head move, slowly, gracefully, her ear dipping down toward her shoulder then her neck twisting to the side.

There was something poignant about this movement, poignant and distressing.

Prentice braced.

She turned to him, lifted her eyes and locked them with his.

“Ten,” she said shortly.

“Ten?” he replied, stunned by her earlier movement and therefore not comprehending her answer.

“Ten specialists in four different countries. Five years of tests. Five years of fertility medication and two rounds of IVF. All of which failed.” Prentice watched her talk, her expression carved from stone, a weight settled in his gut and this one
was
unpleasant. “I can’t conceive,” she finished.

And, obviously, she’d tried.

Everything she could.

Christ.

“Isabella,” Prentice murmured, getting the distinct feeling he’d not only lost his advantage but he’d been an incredible ass.

Before he could say more, she snatched up her plate of toast, sauntered to her cold cup of coffee, hooked it with a finger and started to walk out of the room, saying softly, “I need a shower. I’ll see you at Fergus’s.”

Then she rounded the corner and she was gone.

He watched the entrance to a hall for a good, long while.

Then he muttered out loud to himself, “Fucking hell.”

* * * * *

Isabella

Isabella sat on the couch in the great room facing Sally, one of her legs bent and pulled up on the seat, Sally’s hand flat on her thigh. As she had been during the whole polishing portion of the shaping, buffing, varnishing manicure, Sally was calm and docile while Isabella put the last coat of clear varnish over the hot pink she’d already brushed on the girl’s final fingernail.

“All right, Sally honey, you’re done but you’ve got to sit there for a good ten minutes to give it time to dry.”

Sally surveyed her fingernails with a rapt expression on her face as Isabella caught movement out of the side of her eye and saw Prentice exit his study.

He stopped and leveled his gaze on them.

“They’ve never looked this pretty,” Sally breathed as if Isabella didn’t give her a manicure but instead painted her portrait displaying more talent than Gainsborough.

Isabella hesitated, fighting an urge that was nearly overwhelming because Prentice was standing right there.

Then she thought,
Screw it
.

Sally was just too danged cute.

Again, Prentice would just have to
deal
.

And anyway, it was all his and Fiona’s fault for having an endearing daughter.

She leaned forward, kissed the top of Sally’s head then got up, repeating, “Ten minutes, sweetheart.”

“Ten minutes!” Sally chirped and then sat statue-still in the couch.

Grinning to herself, Isabella went to the mudroom to get the laundry, walking by Prentice without looking at him but
feeling
his eyes on her as she went.

The tumble dryer had buzzed five minutes ago and she hustled in to fold the clothes before they became wrinkled.