And he looked good.
Wearing a tan-colored, all-weather canvas jacket that was worn in enough to look good and fit him well, but not worn out, a deep blue button-up shirt, a pair of jeans that were also worn enough to fit (too well) but not worn out and boots.
He was the kind of man who made any clothing look good (too good) and Isabella noted this fact with inappropriate fascination at that juncture, since she should have been giving him what for.
She also noted that his hair was slightly disheveled, probably from the wind outside.
That looked good on him too (too good).
She watched mutely as he secured the door and turned out the lights.
Then she noticed as he walked through the vestibule and into the great room that his eyes were on her.
Her mind kicked into gear.
“Prentice, we have to talk,” she announced as he got close.
Too close.
Toe-to-toe with her, right in her space.
She decided to hold her ground so as not to appear weak.
This was the wrong decision.
Ignoring her announcement, his head started to come toward hers, his eyes on her mouth.
She contradicted her earlier decision and decided it was time to retreat. She leaned away and started to take a step back but, quick as a flash, he had a hand at her hip and his other was cupping the back of her head. He held her steady while his mouth descended to hers and he kissed her.
Hard, thorough, deep but not long.
He lifted his head and looked in her eyes.
The kiss was nice. Too nice.
“Did you save me some sponge?” he asked softly.
Her mind was adrift, still reeling from his kiss.
Sponge? What was he talking about?
“Wh… what?” she stammered, her focus on getting her heart to stop beating so fast and uncurling her toes.
“Sponge. Did you save me some?”
“In the kitchen,” she answered in a breathy voice.
His hands dropped and he moved away. Shrugging off his jacket, he threw it on an armchair and headed to the kitchen.
Stupidly, Isabella watched him.
Then her eyes moved to his jacket.
Really, she should ignore his jacket. It wasn’t harming anything, lying there on the armchair. There were other, more important things to do.
But she couldn’t ignore it. It wasn’t where it was supposed to be.
She hurried forward, grabbed his jacket and took it into the vestibule. She hung it on the hooks with the other jackets and then used all of her willpower not to run to the kitchen.
She had to be cool, calm, and collected.
She had to concentrate.
She had to get this done.
Now.
Prentice was pressing buttons on the microwave when she arrived in the kitchen.
“Pren –” she started.
“Just a minute,” he cut her off. Turning, he walked with long strides to the stairs and up them.
Isabella stood in the kitchen, listening to the microwave whirring, staring blankly at the stairs.
She did this for awhile. She did it until Prentice walked back down at the exact same time the microwave dinged.
He went directly to the refrigerator.
“Pren –” she began again.
He interrupted her by asking the inside of the refrigerator, “I see the kids are asleep. Were they okay tonight?”
“Yes,” Isabella answered quickly. “Now –”
His head came out of the fridge and she saw he had the bowl of leftover custard in his hand.
“Sally?” he enquired.
“Fine,” Isabella replied and, because she knew he’d want to know, went on to explain, “She tires out easily but she had a nap this afternoon before we went to get Jason and I put her to bed earlier than normal. She was wiped out. Even so, it was like the accident never happened. She’s adjusting to the cast unbelievably well.”
Prentice nodded while he walked to the microwave.
She took a deep breath and launched in, “Prentice, we need to talk about –”
She stopped speaking when she saw him take what was the remainder of the sponge out of the microwave (and it was huge) and he poured the remainder of the custard over it (and there was a lot).
She gaped as the custard covered the piece of sponge.
Completely.
And she continued to gape as Prentice grabbed a spoon and commenced eating.
“That’s…” Isabella began in a strangled voice, her eyes on the mammoth portion in his bowl, she paused then continued, “Prentice, that’s enough to feed a professional wrestler.”
Or two. Or, probably, three.
“Aye,” he replied. “Missed dinner.”
Her gaze flew to his face. “You… missed dinner?”
His eyes on Isabella, he swallowed a mouthful.
Then he repeated, “Aye.”
That would not do.
She started to move away, mumbling, “I’ll fix you something. A sandwich.”
She didn’t get very far.
His arm curled around her waist and he shuffled her so she was against the counter and he closed in, standing in front of her, imprisoning her.
He took his arm from her waist and calmly continued eating.
She blinked up at him.
Then she informed him, “You can’t eat sponge for dinner.”
His mouth twitched before he asked, “Why not?”
Was he mad?
“Because it’s sponge,” she explained unnecessarily.
His twitching mouth spread into a handsome smile. She blinked again as his smile hit her, affecting various parts of her body.
Specific parts.
And the effect was staggering.
“Aye. It’s sponge,” he said, thankfully taking her mind off the specific parts of her body that were, at that moment, tingling. “It’s good sponge. And it’s your sponge.”
After telling her this, he went back to eating.
Isabella watched him. She found this fascinating too.
She endeavored to concentrate on the matter at hand.
“You need something substantial,” she declared.
“This is pretty substantial,” he returned.
He wasn’t wrong about that. Steamed sponge was very substantial, dense, rich, heavy.
It was just…
Well…
Sponge!
“You won’t let Sally have cake for breakfast. You can’t have dessert for dinner,” she told him severely.
He was still smiling when he replied, “Sally’s six. I’m forty-five. Sally does what I let her do. I do what the fuck I want.”
Isabella couldn’t argue with that. And why were they talking about this at all?
“Prentice –”
But he’d finished his sponge and moved away from her. Having grabbed the empty custard bowl, he walked to the sink.
Isabella squared her shoulders.
“Where are my suitcases?” she asked his back as he put the bowls in the sink and ran water in them. “And where’s my passport?”
“They’re at my office,” he answered immediately.
Her mouth dropped open.
She didn’t know what response she’d get to those questions considering it was insane that he’d stolen her passport and suitcases in the first place. But she hadn’t expected that or his immediate honesty nor did she know what to do with it.
“Why?” she enquired, her voice pitched higher.
He put the bowls and spoon in the dishwasher and closed the door.
Then he walked to her saying, “So you wouldn’t pack them, write some mad note and disappear halfway around the world.”
She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t form a response. She couldn’t even think of one.
She’d practiced this. Why was she messing it up?