Fairytale Come Alive

Chapter Seven Elle

Prentice

Prentice stood on the terrace of the pub, whisky in hand, eyes on the sea.

Two days it had been since he’d discovered Isabella had not abandoned her best friend in her hour of need but, against the odds (and Annie could be stubborn so Prentice knew the odds were most assuredly against Isabella), she nursed Annie back to her old self.

Two days it had been since he discovered she’d endured only the beginning but most definitely not the end of a fairytale.

And two days since he’d discovered that, at eight years old, she’d found her dead mother in a pool of her own blood.

His hand tightened on the glass as his jaw tensed.

He hadn’t handled that last very well. In fact, he’d been a complete, selfish jackass.

It had been two days and those two days had not been uneventful.

To say the least.

The first morning after dinner with Mikey, Prentice had woken up to find his closet full of ironed shirts.

When he went downstairs, he found the coffeepot full.

Isabella was not there, however, and didn’t make an appearance until the children came downstairs.

Then she arrived wearing jeans and a thin, mostly see-through, skintight, scoop-necked, cream t-shirt with a camisole under it. Her feet were bare but her wild, tangle of hair had been sleeked and pulled into sophisticated ponytail at the back of her head and she’d made up her face.

She also had a band of white gauze wrapped around her hand.

She’d arrived to make breakfast, chat with the children and ignore Prentice.

Sally was unaware of the drama the night before though she was highly curious as to the white gauze which Isabella airily informed his daughter was “nothing”.

After what occurred the night before, Jason, it appeared, had formed some kind of motherless-child bond with Isabella and decided to cast himself as her protector. He was watching her carefully as if she was made of fragile crystal and he was going to be there to catch her before she fell and shattered on the floor.

Isabella quickly realized this and just as quickly (and skillfully) teamed up with Sally, using his daughter’s constant good cheer and Isabella’s own charm to tease and joke with Jason until he was smiling and even laughing.

It was quite a feat but she mastered it effortlessly.

When the children disappeared to get their books, without a word, Isabella headed to the hall.

“Isabella,” he called, she stopped and turned polite eyes to him in enquiry.

He looked at her and realized they were, indeed, playing a game.

It was the game of life. His life and his children’s life.

And also Isabella’s.

Too much had passed, he’d moved on and so had she, neither, it seemed, to things that ended well.

But this game didn’t have to end ugly and his children needed every friend in their life they could get.

And Prentice thought Isabella would make a good one.

With a new strategy in mind, Prentice walked directly to her and got close.

She stiffened but didn’t retreat, simply tipped her head back and looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“We need to talk,” he told her.

“There’s nothing to say,” she replied, her tone cultured, controlled, remote.

“You’re wrong,” he returned.

Her face remained polite but expressionless. “Well then, there’s no time. You have to take the kids to school and I’m going to Annie’s and I won’t be home tonight. It’s her hen night tonight, it’ll go late and I’ll probably crash on the couch at Fergus’s.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

She shook her head. “Tomorrow is the day before the wedding. I’ll be tied up all day helping Annie and tomorrow night is Dougal’s stag night.”

He got closer and her body went solid as a rock.

This he took as a good sign.

He dipped his face close to hers, willing for some flash of something to light in her eyes but he got nothing.

“You don’t have to explain the schedule to me, Isabella, I know it,” he said quietly.

“Then you know there’s no time to talk.”

“We’ll make time.”

She remained silent and remote.

He decided to change subjects and asked, “How’s your hand?”

Then it came.

Her eyes flashed and her gaze moved over his shoulder.

“It’s fine.”

“That’s good,” he replied softly.

Her eyes shot back to his.

She opened her mouth to speak but he got there before her. “I have to admit, you look nice, Elle, but you look better when your hair’s a mess and you aren’t wearing that mask.”

And it came again.

Her eyes grew slightly wider and her lips parted softly.

He took in her open expression of astonishment and finished by muttering, “Beautiful.”

Then he walked away.

That day, on a visit to one of his building sites, Prentice approached Nigel Fennick who was a laborer on the site.

Nigel gave him a chin’s up and said on a grin, “Dougal’s stag night still on for Friday?”

“Aye,” Prentice replied. “Annie’s hen night is tonight.”

Nigel’s grin widened. “Annie can be a wild one.”

Prentice knew that, hell, everyone knew that. Even so, he didn’t return Nigel’s grin.

“I want to talk to you about Hattie,” Prentice said and Nigel’s grin faded.

“Had calls from Fergus. Dougal too,” Nigel surprised him by saying. “They gave me an earful, mate, but you know Hattie.”

Prentice did, he’d known her all his life and he never really liked her. He liked her less after her behavior at the picnic.

“She going on Annie’s hen night?” Prentice asked.

“Aye,” Nigel nodded.

“She’ll be nice to Isabella,” Prentice stated.

It wasn’t a request, it was a demand.

Nigel gave him a look. “Never was able to control Hattie.”

He was right. Nigel and Hattie had been married for nearly two decades and she wasn’t nice to her husband either.

“You’ll have a word.” Another demand.

“Already did, after Fergus and after Dougal. She’s got it in her head –”

Prentice cut him off by repeating, “You’ll have a word.”

“Prentice –”

“Nigel, have a word with her.”

Nigel’s look turned probing. “Mate,” he said softly, “things have got to be rough with Fiona gone but you’re not… not again.”

Prentice got closer. “This isn’t about me and Isabella. This is just about Isabella. She’s here for her friend and she’s been good to the children. If you won’t have a word, I’ll have a word.” Prentice pulled his mobile from his back pocket. “Give me her number.”

Nigel’s look turned incredulous and, Prentice noted with surprise, slightly fearful. “Now?”

Prentice’s look was already hard. “Aye. Now.”

Nigel hesitated then he sighed, “I’ll have a word.”

Prentice nodded. “It doesn’t work, Nigel, and I hear Elle didn’t have a good night then I’ll have a word with Hattie.”

The threat hung in the air for a moment before Nigel dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

Prentice was a man known not to make idle threats.

“See you Friday,” Prentice said by way of farewell.

“Aye, Friday.”

Prentice turned and walked away.

The children had not had to endure takeaway that night.

This was because, when Prentice and the kids came home, Jason found a note on the counter from Isabella informing them there was a shepherd’s pie in the fridge, explaining how to heat it up and telling them that the vegetables were already cut up and ready for boiling.

Jason may have found the note but Sally honed right in on the homemade chocolate cake that was sitting on the counter.

“PS,” Jason read as Sally was screeching about the cake, “tell Sally I’ve made cake for pudding but she has to eat all her broccoli. There’s ice cream in the freezer.”

When he was finished reading, Jason’s eyes moved to Prentice.

Sally danced around the kitchen chanting how much she loved chocolate cake.

Prentice smiled at his son.

His son smiled back.

Mikey was right.

Isabella could cook comfort food.

The shepherd’s pie was delicious.

And the cake was fucking exquisite.

But Prentice overcooked the vegetables.

It was pitch dark when Prentice jerked from a deep sleep, body alert after hearing the crash.

Tense, he listened to the sounds of his house for a moment and he could have sworn he heard a loud, drunken giggle.

He threw back the covers, knifed out of bed, exited his room and flipped the light switch on at the top of the stairs.

The lamp by the couch was on the floor, its ceramic base in pieces.

He was walking down the stairs when he saw movement in the hall. It was Isabella walking into the room wielding a broom.

Or, more accurately, Isabella weaving into the hall wielding a broom.

When she saw him, she stopped dead but her body swayed.

Then she smiled a huge, radiant smile that started at her hazel eyes and lit her entire face.

At the sight of her smile, Prentice felt the warmth of that satisfying weight hit his gut.

“Hi!” she cried happily as if it was the height of pleasure to see him.

“Isabella.”

She stared at him a moment or, more to the point, she stared at his mouth a moment. Then she looked at the broom in her hand as if she’d never seen one before and had no idea why she was carrying it.

Light dawned, her face fell and she looked back at Prentice, admitting, “I broke your lamp.”

He started to come into the room. “I can see. I could also hear.”

“I’ll buy you another one,” she told him immediately.

He shook his head. “You don’t have to buy another one.”

Her face lit again and she declared gleefully, “I’ll buy you three!”

He barely stopped himself from laughing. “You definitely don’t have to buy me three.”

“Lamps are good to have around,” she informed him authoritatively. “Even if you don’t use them all, you can keep them in storage as backups.”

This time, he couldn’t contain his chuckle.

She was rat-arsed. Completely drunk.

“It isn’t a common occurrence that we break lamps, Elle. We don’t need backups.”

This seemed to confuse her as if she broke lamps with great regularity and had a ready supply to act as replacements.

“Just in case,” she muttered then her eyes narrowed on him and her face became severe. “Don’t take another step.”

He’d neared her and didn’t stop moving while he said, “Sorry?”

He barely got out the word when she suddenly, for some drunken reason, swung the broom at him. He had to jerk his torso back to miss being hit.

This movement sent her off-balance, so much so, she collided with the chair. Twisting to right herself, she dropped the broom and Prentice swiftly moved forward and caught her at her waist, yanking her upright and into his body.

He watched her profile as she glared at the chair.

“Who put that there?” she snapped, continuing to scowl at the chair like she was willing it to disintegrate from the heat of her gaze.

“It’s always been there.”

She twisted her neck to look at him and announced, “It has not.”

He was finding it very difficult not to burst out laughing but somehow he succeeded in this task.

“It has,” he said.

“It hasn’t,” she retorted.

“It has.”

“It. Has. Not.”

He chuckled as he said, “Elle, it has.”

“Well!” she snapped. “That’s a silly place to put a chair. It’s dangerous, especially with the children around.” She caught his eye and advised stoutly, “You should move it.”

He put his hands to her hips and started to push her to the hall murmuring, “I’ll consider it.”

She suddenly stood stock-still and cried, “You’re barefoot!” She whirled to face him and announced, “Not another step, Prentice Cameron, you might cut yourself. I’m going to clean up the lamp.”

“I’ll clean it up after we get you to bed.”

“I broke it, I’ll clean it up. And anyway, you’re barefoot,” she returned.

“I’ll put on shoes. You’re in no state to clean up the lamp.”

She tilted her head, her face a wild range of expressions as she considered this.

Prentice watched her face, explicitly reading every thought that passed through her mind and enjoying the show.

Then she nodded. “Okay, you can clean it up but you have to promise to get every… single… piece so Sally doesn’t accidentally hurt herself.”

Her concern for his daughter also settled in his gut, it also was a warm, satisfying feeling and Prentice gently turned her around and pushed her again toward the hall while saying gruffly, “I promise.”

“All right then,” she gave in.

With difficulty he guided her through the hall. She couldn’t walk a straight line if paid a bigger fortune than she already had to do it.

“I thought you were staying at Fergus’s,” he remarked.

“I thought so too but Annie said no. No, no, no, no, no. No friend of hers was sleeping on a couch. We were all in the taxi and she made them all come right here. First! Even though Fergus’s is closer to the village,” she finished this story and slipped on the stairs, nearly going down, her hand thrown out to catch her fall but Prentice was close and hooked an arm around her waist again.

His arm tightened and he lifted her, carrying her the last two steps to the landing. He put her down and moved her around the corner, keeping his hands on her waist as he guided her up the last flight of steps.

When they hit her rooms, he let her go, flipped on the switch and she meandered in a random zigzag pattern to the bedroom.

All the while she meandered, she chattered.

“I love your children. They’re the best. But I especially love Sally.” She stopped, swayed, righted herself, twisted to look at him and said, “No, Jason. I especially love Jason.” Then her eyes went unfocused and she bit her lip before saying, “No, Sally.” Then her face filled with confusion before it cleared and she finished, “Oh hell, they’re both great.”

Then she swayed back around and zigzagged into the bedroom toward the lamp.

He quickly followed her as she got close to the lamp, deciding it best at that juncture that he operate the household electronics. He gently moved her and turned on the lamp.

She plunked down on the side of the bed and bent double, her hands going to her shoes. Prentice prepared to leave her to it.

But he didn’t when she spoke. “We had so much fun.” Her head tilted back sharply, her ponytail flying and she smiled radiantly at him. “People were even nice to me.”

The different, unpleasant weight settled in his gut.

She turned her attention back to her shoe. “I know it was for Annie’s sake but still, I could pretend.”

Looking at the back of her head, Prentice had the odd but very strong desire to wrap that sleek, shining ponytail around his fist, pull her head back and kiss her.

Before he could process this disturbing thought, she lifted her torso up jerkily and twisted her leg at an impossible angle so her knee was wrenched, her calf was on the mattress at her side and her hand went back to her ankle.

“What is with these straps?” she muttered in frustration, yanking at the strap of her sexy, high-heeled sandal.

Prentice crouched in front of her and moved her hands away. “I’ll do it.”

She pushed at his hands, declaring, “I’ll do it.”

He pushed at her hands. “I’ll do it.”

“I can do it!”

He caught her eyes and said low, “Elle.”

She stared at him then huffed out a sigh, “All right, you do it.”

Then she whipped her leg out, he reared back to miss being hit by her flying foot, and she held it out for him to take off her sandal.

He straightened and took the back of her heel in one hand, the fingers of his other working the strap.

But his eyes were on her.

He should have focused on her shoe.

He watched as she yanked out her ponytail holder and tossed it on the nightstand amongst a tidy display of pumps and jars and a stack of leather-bound journals.

Then she mussed her hair, the heavy, blonde locks flying everywhere.

It was an extraordinary show and Prentice felt his body instantly and pleasurably tighten in response.

Christ, he had to get out of there.

He unfastened the strap and slid her shoe off, dropping it to the floor.

She immediately lifted her other foot to him while using both hands to lift her hair up at the nape of her neck then she plopped back onto the bed, throwing her arms wide. Her long hair splayed on the bed around her and his mind took that opportunity to consider what Isabella, and her hair, would look like, and feel like, if she was underneath him.

Naked underneath him.

His mind moved swiftly away from that delightful mental image, his gaze moved away from the equally delightful vision of Isabella on her back on the bed, his hand curved around her heel and he went for the other strap.

“Annie’s so happy,” she whispered wistfully and at her words Prentice’s eyes sliced back to her. Her gaze was as wistful as her tone and it was on him. “All these years. I never thought I’d see it, Pren.”

This time, his gut tightened.

No one called him Pren but Elle. His mother hadn’t allowed his name to be shortened when he was a lad and Prentice just stuck.

But he (and his mother) let Isabella call him Pren.

And she hadn’t called him Pren since their last night together.

In a flash, the memory came from somewhere deep and it was as clear as if it happened only yesterday.

They were in his car when he brought her back to Fergus’s after dinner and drinks. It was late, it was dark, she was across the seat, her back to his thighs, her arms around his neck, his hands in her shirt and they were kissing.

He’d never made love to her. They’d done almost everything else but she’d been a virgin and he’d decided, if she’d lasted twenty years, she could last until he had a ring on her finger.

She hadn’t decided that. Isabella made it clear she was ready to give herself to him when he was ready to take her.

But Prentice had thought at the time that he could wait until he gave her his name as his gift to bear the rest of her life and only then would she give him her virginity as hers.

The next day she was going to the airport to get her father and spending the day with him. The night after that, she was going to make dinner for Prentice and her father.

They never made it that far. Prentice had received the summons from Carver Austin to appear at Fergus’s the morning after he arrived.

He had no idea that would be the last time he would hold her in his arms. If he had, at the time, he wouldn’t have taken her back to Fergus’s.

He would have driven her to the ends of the earth.

He’d stopped kissing her before it got too heavy (or, to the point of no return as it already was heavy) and muttered, “You have to go.”

She looked adorably disappointed before she sighed, “I have to go.”

Prentice grinned at her, put his forehead to hers and whispered, “Love you, baby.”

She closed her eyes, her hand coming to his neck, she squeezed, opened her eyes and said, “Love you too, Pren.”

Then she’d touched her mouth to his and exited the car, blowing a kiss at him through the window before running gracefully up the steps. Then she stopped, turned to him, waved wildly and blew him another kiss.

He’d waited until the door closed behind her.

That was the last time anyone had called him Pren.

Until now.

And that was the last time he saw his Elle.

Until now.

Yes, he definitely needed to get the fuck out of there.

He freed the strap, slipped the shoe off her foot and dropped it to the floor.

Before he could move, she was up, moving lithely, standing in front of him and she slapped her hands on his chest so hard, it stung.

This surprised him.

It surprised him enough that he didn’t move.

What she did next would surprise him more.

She leaned in, her bodyweight resting against his, her hands sliding up so her fingers could curl on his shoulders and the sting disappeared instantly and another feeling altogether stole through him.

Face tipped to his, she breathed, “Can you believe? Annie and Dougal. Mikey’s so right. It is a fairytale come true.”

Prentice noticed at once that she smelled of fruit.

Any other drunken person smelled unpleasantly drunk. Only Elle could smell like fruit when she was smashed.

And the smell was intoxicating.

“What have you been drinking?” he asked, his hands going to her hips for the sake of comfort and finding far more than comfort when his fingers curled into her soft flesh.

“Lemon, lime cordial and vodka,” she answered. “Annie introduced me to them and they’re great. They taste like candy.”

“Aye, but candy can’t get you pissed.”

She squeezed his shoulders and exclaimed, “You’ve got that right!” Then she giggled.

Before he could process his more than pleasant reaction to her giggling while pressed against him, her hands slid from his shoulders to around his neck, she went up on tiptoe and pressed her soft body to his, giving him a tight hug.

“Two days, Pren,” she whispered in his ear. “Two days and Annie and Dougal are finally going to be married.” Her arms tightened, her head turned and he could feel her lips against his neck and he liked it, too much. “Twenty years and, finally, they’re happy.”

She held onto him and his arms slid around her, holding her close.

This was the woman he fell in love with.

Twenty years and he again had her in his arms.

Fucking hell.

His chest got tight and his arms got tighter even though he didn’t will them to do so and, in turn, she gave him a squeeze.

“Elle –” he started, having no fucking clue what he intended to say but all of a sudden she tore out of his arms.

Then he stared as she whipped her t-shirt off, exposing the camisole underneath.

She threw it over his shoulder and smiled at him brightly. “I’m so happy!”

Before he could say a word, she twirled around and crawled into bed on all fours, her ass in those tight jeans on dazzling display in front of him for a moment before she collapsed on her side, back to him.

She curled her knees into her belly, burrowed her head in the pillow and whispered, “I won’t have any trouble sleeping tonight.”

He should have left.

He really should have left.

He didn’t leave.

He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the soft, heavy hair away from her neck before he curled his fingers there.

“Do you normally have trouble sleeping?” he muttered, unable to use a stronger voice as her head had tilted and her shoulder flexed to hold his hand captive.

He found this gesture so appealing it didn’t feel like a weight in his gut.

Instead it sent a sweet warmth throughout his system.

Her body relaxed, releasing his hand and she mumbled, “Mm.”

“Elle,” he prompted.

She nestled her body deeper into the bed before she murmured into her pillow, “Every night. Sleep and I are not friends.”

Prentice did not like her answer.

His fingers tensed.

She sighed.

Then she whispered, “‘Night, Pren.”

He ran his thumb along the curve of her jaw before he murmured, “Goodnight, Elle.”

She snuggled into her pillow.

He watched her a moment that slid into two then became three then he forced himself to stand, pull the covers out from under her sleep-heavy body and over her.

He turned out the lamp, walked into the sitting room and switched off the light, went to the great room and cleaned up every, single piece of the lamp.

The next morning he was making coffee when Elle came downstairs.

He had spent most of the night trying to forget about the episode they’d shared.

Then he spent most of the early morning realizing he couldn’t and trying to figure out what the fuck he meant to do about it.

All of this flew from his mind when she turned the corner and he saw her.

She was wearing another pair of those loose-fitting, knit trousers that, regardless if they fit loose, they still clung to certain parts of her (the alluring parts), drawing attention.

This pair was black and she wore it with a matching zip up hoodie with gathers at the pockets. He could see a dusty blue camisole peeking over the zip at her cleavage.

Her hair was in a wild mess on top of her head, spikes poking from it and long tendrils falling down her neck.

Her face was makeup free.

It was also pale.

She looked sicker than a dog but still somehow beautiful.

He took this all in in an instant and then let out a bark of laughter.

She flinched at the noise and at her flinch he bit back his laughter but kept chuckling.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked.

She walked into the kitchen, got close to him (but not too close) and leaned heavily against the counter.

“I’m never drinking again.”

He grinned at her. “Everyone says that.”

Her eyes locked on his. “No. Seriously. I. Am. Never. Drinking. Again.”

The way she enunciated every word with complete and hilariously adorable seriousness gave him the sudden and intense urge to kiss her.

He also needed, very badly, to laugh.

He did the latter.

She glared at him which made his laughter deepen.

Then she scowled, her eyes moved to the filled coffee filter in his hand, her scowl disappeared and her eyes grew wide.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He looked down at the coffee filter in his hand, thinking it was readily apparent what he was doing.

Then he looked at her and stated the obvious, “Making coffee.”

“How much coffee?” she asked, eyes still on the filter.

“A pot.”

Her gaze slid to his face. “Prentice, that’s enough coffee to make an urn of coffee and when I say urn I mean those industrial-sized urns they have in cafeterias which serve a hundred. How strong do you like your coffee?” The last came out high-pitched and incredulous.

So that was what he was doing wrong.

She didn’t wait for him to answer, she moved into his space, shuffling him out of the way at the same time deftly confiscating the over-filled coffee filter.

“I’ll make the coffee,” she muttered, dumping half the grounds back into the canister. She then reached into the spice drawer, pulled out cinnamon and sprinkled it on the top. She put the filter in the machine, slapped it to and flipped the switch.

Cinnamon.

That was why her coffee was so heavenly.

That and the fact that there wasn’t far too much coffee in the filter.

She took down mugs and he settled in watching her. She settled back to ignoring him.

This made him smile.

“What are you making the kids for breakfast today?” he asked.

She blanched visibly at the mention of food and then swallowed.

“Don’t know,” she muttered to the coffeepot which she was watching with avid but feigned fascination.

He decided to torture her. “A fry up?”

She curled her fingers around the counter and swallowed yet again before whispering, “I don’t think so.”

He bit back his laughter.

Then he called, “Elle,” and watched, with some surprise, as her body grew tight.

She turned only her head to him.

“I’ll make you toast and I’ll make the kids breakfast,” he told her.

“I can cook.”

“Aye, you can, very well. This morning, however, you aren’t.”

She turned her body to him and repeated, “I can cook.”

“Aye, but this morning you aren’t.”

Her shoulders went straight. “I am.”

“You aren’t.”

“I am,” she snapped and then winced at her own intensity.

He grinned, walked the stride it took him to get to her, put his hands to her waist and lifted her. She let out a startled cry and her fingers curled on his shoulders before her ass hit the counter. He placed both of his hands on the counter on either side of her hips, leaned his face to hers and spoke.

“You aren’t. Sit. Stay.”

Her eyes flashed with anger, her mouth opened to speak, he felt another, deeper, desire to kiss her and then her gaze darted over his shoulder.

Her pale face grew paler and her hands shot from his shoulders as if his skin burned.

Prentice straightened, looked over his shoulder and saw Sally and Jason both standing there, both their eyes locked on Prentice and Elle.

How had they missed the children arriving?

Sally looked like Sally, happy and carefree (though silent).

Jason looked astounded.

Prentice moved to Isabella’s side, a comfortable distance away and he held his son’s gaze.

Then he watched as Jason’s lips twitched to the side, his eyes grew bright then they dropped to the floor but Prentice could have sworn he saw a smirk before they did.

“What’s for breakfast, Miss Bella?” Sally asked, skipping into the kitchen.

“Elle’s sitting this one out. I’m making porridge,” Prentice answered, reaching for the bread to make Elle’s toast.

Jason’s head shot up and the smirk was gone. “Elle?”

“Aye,” Prentice replied immediately.

That was who she was no matter who she wanted him to think she was.

Prentice kept his eyes locked on his son and watched as Jason’s gaze slid to Elle and the smirk returned before he went to the fridge to get the milk.

“Can we call her Elle?” Sally asked.

“No,” Prentice answered.

“Can we sit on the counter like Miss Bella’s doing while we eat our porridge?” Sally asked.

“No,” Prentice repeated.

“Can we have chocolate cake instead of porridge?” Sally went on.

“No,” both Prentice and Elle answered.

“But there’s a lot of cake left!” Sally cried. “If we don’t have it for breakfast, we’re never going to eat it all!”

“Sally, stool. Sit. Now,” Prentice ordered.

His daughter pouted and flounced to a stool.

Prentice went back to preparing the toast but his eyes caught on Elle and he saw she was watching Sally with a soft, warm, amused expression on her pale face.

And it hit him she wasn’t drunkenly declaring her love for his children last night. She was honestly doing it.

Prentice, luckily, had no idea the depth of longing of a motherless child who had no ability to have children of their own.

Or, he had no idea until he saw that look on Elle’s face and realized that, within days, she’d fallen in love with his children.

Fucking hell, he thought.

They really needed to talk.

He made the toast, he made porridge, they ate and the kids scrambled up the stairs to get their bags.

Elle hopped off the counter and started clearing the dishes.

“Dougal’s stag night is tonight and the kids –” Prentice started while watching her move through his kitchen.

He didn’t finish.

Her head whipped toward him and she said quickly, “I’ll watch them.”

That warm weight settled in his gut again.

And it felt good again.

He walked close to her, put his hand to her neck and he felt her still under his fingers.

“I’ve already arranged for Debs to pick them up from school. They’re spending the night with her,” Prentice said.

He saw disappointment, it was fleeting but he saw it.

His fingers curled into her neck.

When he spoke, he did it softly, “I’ll come home tonight before I go out with Dougal, take you out to an early dinner and we’ll talk.”

“I think I’ll be busy with Annie,” she replied, pulling her neck away and starting to move but he caught her hips.

She stopped, stiffened and looked at him, face again paler.

“You just said you’d watch the kids,” he reminded her.

“I forgot about Annie,” she lied.

“Elle –” he began.

She cut him off. “I’m here for Annie.”

“We need to talk.” His voice was firm.

That’s when he lost her. Her face went cold.

“No, Prentice, we don’t need to do anything. I need to get through two more days of this. Then I’m gone.”

His fingers flexed at her hips as his good humor slipped at her words. “You’re not.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, Prentice, I am.”

He got closer and his burgeoning anger strengthened. “Isabella, you’re not leaving my children behind like you left me behind.”

He watched her head jerk and she flinched.

Then she recovered.

“It’s for the best.”

Yes, he was getting angry.

“How do you figure that?” he returned.

“Trust me,” she shot back.

He said it even though he wasn’t certain he meant it.

Not anymore.

“Not likely.”

She pulled her hips from his hands and gazed up at him, her face remote. “You just proved my point,” she replied softly. “Like I said, it’s for the best.”

Before he could say more or figure out how in the fuck their situation degenerated so quickly, she turned on her bare foot and disappeared.

“This is the worst stag night in history with the best man standing out in the freaking cold drinking alone.”

Dougal’s words made Prentice’s body jolt as his mind was torn from Elle.

Prentice looked at his friend.

Dougal was smiling but his smile faded when he saw Prentice’s face. When Prentice saw the humor die out of Dougal’s expression, he decided that tonight was not going to be about Prentice or Elle or Jason or his dead wife Fiona.

It had been about all that shit for far too long.

It was going to be about Dougal.

“Sorry, mate. Have a lot on my mind,” Prentice murmured, stepping away from the railing.

“I can tell,” Dougal replied softly.

Prentice came abreast of his friend then he smiled.

Then he said, “Let’s get you drunk.”

Dougal watched him closely.

Then Dougal grinned.

Then they went inside and got drunk.