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 f**king heavenly coffee.
Prentice decided if Isabella wanted to play house and that came with good food and clean clothes, he’d f**king 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.”