Today had not been as bad as yesterday mainly because there were very few villagers there (especially Hattie Fennick, who Isabella always thought kind of disliked her but then again, Hattie seemed to kind of dislike everyone) and Clarissa, Annie’s Mom, had finally arrived and she was another one of the few people on the planet who liked Isabella.
Also making the day not so bad was the fact that Isabella only saw Prentice for a very brief period of time.
She’d woken early, done the ironing, had the coffee brewed and was pouring herself a second cup by the time Prentice came downstairs wearing, by the by, a shirt that was very handsome on him but really needed to be ironed.
His beautiful eyes never left her as he moved directly to the coffeepot, saying, “Morning, Isabella.”
“I’m making the children breakfast,” she blurted in reply, rather impolitely and her voice didn’t sound soft and foggy like it did when she was on the anti-depressants but almost, to her own ears, defiant.
His attention turned away from the cupboard from which he was pulling a mug to her and his brows were up.
Then his face changed, she didn’t know how but it did.
“You are?” he asked quietly.
She instantly had second thoughts about defying Prentice Cameron. If yesterday was anything to go by, he could be moody and if the days before were anything to go by, he could be mean.
She didn’t reply, just held his stare.
Then he queried, “What are you making us?”
He said “us”. That word out of his mouth gave her a shiver up her spine.
Earlier, while she was ironing and psyching herself up to approach him about breakfast, she hadn’t thought forward to what she was actually going to make, just that she was going to demand the right to make it.
She made a quick decision and announced, “A fry up.”
He burst out laughing.
Isabella stared.
God, she forgot how handsome he was when he laughed. She thought she remembered but she sure as heck didn’t.
Or, maybe it was that he looked better now.
She hid her reaction to his laughter and calmly waited until he got over his bizarre hilarity.
He turned his attention to the coffee, saying, “You feed my kids a fry up before school, they’ll be asleep within fifteen minutes of hitting their desks.”
“Children,” Isabella retorted, her voice cold and authoritative, “I’ve read, need a good breakfast before school. Brain food.”
Prentice turned to her, leaned a hip to the counter and sipped his coffee, his eyes never leaving her.
Then he replied, “Porridge is brain food. Make them porridge. There’s instant –”
She cut him off by declaring evenly, “I’m not making instant oatmeal.”
He studied her for a long moment then grinned and gave in, saying, “Suit yourself.”
With relief, she tore her gaze from his sexy, grinning face and walked away, murmuring, “I will.”
She didn’t go the way of the fry up (it wouldn’t be good if the kids fell asleep in school that would be yet another thing the villagers could hold against her).
But she did make scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese, bacon and toast coated in butter and lime marmalade.
And she made it for all of them.
Including Prentice.
While the kids were leaving the kitchen and Prentice (she thought) was in his study, Isabella caught Jason and said, “I’ve done the ironing, including your father’s shirts. Can you take them upstairs and put them away before school?”
“Can’t I do it tonight?” Jason asked.
She leaned in conspiratorially and asked in a teasing tone, “Honey, have you seen his shirt?” Then she shook her head. “No, you can’t do it tonight. You might forget and I don’t know when I’ll be back. It must be done,” her voice lowered jokingly to indicate the gravity of the situation, “and it must be done now.”
Jason grinned at her dramatic delivery then his eyes slid to the side, caught on something and he let out a little snicker.
Isabella felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She slowly turned and saw Prentice there, arms crossed on his chest, eyes on her, facial expression indicating that, perhaps, he heard every word she said.
“Is there something wrong with my shirt?” he asked in a low tone.
Yes, he heard.
Oh dear. What did she do now?
Well, she might as well be honest.
Her eyes dropped to his chest then went back to his face.
“It’s a lovely shirt. It just needs ironing.”
His hands went to the buttons while he enquired, “Should I do that now?”
“No!” she (nearly) cried, taking a swift step forward and putting a hand up, not wanting to see his chest again, ever, until the day she died.
He went on, “I wouldn’t want to embarrass the Cameron name.”
He couldn’t do that even if his shirt was in tatters.
And his pants.
He looked over her shoulder and winked at his son.
Isabella relaxed.
Prentice was teasing, not her, but Jason. She could deal with that.
“I’ll get you another shirt,” she offered on a whisper, not looking at him and moving toward the mudroom.
“I’d be obliged,” he murmured as she rounded him and felt his eyes on her.
There were, luckily, no more incidents but Sally demanded Isabella stand on the front steps and wave them away “until we’re out of sight”.
Which she did.
“How are things with Mr. Broody-Hot?” Mikey asked, taking Isabella out of her thoughts.
Mr. Broody-Hot. Where did Mikey come up with this stuff?
“If you mean Prentice,” Isabella answered, “they’re nearly one day closer to me being out of here.”
“That bad?” Mikey asked quietly.
Isabella looked at her friend’s profile. “Next time you love a man for twenty years, return to him and he thinks you jilted and made a fool of him and you have to sleep under his roof for a week, slowly falling in love with his two children then you can tell me how bad it is.”
“I’d say that’s bad,” Mikey returned.
Isabella didn’t reply because she didn’t need to.
“You’re falling in love with his children?” Mikey asked, voice still quiet.
Mikey knew all about her quest to get pregnant. He’d lived through it with her, though he’d been in Chicago and she’d been, well, globe-trotting with Laurent.
“There’s a good deal to love.”
Mikey sighed. “I noticed they’re good kids.”