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 f**k 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?
She had no time to figure it out, he’d taken her hand and was pulling her behind him as he walked to the light switch in the kitchen and flipped it off.
He was tugging her down the hallway toward the guest suite, her hand still firm in his when she declared, “You can’t steal my passport and luggage.”
“That’s funny, since I did,” he returned.
He was unbelievable!
What was going on in that head of his?
No, she didn’t want to know. She just wanted to go.
She tried to yank her hand from his. This endeavor failed.
Instead, Prentice suddenly halted, turned and yanked her hand. He was stronger and she flew to him. He dropped her hand but caught her h*ps and pushed her up against the wall.
His body got close, so close she could feel his warmth everywhere.
Her mind scrambled.
“Why do you want your things?” he asked softly.
She blinked up at him, finding her attention wandering considering his proximity and that soft, deep voice he was using.
Then she explained the obvious, “They’re mine.”
“Aye, but why do you want them?”
“Because they’re mine.”
In the darkened hall, she saw his white teeth flash in a smile.
Her heart skipped as her temper flared.
“We’ve established that,” he replied. “Now, why do you want them?”
“I just do,” she shot back.
His hand lifted, coming up to cup her jaw and he tipped her head further back as he got even closer.
“All right, you can have them back,” he murmured.
Suddenly, she didn’t want them back.
With effort, she remained focused.
“Thank you.” It was meant to come out condescendingly but it came out breathily.
“When I’m ready to give them back,” he finished, she opened her mouth to protest, which was a fool thing to do as his head had slanted and it was coming closer.
“Pren –” she got out before he kissed her.
This time it was hard, thorough, deep and long with the addition of being wet, hot and tasting deliciously of custard and sponge.
As she always did, always, always, always, she melted into him. Her hands glided into his soft hair and she held his head to hers as her body ignited.