Fairytale Come Alive (Ghosts and Reincarnation #4)(15)

Isabella persevered, “Maybe there’s a cancellation or –”

Without taking his eyes from the road, he interrupted her again, “Don’t do it, Isabella.”

She found this vaguely surprising. He’d made it perfectly clear he didn’t want her in his home. He’d made it infinitely clear he didn’t want her around his children. Why wouldn’t he want her to find alternate accommodation?

“It’s no bother,” she went on. “They have cancellations all the time, I’m sure something will come up.

He glanced swiftly at her then back to the road. “Likely, aye.”

“So, I’ll make some calls.”

“No, you won’t.”

She turned and looked at him.

Age, she thought, had not been kind to him.

It had been generous.

How he could be more beautiful now than when they’d been together when she thought he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen (because he was) was a cruel twist of fate.

He still wore his thick hair (which she described to her girlfriends at Northwestern as “exactly two shades lighter than the darkest, dark brown”) a little long. Sun and laughter had given him attractive lines radiating from the sides of his eyes. His jaw had lost none of its sharp angularity, nor had his cheekbones. His eyes were the same unusually beautiful every-color as they’d always been. Even his body had become better; he was bigger, more muscular, more powerfully-built.

She took her thoughts off her latest cruel twist of fate and stated, “I don’t understand.”

“You’re no’ unknown around here,” Prentice said by way of explanation.

She was not unknown everywhere thanks to Laurent and her father and, well, freaking Laurent (the jerk).

“I’m used to that,” Isabella explained softly.

“Aye, I’m sure you are. Perhaps I should have said you’re no’ liked around here.”

Silently, Isabella pulled in breath. She hadn’t expected that.

She should have, especially after what Debs said the day before, not to mention what Prentice had said, both of these instances scoring at her heart.

Luckily, her heart had been lacerated beyond feeling much of anything anymore so she didn’t feel like tossing herself off the nearest cliff, of which there were a fair few around here.

But still, she hadn’t anticipated that.

Once upon a time (in other words, twenty years ago), Prentice’s village was the only safe haven Isabella had known in her life.

Now, it was a place where she was reviled.

She tightened her fists further and looked out the window, murmuring, “I won’t make the calls.”

“Aye, smart,” he muttered and she got the impression he was barely listening to her.

Which he probably wasn’t.

She stayed silent until he stopped in front of Fergus’s house. She didn’t look at him when she expressed her gratitude for the ride and put her hand to the door.

“Isabella,” he called, she stopped and turned to him.

He was holding up a key.

“To the house,” he said, dropping it in her palm when she lifted her hand for the key.

His eyes started to move away but all of a sudden they jerked back, slightly narrowed and focused on her palm.

Instantly, her hand closed over the key.

“I’ve decided I’ll make dinner and then I’ll explain to the children that I have a raging headache,” she blurted, wanting to divert his attention as his still narrowed gaze followed her closed hand.

His eyes shot to hers, his mouth was tight and he looked very angry.

“Why in the f**k would you do that?” he bit out, his voice proving she was so, very correct about him being so, very angry.

“Um –” Isabella’s mind went blank at his anger.

She remembered a great deal about him (in fact, pretty much everything) but she’d never seen him angry (well, not this angry). She didn’t know what to say, she didn’t even know if she could speak.

Then she remembered what to say.

“So I can leave you to dinner and get to my rooms.”

His head gave a small jerk and he looked over her shoulder, probably, she decided, to gain control.

Then his eyes met hers.

“Their mother died of a brain tumor,” he told her and it sounded like those words were dredged straight out of the depth of some hole inside of him that was too deep to measure.

“I know,” Isabella whispered. “Annie told me.”

“It started with headaches.”

Isabella automatically made a noise as if someone very strong had pressed the breath right out of her lungs.

She was going to cry.

She was going to cry.

Oh no.

No, no, no no, no!

She couldn’t cry!

Her hands fisted, the key bit into her palm, the pain shot through her and she didn’t cry.

Instead, she said, “I’m an idiot.”

He turned away, putting one of his hands back to the steering wheel, the other to the clutch.

“I’ll come up with something else, I promise,” she blathered on.

Only his head turned so he could look at her.

“Food poisoning!” she cried, sounding both stupid and desperate.

“I’m not sure food poisoning is good, Isabella, considering you’ll be cooking.”