Fairytale Come Alive (Ghosts and Reincarnation #4)(45)

“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 f**king 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 f**k 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 cle**age.

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.