Three Little Words (Fool's Gold #12)(67)



“Moments when he isn’t sure where he is. Or why he made it when others didn’t.”

She hadn’t seen any signs of that, Isabel thought. Every now and then he got quiet, but that was it. Like the last time they’d made love. When he’d held on to her. If she had to guess, she would say she’d been the only steady object in a rapidly spinning world.

“Are the scars the reason you worry about being with Kent?” Felicia asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’m just not like him.”

“You keep saying that,” Isabel pointed out. “But he’s obviously interested in you and you in him.”

“Because he doesn’t know me.”

“Of course,” Felicia said. “The root of all fears. Not being accepted by those we care about. Being rejected and isolated. It’s a primal fear. As a species, we are meant to be part of a group. A community. We mistrust loners because we don’t understand them. With the exception of our romanticizing the loner in movies and novels, of course.”

Consuelo stared at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re terrified Kent is going to reject you, so you withhold yourself from him. He will sense that there are secrets he will never know and parts of you he can’t touch, which will in turn make him feel rejected.” Her voice gentled. “You’re already planning your exit.”

“I’m not!” Consuelo said loudly, then sighed. “Okay, maybe. But...” She pressed her lips together. “Damn it, Felicia.”

Felicia’s smile was just a little bit smug.

“You’re good,” Isabel said.

“With others. I’m less insightful with myself.”

“While you’re being brilliant, what about Ford? He claims he can’t fall in love. That he’s tried but it simply hasn’t happened for him.”

“What are your thoughts?” Felicia asked.

“He was pretty young when he was engaged to my sister. So getting over Maeve quickly isn’t a statement on his character. Since then, he’s been in different war zones and on secret assignments. I know he was in a task force, but I don’t know any details.”

She picked up her latte, then put it down. “He didn’t work around many women, and I don’t think his leaves were long enough for him to really get involved with someone. So he made the decision to keep things casual. He likes women and they like him. But is that all he has in him? Did he skate on the surface because it was how he kept himself safe, only now that’s all he knows and anything else is too scary to try?”

“Possibly,” Felicia said.

Isabel laughed. “I was hoping for more.”

“Why? Your analysis is sound. If Ford has never had the opportunity for a significant relationship—either through circumstance or preference or both—then he’s unlikely to be willing to try now without motivation. Are you giving him that?”

The question was unexpected. “No. I’m leaving for New York in a few months. We’re only fake-dating.”

At least, she hoped they were. Isabel thought about how she’d felt holding him. How she looked forward to seeing him and how she avoided thinking about what it would be like when she was gone.

“I refuse to fall in love with him,” she said flatly. But as she spoke, she was touching the dragonfly necklace Ford had bought for her. The one she didn’t take off, except to shower.

“Good luck with that plan,” Consuelo told her, looking sympathetic.

Patience came out from behind the counter. “Sorry,” she said as she approached the table. “My refrigerated goodies are all put away. Now, what did I miss?”

* * *

ISABEL LEANED FORWARD and adjusted the toe separator on her right foot. She’d decided that a spectacular sex life deserved painted toenails and had dug out some polish, a nail file and the toe separators. Now her left toes were a deep violet.

The bathroom door opened without warning and she shrieked. “What are you doing?”

Ford stood by the sink, his expression wounded. “You locked the back door.”

“Yes,” she told him. “On purpose. I wanted privacy.”

He glanced around the bathroom. “Why? What could you be doing that I couldn’t watch? It’s not like you’re waxing or something.”

She shoved the brush back in the bottle. “It’s not like you asked before you burst in.”

“Good point. So, what are you doing?”

She waved the bottle of nail polish. “I would think it was obvious.”

He glanced at her toes. “I could do that.”

“Paint my toes? I don’t think so.”

“Why not? I’m good with my hands.”

“This is different and the polish on my left foot is still wet. So go away.”

He flashed her a grin. “Right. Because telling me that always works.”

He moved closer. She tried to duck away, but there was nowhere to go. He reached down, picked her up. She yelped.

“Inside voice,” he told her as he carried her into the kitchen, where he put her on a chair.

He pulled up a second chair and sat down, then grabbed her unpolished foot and set it on his hard thigh.

“Bottle,” he said, holding out his hand.

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