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.