“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.