“Why don’t you let Mrs. Evangelista have one,” Jason emphasized the proper pronunciation of Isabella’s name and then went on, “And, maybe Dad might want one too.”
Prentice watched his daughter give his son a hilarious, wrinkled-nose “go-to-hell” look.
Prentice watched his son roll his eyes at Sally’s hilarious, wrinkled-nose “go-to-hell” look.
Prentice nearly laughed at their interplay, something he had done very rarely in the last year because they’d very rarely done anything to laugh about or, more accurately, Jason hadn’t.
“Give it time and let those settle in your belly, Sally,” Isabella advised softly as she turned back to the stove. “You don’t want to be overfull for the picnic.”
“Okay,” Sally agreed readily which was also surprisingly.
Prentice watched Isabella walk to the stove, his eyes captivated by her ass swaying beneath the satin then captivated by her long, tan legs moving gracefully through his kitchen.
She turned when she’d made it to the stove and her hands came up to pull her robe tightly closed. “Would you like pancakes, Prentice?”
His eyes snapped to her face.
It was not open and engaging as she looked at his children. It was cool and remote.
“Please,” he replied and walked to the coffee.
The pot was mostly full.
Fiona always made the coffee and his wife made great coffee. Prentice’s coffee, as was his cooking, was crap.
When Fiona was sick and after she was gone, nearly every morning Prentice had to make the coffee except for the mornings his mother, Fiona’s mother, Debs or Morag were there which, at his request, in order to try and get the children back to a different kind of normalcy once Fiona died, his family hadn’t been coming around to help for months.
It had been a long time. He hadn’t woken to a pot of coffee since…
Prentice didn’t finish his thought as that feeling intensified in his gut.
Fucking hell, he thought again.
He poured himself a cup while Isabella slid butter into the hot skillet which melted immediately. He watched while she poured batter on the butter and saw her coffee cup was sitting by the stove, the cup mostly full as the pot had been.
She’d been so busy feeding his children; she hadn’t had time for a cup of coffee.
Fucking hell, he thought yet again.
Sally chattered, Jason ate, Isabella concentrated on his pancake and Sally’s blather and Prentice felt, like last night, that she’d forgotten he was even there.
For reasons unknown to Prentice but likely because he found her new game immensely irritating and he decided instantly he too could play a game, he walked to the side of the stove, close to where Isabella was working. Turning his back to the counter, he rested his h*ps against it and sipped his coffee.
The coffee was f**king heavenly.
Christ.
“Will you give me a manicure before the picnic?” Sally asked Isabella.
Prentice turned to look at her and saw, to his surprise, that Isabella was fidgeting. Moving the handle of the skillet this way and that, she was twirling the spatula in her other hand in an absentminded way. Her eyes, however, were not on the skillet; they were on the counter behind Prentice.
“I can’t, Sally,” she answered the counter. “After breakfast, I’ve got to get to Annie’s to help with the picnic.”
“Can I go?” Sally yelled. “Can I, can I, can I?”
Isabella didn’t respond.
She stepped around him then halted in a jerky way. She tipped her head to the side, surveyed the counter, sighed, then tilted it back and looked at him.