But he (and his mother) let Isabella call him Pren.
And she hadn’t called him Pren since their last night together.
In a flash, the memory came from somewhere deep and it was as clear as if it happened only yesterday.
They were in his car when he brought her back to Fergus’s after dinner and drinks. It was late, it was dark, she was across the seat, her back to his thighs, her arms around his neck, his hands in her shirt and they were kissing.
He’d never made love to her. They’d done almost everything else but she’d been a virgin and he’d decided, if she’d lasted twenty years, she could last until he had a ring on her finger.
She hadn’t decided that. Isabella made it clear she was ready to give herself to him when he was ready to take her.
But Prentice had thought at the time that he could wait until he gave her his name as his gift to bear the rest of her life and only then would she give him her virginity as hers.
The next day she was going to the airport to get her father and spending the day with him. The night after that, she was going to make dinner for Prentice and her father.
They never made it that far. Prentice had received the summons from Carver Austin to appear at Fergus’s the morning after he arrived.
He had no idea that would be the last time he would hold her in his arms. If he had, at the time, he wouldn’t have taken her back to Fergus’s.
He would have driven her to the ends of the earth.
He’d stopped kissing her before it got too heavy (or, to the point of no return as it already was heavy) and muttered, “You have to go.”
She looked adorably disappointed before she sighed, “I have to go.”
Prentice grinned at her, put his forehead to hers and whispered, “Love you, baby.”
She closed her eyes, her hand coming to his neck, she squeezed, opened her eyes and said, “Love you too, Pren.”
Then she’d touched her mouth to his and exited the car, blowing a kiss at him through the window before running gracefully up the steps. Then she stopped, turned to him, waved wildly and blew him another kiss.
He’d waited until the door closed behind her.
That was the last time anyone had called him Pren.
Until now.
And that was the last time he saw his Elle.
Until now.
Yes, he definitely needed to get the fuck out of there.
He freed the strap, slipped the shoe off her foot and dropped it to the floor.
Before he could move, she was up, moving lithely, standing in front of him and she slapped her hands on his chest so hard, it stung.
This surprised him.
It surprised him enough that he didn’t move.
What she did next would surprise him more.
She leaned in, her bodyweight resting against his, her hands sliding up so her fingers could curl on his shoulders and the sting disappeared instantly and another feeling altogether stole through him.
Face tipped to his, she breathed, “Can you believe? Annie and Dougal. Mikey’s so right. It is a fairytale come true.”
Prentice noticed at once that she smelled of fruit.
Any other drunken person smelled unpleasantly drunk. Only Elle could smell like fruit when she was smashed.
And the smell was intoxicating.
“What have you been drinking?” he asked, his hands going to her hips for the sake of comfort and finding far more than comfort when his fingers curled into her soft flesh.
“Lemon, lime cordial and vodka,” she answered. “Annie introduced me to them and they’re great. They taste like candy.”
“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 fucking 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 fuck 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 cleavage.
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 co
unter.
“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.
So that was what he was doing wrong.
She didn’t wait for him to answer, she moved into his space, shuffling him out of the way at the same time deftly confiscating the over-filled coffee filter.
“I’ll make the coffee,” she muttered, dumping half the grounds back into the canister. She then reached into the spice drawer, pulled out cinnamon and sprinkled it on the top. She put the filter in the machine, slapped it to and flipped the switch.
Cinnamon.
That was why her coffee was so heavenly.
That and the fact that there wasn’t far too much coffee in the filter.
She took down mugs and he settled in watching her. She settled back to ignoring him.
This made him smile.
“What are you making the kids for breakfast today?” he asked.
She blanched visibly at the mention of food and then swallowed.
“Don’t know,” she muttered to the coffeepot which she was watching with avid but feigned fascination.
He decided to torture her. “A fry up?”
She curled her fingers around the counter and swallowed yet again before whispering, “I don’t think so.”
He bit back his laughter.
Then he called, “Elle,” and watched, with some surprise, as her body grew tight.
She turned only her head to him.
“I’ll make you toast and I’ll make the kids breakfast,” he told her.
“I can cook.”
“Aye, you can, very well. This morning, however, you aren’t.”
She turned her body to him and repeated, “I can cook.”
“Aye, but this morning you aren’t.”
Her shoulders went straight. “I am.”
“You aren’t.”
“I am,” she snapped and then winced at her own intensity.
He grinned, walked the stride it took him to get to her, put his hands to her waist and lifted her. She let out a startled cry and her fingers curled on his shoulders before her ass hit the counter. He placed both of his hands on the counter on either side of her hips, leaned his face to hers and spoke.
“You aren’t. Sit. Stay.”
Her eyes flashed with anger, her mouth opened to speak, he felt another, deeper, desire to kiss her and then her gaze darted over his shoulder.
Her pale face grew paler and her hands shot from his shoulders as if his skin burned.
Prentice straightened, looked over his shoulder and saw Sally and Jason both standing there, both their eyes locked on Prentice and Elle.
How had they missed the children arriving?
Sally looked like Sally, happy and carefree (though silent).
Jason looked astounded.
Prentice moved to Isabella’s side, a comfortable distance away and he held his son’s gaze.
Then he watched as Jason’s lips twitched to the side, his eyes grew bright then they dropped to the floor but Prentice could have sworn he saw a smirk before they did.
“What’s for breakfast, Miss Bella?” Sally asked, skipping into the kitchen.
“Elle’s sitting this one out. I’m making porridge,” Prentice answered, reaching for the bread to make Elle’s toast.
Jason’s head shot up and the smirk was gone. “Elle?”
“Aye,” Prentice replied immediately.
That was who she was no matter who she wanted him to think she was.
Prentice kept his eyes locked on his son and watched as Jason’s gaze slid to Elle and the smirk returned before he went to the fridge to get the milk.
“Can we call her Elle?” Sally asked.
“No,” Prentice answered.
“Can we sit on the counter like Miss Bella’s doing while we eat our porridge?” Sally asked.
“No,” Prentice repeated.
“Can we have chocolate cake instead of porridge?” Sally went on.
“No,” both Prentice and Elle answered.
“But there’s a lot of cake left!” Sally cried. “If we don’t have it for breakfast, we’re never going to eat it all!”
“Sally, stool. Sit. Now,” Prentice ordered.
His daughter pouted and flounced to a stool.
Prentice went back to preparing the toast but his eyes caught on Elle and he saw she was watching Sally with a soft, warm, amused expression on her pale face.
And it hit him she wasn’t drunkenly declaring her love for his children last night. She was honestly doing it.
Prentice, luckily, had no idea the depth of longing of a motherless child who had no ability to have children of their own.
Or, he had no idea until he saw that look on Elle’s face and realized that, within days, she’d fallen in love with his children.
Fucking hell, he thought.
They really needed to talk.
He made the toast, he made porridge, they ate and the kids scrambled up the stairs to get their bags.
Elle hopped off the counter and started clearing the dishes.
“Dougal’s stag night is tonight and the kids –” Prentice started while watching her move through his kitchen.
He didn’t finish.
Her head whipped toward him and she said quickly, “I’ll watch them.”
That warm weight settled in his gut again.
And it felt good again.
He walked close to her, put his hand to her neck and he felt her still under his fingers.
“I’ve already arranged for Debs to pick them up from school. They’re spending the night with her,” Prentice said.
He saw disappointment, it was fleeting but he saw it.
His fingers curled into her neck.
When he spoke, he did it softly, “I’ll come home tonight before I go out with Dougal, take you out to an early dinner and we’ll talk.”
“I think I’ll be busy with Annie,” she replied, pulling her neck away and starting to move but he caught her hips.
She stopped, stiffened and looked at him, face again paler.
“You just said you’d watch the kids,” he reminded her.
“I forgot about Annie,” she lied.
“Elle –” he began.
She cut him off. “I’m here for Annie.”
“We need to talk.” His voice was firm.
That’s when he lost her. Her face went cold.
“No, Prentice, we don’t need to do anything. I need to get through two more days of this. Then I’m gone.”
His fingers flexed at her hips as his good humor slipped at her words. “You’re not.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, Prentice, I am.”
He got closer and his burgeoning anger strengthened. “Isabella, you’re not leaving my children behind like you left me behind.”
He watched her head jer
k and she flinched.
Then she recovered.
“It’s for the best.”
Yes, he was getting angry.
“How do you figure that?” he returned.
“Trust me,” she shot back.
He said it even though he wasn’t certain he meant it.
Not anymore.
“Not likely.”
She pulled her hips from his hands and gazed up at him, her face remote. “You just proved my point,” she replied softly. “Like I said, it’s for the best.”
Before he could say more or figure out how in the fuck their situation degenerated so quickly, she turned on her bare foot and disappeared.
* * * * *
“This is the worst stag night in history with the best man standing out in the freaking cold drinking alone.”
Dougal’s words made Prentice’s body jolt as his mind was torn from Elle.
Prentice looked at his friend.
Dougal was smiling but his smile faded when he saw Prentice’s face. When Prentice saw the humor die out of Dougal’s expression, he decided that tonight was not going to be about Prentice or Elle or Jason or his dead wife Fiona.
It had been about all that shit for far too long.
It was going to be about Dougal.
“Sorry, mate. Have a lot on my mind,” Prentice murmured, stepping away from the railing.
“I can tell,” Dougal replied softly.
Prentice came abreast of his friend then he smiled.
Then he said, “Let’s get you drunk.”
Dougal watched him closely.
Then Dougal grinned.
Then they went inside and got drunk.
Chapter Eight
Aromatherapy
Prentice
The taxi slid to a halt and Prentice paid Harry, the driver, a man he’d known his whole life.
He exited the car and walked up to his house, seeing most of the windows were dark but the outside light was on and he saw soft light shining from the windows in the vestibule.
Elle had lit his way.
Seeing that, the decision he’d made at the pub cemented in his brain.
He and Elle were going to talk.
And they were going to do it now.
Prentice was drunk. Not rat-arsed but he certainly was not sober.
And he didn’t give a fuck.
He opened the door, switched off the outside light, flipped the switch on the light in the vestibule and walked into the great room.