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 counter.
“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.