“Fine by me.”
“Alright,” she breathed.
“You can just ask me where everything is,” I pointed out, going ahead of her to the second cupboard against the wall.
“Right,” she answered.
We had every ingredient we needed on the marble island in a minute. She grabbed the whisk and bowls and was startingto mix the dry ingredients. All the while, I stood beside her, passing her spoons and whatnot.
“You don’t have to…”
“I’m helping because I want to. I’m tired of saying it every minute. Can we actually start making the pancakes? I mean, frying.”
She picked up the pan I had placed by the sink and went past me to the gas cooker. My eyes followed her, catching the way her movement showed off her hips despite the fact that my shirt wasn’t see-through.
She glanced toward the island and caught me staring. Something heated passed between us as she returned my stare, mouth slightly parted like she was about to say something.
She suddenly cleared her throat and pointed towards the supplies on the kitchen island. “Pass me the butter, please.”
“Yeah,” I answered, doing her bidding.
As she greased the pan and I passed her the batter, I couldn’t bring myself to step away from her.
So I casually moved behind her.
“Have to make sure nothing is burning,” I remarked, making her chuckle as she turned it over in the pan.
She moved the first pancake to the flat plate. Interrupting my thoughts of needing to step back before she started to feel awkward, she turned around, her butt brushing my body as she did.
I wasn’t just surprised; I was stupefied.
But I craved her more than anything I could think of in that moment. So my hands automatically moved to her waist.
“It’s getting cold,” she pointed out, looking up at me with an amused expression and a fork of pancake.
I didn’t even see her cut it.
I opened my mouth, and she brought the fork to my lips, her eyes on mine.
I forgot how to chew for a second.
“How’s it?”
“Very good,” I answered before swallowing.
“Hm.”
She turned around, her attention back on the pancakes she was making.
As we carried the meal to the dining room, our hands found every excuse to touch each other, from my dusting a speck of flour from the side of her face to her brushing her hand against me to pick up the honey jar.
Isabella was already controlling my life in a way I didn’t like. And I had no idea how to stop it. Worse, I couldn’t read why she was doing what she was doing.
Well, I’d play along until I could figure her out.
Chapter Nine
Isabella’s POV
