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It was a tiny indication that he cared, that on some level he wanted reassurance, and so she smiled brightly and nodded. “I’m fine.” She studied his face for a moment and then tilted her head to the side. “Are you?”
He was quiet and she held her breath, feeling as though he might be about to confide something to her. But then he simply nodded and sipped his coffee. “Of course. I’ll see you later.”
It was a definite dismissal, and it didn’t occur to Isabella to fight it. It was proof that nothing had changed for him – nothing whatsoever. They’d had sex, sure, but she was still just an unwanted guest in his home, a woman he’d rather be rid of than not. A shiver ran the length of her spine, reminding her of the night she’d been stranded outside, and she left his office as quickly as she could, seeking warmth and the oblivion of her thoughts.
Work provided that for both of them. While Gabe spent most of the day in his office, Isabella took to the kitchen, setting her phone up on a makeshift tripod and recording an episode of her baking a Christmas pudding. She didn’t need to create new content while she was travelling – there were more than enough videos queued and ready to go – but this was something Isabella had always done, and having the ability to pull together a casual film clip was fun and distracting. It was almost dark by the time the pudding was finished and she’d sliced into it, serving it with homemade custard and Brandy sauce, then edited the video into a five minute YouTube clip.
She was contemplating dinner when Gabe entered the kitchen, his eyes locking to hers as he stepped through the door, so her heart began to accelerate, and her skin flushed to the roots of her hair.
“Hi.” Her voice was high-pitched. She swallowed to bring moisture back to her mouth.
He nodded once, a hand casually thrown into his pocket,
the coffee cup from the morning in his other.
“Let me take that.” She walked towards him, her nervousness increasing with every step, her stomach flipping and flopping awkwardly.
“I’ve got it.” But he didn’t move. He stayed where he was and as though he were a celestial body with his own gravitational pull, she was drawn to him almost against her will, managing to stop only when she was almost touching him.
“How was your day?”
She blinked up, not sure what she’d expected him to say, but it wasn’t that.
“Um, good. I made a video.”
A single dark brow lifted so her lips quirked in an unexpected smile.
“Not that kind of video,” she said with a roll of her eyes, pressing her palm to his chest and pushing gently.
He caught her wrist, holding it where it was, his eyes continuing to bore into hers.
“No?”
“No.” She shook her head slowly. “A cooking video.” Isabella cast a glance over her shoulder. “Of a pudding.”
Something flexed in his eyes. “A Christmas pudding?”
“What else, at this time of year?”
A muscle jerked low in his jaw and he released her hand, taking a small step backwards before moving to the sink. She watched with consternation as he washed his mug, then hers, and a few other things that she’d left on the bench.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, belatedly, wondering at his obvious change in demeanour.
“It’s fine. I’m here.”
She watched him for a moment, then said softly, “I thought I’d make a potato bake and salmon for dinner. I saw you have some fillets in the freezer and I’ve got a caper sauce recipe I’ve been meaning to try.” Her brain began to tick furiously and she continued with breathless enthusiasm, “In fact, there’s more than enough salmon for me to turn some into gravlax for Christmas morning. Presuming I’m still here which I guess I will be,” she finished in a rush, looking towards the window and the blizzard swirling beyond the glass.
He was quiet, and didn’t turn to face her.
Butterflies mutated into full-blown nerves. “Gabe?”
His shoulders were stiff. She waited, watching, and eventually he turned his head a little to the side, showing his autocratic profile.
“Don’t worry about dinner for me. I’m going to go for a run.”
Her stomach swooped to her toes. His tone was so cold, she couldn’t help but feel pushed aside. It wasn’t his fault, she reminded herself. He’d told her in no uncertain terms what last night had been about – he’d made no promises and had gone out of his way to make sure she understood that it hadn’t been a prelude to anything more than sex.
Logically, she shouldn’t have been hurt or even disappointed, but she was. Her heart felt as though it had been stitched together wrongly, and the sharp sting of tears threatened to fill her eyes with moisture.
