Page 80 of Ice Princesses
I let out a small breath.
“That obvious?”
“Painfully so.”
Her thumb is still resting lightly at my waist, like she forgot to move it after the kiss. The contact is gentle, grounding. She fits againstme too easily.
I look past her for a second, towards the trees.
“I didn’t come here to make out with you in the backyard,” I say.
Isabella hums thoughtfully.
“That’s disappointing,” she replies.
Before I can say anything else, she grabs me by the wrist. My eyebrows jump in surprise as she tugs me towards the sliding door.
“Isa—”
The house is cooler, the shift from sun to shade immediate. I let myself be dragged without much resistance, laughing softly under my breath. She steers me to the couch at the front of the house.
“Sit.”
She drops onto the cushions with exaggerated ease, still smiling.
Natalie Portman, who is sprawled luxuriously across the middle of the sofa like he owns the place, opens one eye in mild offense.
“Sorry,” Isabella tells the cat, nudging him gently aside. “You’re going to have to move.”
The cat flicks his tail with the weary dignity of someone used to human incompetence and hops down onto the rug. Isabella doesn’t hesitate. She pats the seat with her hand, then as soon as I’m next to her, she shifts closer, curling into my side like she’s been doing it for years. One leg tucks under her, her shoulder settling comfortably against my chest.
The familiarity of it catches me off guard.
“How was your week?” I ask.
It comes out softer than I expect, like everything with this woman. Simple, casual. Like we’ve done this before.
Isabella huffs out a quiet breath that feels suspiciously close to a laugh.
“You were there,” she says, and I feel her smile against my shoulder.
“Not like this,” I reply, glancing down at her.
That earns me a small shift—her head tilting just enough that she can look at me properly now.
“Busy.” She scrunches her nose. “Long.”
“That bad?”
Her mouth curves faintly.
“Not bad.” She pauses. “Crowded.”
“They didn’t help,” I say, lightly.
There’s a beat, long enough that it makes me think she’s going to deflect. Instead, her hand moves and her fingers search for mine, lacing them and placing them on my thigh.
“No,” she replies. “They rarely do.”
