CHAPTER 23
At the breakfast table, Isla’s absence was notable, though not
unusual. Normally, Maggie would quietly prepare a plate and take it
up to Isla’s room, sparing her the effort of joining the morning
routine. But today, an unspoken agreement passed between Maggie
and Graham as they exchanged a glance across the table. Without a
word, Maggie rose from her seat, determination written on her face.
“I’ll go get her,” she announced firmly, leaving Graham to sip his
coffee with a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Ten minutes later, Maggie returned, escorting Isla into the dining room like a prisoner of war forced to face her captor. Isla shuffled in, clearly displeased, her grumpy expression a stormcloud of
indignation. She slid into her seat with a dramatic sigh, her lips pushed into a pout that could rival the sulkiest child.
Her displeasure was as evident as the chaotic state of her hair, a wild
tangle of black and brown curls that framed her face in unruly defiance. She hadn’t even bothered to run a brush through it, an
obvious declaration of her protest against being dragged out of the
sanctuary of her room.
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From beneath her thick lashes, Isla shot a glare in Graham’s
direction, her dark eyes smoldering with annoyance. The combination
of her messy hair, pouty lips, and rebellious demeanor might have
been meant to deter him, but instead, it only amused him. No, more
than that–it charmed him.
For some reason, the sight of Isla sitting across from him, her
youthful face glowing with the freshness of the morning, made
Graham’s heart slam against his ribcage. Her pouty pink lips, framed
by a tangle of unruly curls, and her clear, makeup–free complexion
gave her an innocent, unworldly look that tugged at something deep
inside him. It was moments like these that made him acutely aware of
just how young she was–and how precarious this all could become if
he didn’t tread carefully. She was like a glass statue: delicate, fragile,
and requiring the utmost care. One wrong move, and he could shatter
everything.
“I’m not a child, Maggie,” Isla snapped, her voice breaking through
his reverie. She shifted her fiery gaze from him to the housekeeper,
her indignation now redirected. “Stop hovering over me like I’m going
to run off the moment you blink.”
Maggie, unflinching, planted her hands firmly on her hips and raised
an eyebrow in challenge. “I don’t know about that,” she said, her tone
carrying the seasoned authority of someone who had raised more
children than she cared to count. “For someone insisting over and
over again that they’re not a child, you’re doing a fine job acting like
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one. Pouting, stomping, and refusing to eat breakfast? That’s as
childish as it gets.”
Isla’s glare deepened, her lips pressing into a stubborn line. “I’m not
hungry,” she shot back, her voice laced with irritation. “That’s all I
said.”
Maggie gave an exasperated huff but didn’t relent. “Not hungry, my
foot,” she said, her sharp tone softened by the warmth in her eyes.
“You’re just being difficult because you didn’t get your way this
morning. Now eat your breakfast before I start spoon–feeding you like
you’re five years old.”
Graham couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips, though he
quickly hid it behind his coffee cup. The exchange was almost
comical, Isla’s fiery spirit clashing head–on with Maggie’s no-
nonsense demeanor. Yet, beneath the humor, he felt a pang of
something deeper–an odd mix of protectiveness and guilt. She was
still so young, despite her fiery protests to the contrary. And if he
wasn’t careful, if he didn’t handle this right, he could hurt her in
ways neither of them could recover from.
But Isla, true to form, wasn’t one to back down so easily. She crossed
her arms over her chest and sat back in her chair, her defiance evident
in every line of her posture. “Fine,” she said, her tone dripping with
reluctance. “I’ll eat. But only because you won’t stop nagging me.”
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Maggie opened her mouth, ready to fire back, but Graham raised a
hand, a silent signal for her to step aside. With a quick nod and a
wary glance at the tension lingering in the room, she left them alone.
The silence that followed was thick, stretching between them like an invisible wall. Graham continued eating his toast and eggs, his
movements unhurried, while Isla sat across from him, fuming with all
the quiet intensity of a storm ready to break.
“You should try the baklava,” he said eventually, his voice calm and
soft, as though speaking too loudly might set her off. “One of my
clients sent it from New York. You might like it.”
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
