Page 287 of Enigma: The Complete Collection
My eyes snap to hers, bewildered as to why she’s inviting Theresa into our home. Why in the world would she want any association with the lady who framed her for murder?
When she nudges her head at the lower half of Theresa’s body, I realize why she reprimanded me for cursing. A little boy with dark brown hair has his arms wrapped around his mother’s leg, hiding from my furious scowl.
“His only wish was to see his father for Christmas,” Theresa comments in a snarky tone.
As I battle to hold in my offensive language in front of the small child, Isabelle bobs down in front of him. Her nurturing chocolate eyes easily gain his attention, but if it didn’t, I’m sure her smile will. “Hi, what’s your name?”
“Jeremiah,” he answers, his voice quivering with nerves.
“That’s a lovely name. I’m Isabelle. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jeremiah.” He moves a step closer to her, coming out from the shelter of his mother’s leg when she asks, “Do you like cookies?”
His eyes widen before he eagerly nods.
After running her finger down the crinkle in his nose, Isabelle’s eyes drift between Theresa and me. “I’ll take him into the kitchen so you two can talk.”
The incessant scowl Theresa regularly wears is firmly in place as she nods her head at Isabelle’s suggestion. My jaw ticks, furious she can’t even be polite when Isabelle is striving to save her son from witnessing an argument on Christmas morning.
When I nod, Isabelle guides Jeremiah toward the kitchen, her spare hand squeezing my shoulder on the way by. Her strides stop when I seize her hand from mid-drop to lift it to my mouth. When I kiss the edge of her palm and place it over my heart, her pulse thumps through her veins
“I love you too,” she mouths before she continues into the kitchen with Jeremiah looking up at her in awe.
CHAPTER22
ISABELLE
Ilift Jeremiah to sit on the sparkling countertop before moving toward the fridge. “Would you like a glass of milk with your cookies?” I keep my tone friendly since he's nervously fiddling with the hem of his Christmas sweater.
“Yes, please.”
I smile before grabbing the carton of milk out of the fridge. After snagging two glasses out of the drying rack, I pace to stand next to him. Jeremiah has big ocean-blue eyes and brown hair that curls around his ears. His rosy cheeks, plump lips, and small dimple in the middle of his chin make him utterly adorable. He’s one of the cutest kids I’ve ever seen.
“How old are you, Jeremiah?”
His hands tremble when he accepts the glass of milk I'm holding out for him. “Four, turning five.”
Even under the awkward circumstances of our meeting, a grin tugs my lips high when his sip of milk leaves a milk mustache on his top lip. I turn toward the oven when the timer dings, announcing the baked treats Harlow supplied me with for our brunch are ready.
Jeremiah’s eyes bulge when I say, “The cookies are ready.” I remove the three trays of baked goods to cool before placing four M&M cookies onto a white porcelain plate. “They need to cool a little.”
He licks his lips while nodding his cute little head. My ears prick when Theresa’s raised voice bellows into the kitchen. I’m not surprised when I don’t hear Isaac’s response. It’s his low, calm voice that causes the most quivering response from me. That’s when I know I'm in the most trouble. If his tone is low, that’s when he's the most furious.
My eyes sling back to Jeremiah when he asks, “Is my daddy mad at my mommy?”
My heart clutches when I see tears welling in his eyes. “No, sweetheart. No one is angry. It’s Christmas. Even the Grinch grows a heart Christmas morning.”
“And Mr. Scrooge,” he chimes in.
I giggle. “And Mr. Scrooge.”
I check the temperature of the cookies, ensuring they're cool before handing one to Jeremiah. All the moisture in his eyes disappears when he munches on the cookie while sipping his glass of milk. As he fills his hungry tummy, I run my eyes over his face, searching for any similarities between him and Isaac. The cleft chin is the biggest indication that Isaac could be his father, but Isaac is sterile, so that places Theresa’s claims of paternity into doubt.
A short time later, Theresa enters the kitchen. She’s as obnoxious as ever. “It’s time to go, Jeremiah.”
Nodding, he locks his big blue eyes with me. “Thank you for the cookie, Isabelle.” I smile from the way he stumbles out my name.
“You’re very welcome.”
When I help him down from the counter, the stranglehold on my heart intensifies when he wraps his arms around my legs to hug me tight. “Merry Christmas.”
