Page 54 of Monster Among the Roses (Fairy Tale Quartet 1)

Her head jerked up, blue eyes blinking. Then she went back to work. “Morning.”

I watched her pluck a weed and then patiently fill the hole its absence had created with some fresh soil. Folding my arms over my chest, I chewed on the inside of my lip, silently willing her to look at me again. She didn’t.

After drawing in a deep, calming breath, I said, “Missed you on the trail this morning.”

She shrugged. The damn woman merely shrugged. “I didn’t feel like running.”

Okay. Fair enough. There were plenty of mornings I could’ve slept in and would’ve stayed in bed another hour. But I hadn’t, because I knew she’d be there waiting on me, counting on me to run with her, just as I’d counted on her to be there this morning.

And just like that, my anger snapped, fresh and new.

“Can we just talk about it?” I demanded, my tone no longer polite.

At last, Isobel glanced up. “Talk about what?”

I sent her a dry stare, not impressed by the act of ignorance.

“The kiss,” I bit out, watching her flinch at the word.

But she went back to work, using the back of a small spade to press the new earth into the old. “What about it?”

Well, at least she was allowing me to say what I wanted to say, which was exactly what I planned to do, anyway. “Everything feels awkward and stiff now. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think it is. You’ve avoided me ever since it happened. And now, you won’t even look me in the eye.”

She jerked her head up, looking me straight in the eye, even though her eyebrows pulled together with annoyance.

I knelt beside her, softening. “Just tell me if you’re okay or not.”

“I’m fine.” She trilled out a fake laugh and then wrinkled her brow as if she couldn’t believe I was even worried.

I lifted my eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

Another fake laugh. “Yes, I’m fine, Shaw. Whatever you’re imagining, it must really all be in your head, because nothing is wrong.”

My shoulders fell, disappointed she wasn’t going to talk about it. I refused to give up, though. So I said, “Bullshit.”

Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I said bullshit. If nothing is wrong, then why do I feel so shitty? Why do I feel as if I’ve made some horrible, awful, terrible mistake? You would tell me if I had, right?”

“Of course, but you didn’t—”

“Yes, I did. Something is wrong, and it’s my fault. I don’t know how I know it, but I know it, and I can’t figure out what it is. So you just need to buck up and tell me, so I’ll—”

“Oh my God, you stopped, okay? You stopped.”

At first, I thought she was telling me to stop, as in to shut up because my rant was driving her bonkers. But then I realized she was speaking in the past tense.

I blinked, thrown all off track.

“What?”

She flushed a deep purplish red with embarrassment. “Nothing,” she was quick to say, turning away.

But I caught her shoulder and urged her back around. “No. You said I stopped. I stopped what?”

Closing her eyes, she bowed her head. “Nothing,” she insisted. “It’s stupid and silly, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Isobel,” I murmured in quiet reprimand, leaning toward her until our brows were nearly touching. “I don’t care if it’s the wackiest thing in the world, I want to know. I need to know.”

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