Page 52 of Isabella and the Slipper

He stood behind her and reached around to pick up a purple one. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. “What if I combined my favorite flavor”—he picked up a green one—“with my least favorite one? Would it still taste good?”

Isabella swallowed. “I don’t know.”

He popped them in his mouth and chewed, making a face. “My rainbow is lacking. What’s your favorite and least favorite?”

“Red is my favorite.”

He pulled out a red one. “And your least?”

“Yellow.”

He dug in the bowl until he found a yellow one. “Okay, turn around and open up.”

She did as he said and closed her eyes as well, her eyelashes resting on her cheeks. He placed the candies on her tongue. “Now, chew.”

Her eyes flew open as her jaw worked, a smile forming on her face. “I taste a robust rainbow.”

He stared at her lips and suddenly had a strong urge to taste the rainbow, too. He took a step back to stop himself from making a mistake. “Guess I just need to find a better combination.”

They ate Skittles and worked on their paper until it was almost midnight. Chase gathered up his things and stuffed them into his backpack. “Let me drive you home. I’ll stop a block away again.”

Isabella gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

They turned off all the lights in the gallery, and Isabella locked the door. The moonlight shone on her face, and he tried not to look at her lips. If he wasn’t careful, he’d do something to scare her off.

He opened the car door for her and then slid into his seat, clicking on the stereo. He had his favorite Beatles CD in, and “I Want to Hold Your Hand” came on. He held in a groan.

He tried to take his mind off his desire to put the moves on Isabella. “Do you think your stepmother will be happy you got everything arranged?”

“I hope so.” Isabella stared off, not allowing her gaze to meet his.

She fiddled with her sleeve, and he noticed a bruise on her upper arm, peeking out. It looked like finger marks. He pulled out into traffic, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his skin was tight on his knuckles. When he turned onto Isabella’s street, he slowed the car.

“If I ask you something, would you answer truthfully?”

Her face blanched, and she clutched the strap of her backpack. “Maybe.”

Well, at least that was an honest answer. “Does your stepmother ever hurt you?”

Visible relief flooded over her, and her shoulders fell. “No. She’s mean, but not in that way.” She glanced at her house.

“So, the bruise on your arm ... ?” He wasn’t sure how to finish the question, so he let it hang.

Her hand flew to her arm, covering the purple marks. “Well ...” She didn’t say anything more but didn’t have to.

Chase suddenly wanted to punch someone. Preferably Isabella’s stepmother. He clenched his teeth to avoid saying something he’d regret. The seconds ticked by as words tumbled around in his head. “That’s physical abuse, Isabella.”

“I guess I should have said she doesn’t usually get like that.” She drew into herself like she wanted to disappear from his car.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

She stared down at her lap. “You’re right, though. I need to stop defending her.”

“You could go to the police. Press charges. Maybe they’d remove you from the house.”

Isabella’s gaze snapped up to his. “For a bruise on the arm? I’d be right back with her after a week—if they’d remove me at all. And she’d be furious.” She blinked, and fear shone in her eyes. “It could get much, much worse,” she whispered.

Chase clenched his hands into fists. Was she right? Would they put her back into that situation? He wasn’t sure, but understood why Isabella wouldn’t want to take that chance.

---