Isobel, whose cheeks began to burn, ignored him, keeping her attention on Elijah. “Not fondue. Souls, maybe.” “Souls,” he repeated dryly. “And tears,” she added. “And dreams. And hopes.” “Tears and dreams and hopes,” he parroted. “Right.” “You look like you’d eat me alive.” When his expression suddenly went blank, she let her smile break free, battering her lashes at him. “That, Mr Reed, is how you flirt.”
