That meant she needed a great outfit.
One part of her mind stopped the ridiculous rampaging thoughts of the other.
What was she thinking? She wasn’t trying to impress him with her style and flair.
She grabbed a pair of jeans and ran to the bureau and snatched a long-sleeved, dusty pink, thin, fitted t-shirt. She tugged these on and started to run from the room when she realized the towel was still wrapped around her hair.
She ran back, yanked off the towel and dragged a comb through her hair.
Then she started to run from the room again.
Then she ran back and pumped smoothing elixir into her hand, rubbed it through her hair and ran the comb back through.
Then she started to run from the room yet again.
Then she ran back, put on deodorant and spritzed on perfume and she began to run from the room.
Then, knowing she should ignore it (but she couldn’t ignore it), she ran back, folded the towel on the rack, made the bed and grabbed her clothes that were strewn around the room during the sexual festivities last night.
She noted that Prentice’s clothes were amongst hers and she grabbed those too thinking of him walking through the house in nothing but a towel, which caused her skin to start tingling.
Gathering their mingled clothes in itself was an act that caused her tingling skin to start to get warm as the memories of last night invaded.
With resolve, she ignored the tingling, the warmth and the memories.
Then she ran to the kitchen, stopping at the mudroom to toss their dirty clothes into the pile of unwashed laundry.
She’d flipped the switch on the coffeemaker when she heard Prentice calling her name.
She turned and looked to the top of the stairs.
He stood there barefoot, in jeans, his wet hair slicked back, his shirt unbuttoned all the way down, exposing his chest and stomach.
Her resolve to ignore the tingling and warmth slipped a hefty notch.
When she finally tore her gaze from his flat stomach and caught his eye, he bizarrely asked in an exasperated tone, “A little help up here?”
Then he turned and disappeared down the hall.
She stared at the place where she last saw him, slightly concerned about the frustration in his tone. Mostly her mind was busy deliberating on the fact that Prentice had asked for her to help him with something upstairs.
Upstairs, she had made beds, gathered clothes, vacuumed, tidied and put Sally to bed.
But in the mornings she made coffee and breakfast in the kitchen, never part of the family pandemonium upstairs that usually centered (from what she heard), one way or another, around Sally.
Upstairs was their space. Cameron family space. And, even making beds or reading to Sally, somehow, Isabella always felt like she was intruding.
But now, Prentice seemed to be inviting her upstairs, asking for “a little help”.
With only a moment’s hesitation, she ran up the stairs.
She found Prentice in Sally’s room, his shirt buttoned but not tucked in, his hands on his hips, his exasperated gaze on Sally.
Sally was dressed in the fancy, frilly flower girl dress she wore to Annie’s wedding. The dress was on backward, its skirt askew mainly because part of it was tucked into her little girl pants.
She was glowering at her father, clearly digging her heels in about something and it didn’t take an experienced parent to know it was the dress.
“Sally, I’m no’ going to say it again, take off the dress,” Prentice demanded, his voice firm, his patience obviously spent.