Prentice decided if Isabella wanted to play house and that came with good food and clean clothes, he’d f**king well let her.
Once he’d finished with the butter and syrup, he walked back across the kitchen and resumed his position next to Isabella while she cooked another pancake.
He thought, but wasn’t sure, he heard her suck in an exasperated breath.
This pleased him.
Then he tasted his pancake. It was superb.
He trained his eyes on his children. “If you’re done, dishes in the sink, beds made, showers, let’s go.”
Jason slouched off the stool and slunk to the sink, carrying his plate. Sally followed him doing the same but with much more enthusiasm.
Jason headed up the stairs.
Isabella gracefully strolled across the kitchen and took Sally’s plate from her.
“When are you going to give me a manicure?” Sally asked as Isabella turned to the sink and deposited Sally’s plate in it.
“We’ll find some time, honey.”
“Can we do it before the picnic?” Sally pushed.
“Sally,” Prentice warned but Isabella’s hand had lifted and she grabbed a thick hank of Sally’s hair and started twisting it gently around her finger.
She leaned down and smiled at his daughter, getting close to her face, this, unfortunately, gave Prentice an indication of just how short her nightie was as her dressing gown rode up and he saw more of her shapely thigh but he still didn’t catch a glimpse of the nightie.
Isabella spoke softly, taking his mind off her thigh (and ass and nightie).
“We’ll see, Sally. Do as your father said now. Okay?”
Prentice’s daughter knew that no’s came swiftly and maybes usually meant yes. Therefore she beamed at Isabella, nodded, turned and raced up the stairs.
Prentice finished his pancake while Isabella cooked the next one, alternately tidying the kitchen.
When it was done, she wordlessly slid it on his plate as if he was a statue holding a platter to display her glorious pancake. She switched the stove off and slid the skillet to another burner.
“Aren’t you having one?” he asked as he walked back to the counter for the butter and syrup.
“No,” she replied distractedly and he turned from his task to see her taking the bowl in which she’d mixed the batter to the sink.
It was empty.
“Isabella, have this one,” he offered.
She slowly turned and stared, aghast, at his plate. Then she carefully arranged her features, shook her head and turned again to the sink.
“No, thank you. I’ll have some toast.”
His annoyance returned.
He walked to her and demanded, “Isabella, take it.”
She didn’t look at him, busy rinsing dishes. “I’m fine, Prentice.”
His annoyance flared to anger.
“Christ, just eat it.”