“You’ve done enough,” he growls at me.
Why is he so damn grumpy?
Without another word, I gracefully drop the paint roller onto the tray and take Amelia’s brush, placing it with mine before we head for the stairs.
I carry Amelia up the stairs, not wanting her to leave a trail of paint on the floor, banister, or walls. At least I can be careful.
She strips down in the bathroom, and I run the shower, waiting for the temperature to rise before she steps into the stall.
I help her scrub the paint off, using extra soap to get the bright pink from her hair, skin, and just about everywhere imaginable.
For using such a small brush, Amelia seems to be wearing more paint than she had in her cup.
“That was fun.” Amelia beams up at me with the widest grin I’ve ever seen.
I shouldn’t be surprised that she enjoyed painting. The kid probably loves everything that involves getting messy. After she’s clean, I send her to her bedroom to play quietly while I hop in the shower and scrub the paint off my own body.
It takes longer. The paint has dried even more since Amelia’s shower. I scrub at the remnants, most of it on my hands, a little at the bottom of my hair. The shirt Levi loaned me is toast, but that’s his fault. At least my jean shorts somehow managed to survive the onslaught of paint since his shirt covered the denim.
I finish the shower and shut the water off. Opening the glass door, I grumble when there are no clean towels in the bathroom. I used the last one on Amelia.
“Levi!” I shout, but he doesn’t come.
He’s busy painting, or maybe he’s ignoring me. What bug crawled up his ass today?
I squeeze the excess moisture from my hair before cracking the bathroom door open. I make a beeline for the laundry room when I hear Levi’s footsteps coming up the stairs.
Shit.
I hurry to the laundry room and slam the door shut, exhaling a sigh of relief.
Except now I have towels, but my clothes are still in the bathroom.
I swear I have the worst luck.
I open the dryer, retrieving a towel when the laundry door breezes open. I kick it shut with my foot.
“Clare, what the hell is going on?”
“I need a towel,” I say, yanking one from the clean laundry. I wrap it hastily around myself. If I were forty pounds lighter, it might fit around my body, maybe. I swear the man bought towels only appropriate for his little princess.
Not that he knew he was a father before this week.
I grab a second towel, using it to finish covering my midsection, suspecting he’s still standing on the opposite side of the door.
Once I’m covered, but not exactly dressed, I open the laundry room door. Levi is standing on the opposite side. He’s still covered in paint, but he’s not wearing a shirt.
“I was just going to throw this in the laundry,” he says, balling up his T-shirt. “I should grab the clothes that you had too. Are they still in the bathroom?”
Before I can answer, he turns and heads for the bathroom, grabbing my dirty clothes along with Amelia’s, which are lying on the floor in a pile.
On top are my panties, the same red satin pair that he had tucked into his pocket just days ago.
Embarrassment burns my cheeks. It’s not like he doesn’t know I wear panties and a bra, but him seeing my undergarments makes me highly uncomfortable. It’s not like they’re tiny, scantily clad things.
“Don’t throw my panties and bra in with the paint stuff,” I say and then think better of it. I yank my underthings from the top of the pile.
“I know how to do laundry.”