The one I rarely open.
The “special occasion” drawer.
Before I can overthink it, I pull out a silk camisole I’ve never worn and slip it over my head.
Soft. Light. Definitely not winter-appropriate.
Perfect.
I unclip my hair and let it fall loose, bending my head and running my fingers through it so it lands messy and a little wild.
Then I head back to the hall, grab the empty basket, and make my way to the dryer. The kids’ clothes have been sitting in there since Friday.
Instead of sitting on the couch like I usually do, I drag the armchair a few inches to the side and make space on the floor.
I sit down, not directly in front of the TV, because that would be too obvious.
No.
I make sure I’m in in Logan’s line of sight without being in the way.
He glances over.
Then immediately looks back at the screen.
Smirking to myself, I dump the warm clothes onto the carpet and start sorting them.
Totally innocent.
Logan
Jesus Christ. How long does folding clothes take?
I try to keep my eyes on the TV. Really, I do.
But every few seconds they drift right back to the floor where Jess is sitting, surrounded by piles of laundry like she’s organizing some kind of tiny fabric empire.
First, she separated Myles’s clothes from River’s.
Okay. Fine. That makes sense.
But then she had to sort them by shirts, pants, socks, and God knows what else. Which apparently requires bending forward every thirty seconds.
And stretching.
So much stretching
The black little number she’s wearing definitely isn’t helping.
I mean, I already saw them earlier in the hallway. Full view. No mystery there.
But there’s something way worse about seeing them now, covered, technically, but hidden in plain sight. The silk clings just enough to leave nothing to the imagination.
It’s torture.
No.
I force my eyes back to the screen.
