Page 89 of All Tied Down

EMERSON

“Why are you smiling like that?” I ask as I fold a pair of yoga pants from the pile I dumped onto the bed. I ran it through another quick dry cycle after I forgot about it this afternoon so everything wouldn’t be so wrinkled.

Well, I didn’t forget so much as Garrett distracted me for quite a while after Theo finally left.

“I kind of just figured you had a service in Chicago do your laundry.”

“I use one for my work clothes.”

Garrett picks up a pair of his jeans, his lips twitching as he folds them in a way that I’m positive Theo would be horrified by.

“I mean all your clothes.”

“Are you suggesting I’m incapable of doing simple household chores, Garrett?” I ask, mildly offended by the insinuation. “Like laundry?”

“I’m just saying that I think it’s a nice balance that you run the world and also match socks.”

Gaping at him, I throw said pair of socks at him which he bats down onto the bed as he chuckles.

“You’re sleeping on the couch.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” he croons, his lips curving up into a sexy smirk that he’s hoping will distract me from the fact that he thinks I’m too good to do laundry.

“You’ve seen me do dishes. And cook. Why would you think I don’t do laundry?”

“We’ve just never done this. It’s very domesticated.”

“Couch.”

He laughs and shakes his head, grabbing a white T-shirt and doing whatever one step above balling up the fabric would be.

Now it’s his turn to frown. “What?”

“What is that?” I motion toward the mangled shirt.

“A shirt.” His frown deepens.

“Right, but what did you do to it?”

“I folded it.”

“Garrett, that is a raccoon making a nest.” It’s my turn to laugh as he picks up my discarded socks and throws them back at me.

“It is not,” he protests, unable to keep the smile from his lips. “I’ve always done it this way and it’s always been fine.” When I widen my eyes, he rolls his. “Usually.”

“Except…”

“Except when Theo gets annoyed and either rewashes my shirts that are ‘too wrinkled for a functioning adult to be wearing’ or he irons them.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“You’ve met him; of course he does. Sometimes when he’s really stressed, he color codes my closet.”

“Are Colt and Roan like this?” I ask in amused disbelief. “There’s no way I married the man-child out of the three of you.”

“I am not a man-child.” He growls but it’s not sexy—it’s childish like he wanted to stomp his foot but settled for this instead.

It’s now my favorite riled-up version of him.