Logan wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand but all he succeeded in was smearing paint on his face instead. He groaned inwardly as he set down the brush and paint can.
Had anybody had told him, say, a year ago that one day he'd be painting the picket fence of his own little house, Logan would probably have died laughing. But here he was, jeans bearing smudges of paint, laughter drifting over to him from the small house behind him. He scoffed. He'd become everything he had loathed - and he found he kinda liked it.
Marie came down the stairs from the patio, wearing their daughter in a sling on her back and carrying a tray with lemonade. She looked good. She looked happy. And that, surprisingly, mattered more than his admittedly wounded pride.
She smiled at him. "You got somethin' there, sugar." She pointed at his forehead, offering him a handkerchief she'd whipped up out of nowhere.
Logan wiped at the paint, then planted a kiss on her nose. "Thanks, darlin'." "Any time," she whispered against his lips before kissing him. When she drew back, a smirk that went beyond snarky graced her lips.
"What?"
"Jean called," she said, still with that smirk. "They're coming up here for Thanksgiving."
Logan rolled his eyes. "Define 'they'."
"Oh, just her, Scott, Storm... The gang." She chanced a glance at the fence behind him. "Might wanna get that finished, why doncha." And still grinning like an idiot, she returned to the house.
Logan groaned. Scooter was going to have a field day with this.
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