Prodigal Daughter
Copyright© 2025 by DB86
Chapter 20
Elise was painting Justin’s room, singing along to a song from her phone’s playlist and shaking her bottom while she did. She had watched a YouTube tutorial, and painting wasn’t as hard as she’d expected. You just wet the roller and move it up and down in the same direction. Perfect.
Marshall had taken Justin to Middletown for a checkup with the pediatrician, so she was home alone.
She leaned back to admire her work—without realizing she was standing on a creaky wooden ladder. Suddenly, it shifted beneath her, and she crashed to the floor with a loud thump.
“What the hell was all that ruckus?” a voice called from downstairs.
Damn. Bonnie.
Elise winced as she heard the heavy footsteps approaching, followed by a hearty laugh.
“Are you okay, princess? Did you fall off your throne?”
Elise sat up and rubbed her lower back. Her shoulder throbbed.
“Come on, I brought you some pie,” Bonnie said, extending a hand to help her up.
“Ow. Ow. Ow.” Elise straightened slowly.
Bonnie took one look at her knees and gave a low whistle. “You took the top layer of skin right off.”
Elise looked down and grimaced at the sight of her scraped and bloody knees. “No wonder it hurts like hell.”
“I told Marshall to toss that ladder,” Bonnie muttered. “But he never listens. Can you walk?”
Elise took a careful step and nodded. “All I need is a full-day spa package, a Swedish massage, a soothing facial, and a giant mocha latte.”
Bonnie just stared at her. Elise sighed. “Or I could just wash my knees and get on with it.”
“Come on down. I’ll clean you up.”
Elise hesitated.
“I’m a good nurse in situations like this. Better than Marshall—his hands are too big and clumsy. And trust me, you won’t be attracting any men with your knees looking like that for a while.”
Elise limped beside her, wincing with every step.
“Who do you think I’m trying to impress with my legs? The chickens?”
“My grandson, of course. Not that it’ll last. Girls like you don’t want nice guys—they’re too boring. You don’t want Mr. Unexciting.”
“Is that really how you see your grandson? You should try getting to know Marshall better,” Elise said, meeting Bonnie’s eyes. “Some women prefer Mr. Trustworthy, Mr. Honest, or Mr. Unselfish,” she added, then continued hobbling downstairs.
Bonnie raised an eyebrow, gave Elise a once-over, and followed her.
In the kitchen, Bonnie pulled out a washcloth, lathered it, and set it next to some bandages and antiseptic gel.
It stung like hell, but Elise kept quiet, pressing her lips together.
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