Page 104 of The Rules We Broke
“I love you, Brady Jackson.” And I did. I’d loved him for almost half my life.
He kissed the top of my head. “By the way, you look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I slipped my hand into his. “Are you hungry?”
He grinned. “Are you offering to make me breakfast?”
“Well, if you consider smoothies breakfast, then yes.” I tugged him into the kitchen.
“A smoothie, huh? Sounds like city food.”
“City food?” I laughed.
He settled onto a stool at the counter while I got to work mixing up a blueberry pomegranate smoothie. Brady watched me like I was a culinary magician—or maybe like he’d never been within fifty miles of a Jamba Juice. Honestly, he probably hadn’t. Kaysville didn’t exactly scream juice bars and protein shakes.
I slid the glass toward him. “Drink up, cowboy.”
“Do I get kisses for trying it?”
“Do I really have to bribe you?”
He tugged at the hem of my dress and pecked my lips. “Nope. I just wanted to kiss you.”
Then he picked up the smoothie and took a long gulp.
“Not bad, darlin’.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Not bad?”
He laughed. “I meant . . . yum.”
I grabbed a blueberry muffin from the stand—bless Doris, she’d made them before heading out yesterday—and tossed one at him. He caught it like he’d been preparing for that play his whole life. Still laughing.
I settled beside him and stole his smoothie while he dug into Doris’s muffin.
“Is it good?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
He nudged me with his elbow, mouth full, respectfully silent—but clearly implying the muffin had won the breakfast battle.
“You know I’m not going to be one of those sweet little wives who cooks and crafts for the church bazaar,” I said. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Honestly, I admired those women. “And once a month, I get a little grumpy and eat chocolate ice cream for dinner. I don’t garden or can or do anything that might be considered domestic.”
He kept smiling like I was saying all the right things.
“I hate doing laundry,” I added.
He leaned in and tugged on my hair. “Anything else, darlin’?”
“I’m not a big football fan either.” Blasphemy in the South—I knew.
“So, you’re telling me,” he drawled, “instead of watching football, I’ll have to make out with my wife while the game’s on. I’ll do most of the cooking, I’ll never have to weed a garden, survive without cutesy doilies. I’ll have to keep the freezer stocked with chocolate ice cream, and tackle the laundry?”
He stroked my cheek. “Sounds perfect.”
“You’re such a liar, Brady Jackson.”
“As long as you’re the wife,” he said, “it’ll be perfect.”
I rolled my eyes—and loved him more than ever.
