Page 47 of The Reason I Married Him
I move past her and head out toward the field, and to my surprise, I hear her feet pad against the solid dirt ground, and then she nearly pulls me backward as she hops up onto my back and loops her legs around my waist, clutching onto me in a piggyback.
It takes me a second to gain my balance, but I playfully nuzzle my head against hers when I do.
“What are you doing? Stop that.” She lifts to avoid me while still staying attached.
“Just cuddling with my missus. This is what you’d get with marriage, all the cuddles.”
“That’s not a selling point,” she deadpans.
Enjoying the free ride she’s taking—because it means she’s next to me, and I can keep needling at her until she says yes—I ask, “Do you not like to be touched, Aubree?”
“Not by strange men I don’t know.”
“You know me enough. Your sister hugged me. That means something.”
“My sister would hug a lamp post if it glittered under the sun in just the right way. That means nothing to me.”
“Mac hugged me.”
“She’s a child, and you gave her a present.”
“Solid point. But . . . your brother hugged me.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“How do you know?” I ask as I carry her across the farm, not really fazed by the extra weight on my back. I’m sure I’ll be crying about it tomorrow, though. Might have to pick up those Epsom salts. “You were scowling in the corner, so you could have missed the fact that he gently caressed my back as a hello.”
“That’s not what Ryland does.”
“Either way, you know enough about me that if I were to flip you over my head, onto this ground, and then hover above you to offer you a hug of apology, you’d accept the touch.”
“I’d knee you in the junk and get up myself.”
“Technically, that would be touching me, so I win.” I smile to myself.
“What exactly are you winning?”
“You, of course. What a prize too. A little bit of ornery, a lot of sass, and a bunch of growling. What a lovely bride you’ll make.”
“I don’t growl.”
“I saw you growl at a rabbit yesterday. Its poor legs gave out on it, and it scrambled away, army-crawl style, into the bushes, and then you sat there, pointed, and laughed.”
“What the actual hell?” she says. “Is that what your author brain does all day, make up scenarios in your head that are not true?”
“Yes,” I answer. “It’s how I create scenes and dialogue. Do you not give in to your thoughts during the day?”
“I sure as hell don’t think about a nice lady scaring off a bunny army-crawl style.”
“I like that you slipped nice in there as a description for yourself. Not something I’d have chosen, but then again, I wouldn’t have chosen you as my own personal koala either, but here we are.”
“If you only told me what you were doing, I wouldn’t have to ride you,” she replies.
“This wouldn’t be my definition of riding me,” I say. “I have a completely different image in my head.”
“Ew,” she says. “I would never.”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
