Page 116 of The Coppersmith Farmhouse (Jamison Valley 1)
I lifted my hand and gave him a two-finger salute.
“You got it, Sheriff.”
“Christ, she never listens. Why couldn’t I have a girl that listens?” he asked the ceiling.
I collapsed into his chest and started laughing again.
“Love you too, Freckles,” he said to the top of my head.
And just like the little girls camped out in the living room, I fell asleep giggling and smiling.
“Georgia?” Jess called.
“Laundry room!”
I was moving a load of clothes from the washer to the dryer, a load that took the normal amount of time to wash now that Jess had replaced my older washer-dryer set with the nicer one from his house. I was looking forward to coming back in forty-five minutes to a dry load of clothes rather than to a damp bunch that needed another cycle.
Bliss.
He rounded the corner from the kitchen.
“I just got a call from my realtor. Got an offer on the house,” he said.
“What? Already? That’s amazing! It’s only been a week.”
“Yep. You know the guy whose house was torched? It’s him. He’s the buyer,” Jess said. “Realtor said he got his insurance claim. Doesn’t want the hassle of building a place so he’s just going to buy. Offered cash for the house, five thousand less than my asking price, but he could close this month. Wants it furnished too so I wouldn’t have to sell all my shit or find storage. He’d take it all.”
“Well? What do you think?”
“I think I’d be stupid to turn it down,” he said.
“And you’re not a stupid man.”
“It would give us some extra cash. I was thinking we could put an addition off the side of the farmhouse. Expand off the office. Add a room or two. Maybe another bathroom.”
“No, Jess, that’s your money. You should save it. Buy something you want. A new boat or, I don’t know, a nicer truck to haul around the boat you already have,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Sometimes I feel like spanking your ass.”
My spine jerked straight. A spanking? Now I was pissed. “What the effing hell does that mean?”
“Means you didn’t hear me last week at Christmas. Or last night in bed,” he said.
“Oh right. I didn’t hear you. That’s funny since I fully recall each of our conversations, Jess. But please, explain it to me again. Because I can tell you right now if you so much as raise your pinky finger in the direction of my ass, I’ll make sure—well, I’ll make sure . . .” I stuttered, having trouble finding a threat that would convey just how serious I was.
“Yeah? You’ll make sure what?”
“I’ll . . . I’ll make sure you have to eat your own rotten, disgusting, horrible cooking for the next twelve months. One whole year of nasty macaroni and weird salami sandwiches. Except for holidays. No one should have to eat that on holidays. But every other day, you eat your own cooking.”
He had only ever cooked for us once, but that had been enough. I shuddered and gagged just thinking about it.
He roared with laughter.
“I mean it, Jess!” I yelled.
But he just kept on laughing.
I stormed out of the laundry room, thinking I needed cookies, but he followed me.
