Page 68 of Owned By The Cowboy
“She’s not supposed to bring toys to school.”
“It’s Friday. Mrs. Peterson lets them bring one special thing on Fridays.”
“How do you know that?”
“Annalise told me. Apparently, it’s very important that I understand Friday rules.”
“You’re really good at this.”
“At what?” His voice is soft, his eyes tender, his small smile heartwarming.
“Family stuff. Taking care of everyone. Knowing what they need.”
“It’s not hard when you care about people.”
The simple statement makes my throat tight. “Blayne…”
“Rest,” he says, standing up. “I’m going to work from your kitchen table. Keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t try to dolaundry or clean bathrooms or whatever it is you think you need to do when you’re supposed to be healing.”
“I don’t do laundry when I’m sick.”
“Good. Because today you’re not doing anything except sleeping and drinking fluids.”
“What about when the kids get home?”
“I’ll handle it.”
“Baby, Annalise will want help with her homework…”
“I can handle second-grade math.”
I laugh a little.
“Nia needs to stay off her ankle…”
“Reggie.” He leans down and kisses my forehead gently, making me feel all tingly despite my illness. “I got this. All of it. Just rest.”
So I do. I sleep for most of the day, waking up occasionally to the sound of Blayne moving around the house, the low murmur of his deep voice on work calls.
When I wake up around four, I already feel more human. Still tired, a little shaky, but my fever’s broken and the room isn’t spinning anymore.
I can hear voices in the kitchen. All three kids are home, and they’re talking over each other in the way they do when they’re excited about something.
“Mama’s awake!” Annalise shouts when she sees me in the doorway.
“How you feeling, sweetheart?” Blayne asks, immediately standing up from where he was sitting at the table with what looks like homework spread out in front of him.
“Better. Much better.”
“Good. You’ve got some of your color back.” His eyes are soft on me.
“Did I miss anything?”
“Jaylen made varsity!” Nia announces.
“What? Really?” I look at my son, who’s trying to play it cool but can’t hide his grin.
“Starting quarterback,” he says, the tips of his ears reddening.
