Page 128 of Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars 6)

rs for her cold foot. “Apparently not.”

“First…” As he chafed the warmth back into her toes, she wrote on the pad. “There will be no cell phones, BlackBerries, minifaxes, or other as-yet-to-be-invented electronic devices at our dinner table ever.”

He rubbed her toes. “What about if we’re eating in a restaurant?”

“Especially if we’re eating in a restaurant.”

“Exempt fast food, and you’ve got a deal.”

She thought it over. “Agreed.”

“Now it’s my turn.” He draped her calf on top of his thigh. “Selected electronic devices, excluding the aforementioned, will not only be allowed in the bedroom, but will be encouraged. And I get to choose what they are.”

“If you don’t forget about that catalog…”

He gestured toward the notepad. “Write it down.”

“Fine.” She wrote it down.

The blanket fell to the middle of his chest, momentarily distracting her as he spoke again. “Disagreements over money are the biggest cause of divorce.”

She waved her hand. “Absolutely no problem. Your money is our money. My money is my money.” She wrote away.

“I should make you negotiate with Phoebe.”

She gestured toward his very fine chest with her pencil. “On the off chance I find out after we’re married that your declaration of abiding love and devotion has been an elaborate con job perpetrated by you, Bodie, and Scary Spice…”

He massaged her arch. “I definitely wouldn’t lose too much sleep over that.”

“Just in case. You will give me all your worldly goods, shave your head, and leave the country.”

“Deal.”

“Plus, you have to hand over your Sox tickets so I can burn them in front of your eyes.”

“Only if I get something in exchange.”

“What?”

“Unlimited sex. How I want it, when I want it, where I want it. The backseat of your shiny new car, on top of my desk…”

“Definite deal.”

“And kids.”

Just like that, she choked up. “Yes. Oh, yes.”

Her show of emotion left him unmoved as his eyes narrowed and he dived in for the kill. “We take at least six trips a year to see your family.”

She slammed down the notepad. “That is so not going to happen.”

“Five trips, and I’ll beat up your brothers.”

“One.”

He dropped her foot. “Damn it, Annabelle, I’ll compromise at four trips until the baby’s born, then we see them every other month, and that’s not negotiable.” He grabbed the notepad and pencil and began to write.

“Fine,” she retorted. “I’ll go to a spa while all of you sit around and complain about the limitations of the sixty-hour workweek.”

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