Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars #6)(121)

Long afterward, with only cold water to wash themselves, they cursed and laughed and splashed each other, which led them back to bed. They made love for the rest of the afternoon.

As evening fell, a loud knock at the door intruded, followed by Portia’s voice. “Room service!”

Heath took his time but eventually wrapped a towel around his hips and went to investigate. He returned with a brown paper grocery bag filled with food. Ravenous, they fed themselves and each other, gorging on roast beef sandwiches, juicy Michigan apples, and a gluey pumpkin pie that tasted like heaven. They washed it all down with lukewarm beer and then, groggy and sated, dozed in each other’s arms.

It was dark when Annabelle awakened. Wrapping herself in a quilt, she went into the living room and retrieved her phone. Within seconds, she’d reached Dean’s voice mail.

“I know Heath went a little nuts on you, pal, and I apologize for him. The man’s in love, so he can’t help himself.” She smiled. “I promise he’ll call first thing tomorrow and set everything straight, so don’t you dare talk to IMG before then. I mean it, Dean, if you sign with anybody but Heath, I will never speak to you again. Plus, I’ll tell everybody in Chicago that you sleep with a giant poster of yourself right next to your bed. Which you probably do.”

She grinned, hung up, and retrieved a tattered pad of yellow lined paper from the drawer, along with a gnawed pencil stub. When she got back to the bedroom, she turned on a lamp and propped herself against the footboard with the quilt wrapped tightly around her. Her feet were freezing, so she slid them under the covers and up against Heath’s warm thigh.

He yelped and heaved himself into the pillows. “You will definitely pay for that.”

“Here’s hoping.” She propped the notepad on her quilt-draped knee and drank in the sight of him. He looked like a wicked pirate against the snowy pillowcases. Tan skin, disheveled dark hair, and the marauder’s stubble that had chafed various sensitive parts of her body. “Okay, lover, it’s time to deal.”

He pushed himself higher onto the pillows and gazed at the notepad. “Do we really have to?”

“Are you nuts? You think I’m marrying the Python without an ironclad prenup?”

He fumbled under the covers 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.”

He laughed. “You are so full of it. You know you can’t wait to dangle our firstborn in front of Candace’s nose.”

“Well, there’s that.” She paused, took back the notepad, but she couldn’t see a word she’d written. As much as she hated letting reality intrude, it was time to get serious. “Heath, how do you plan to be a father to these children we want while you’re working that sixty-hour week?” She spoke carefully, wanting to get this right. “With Perfect for You, my hours are flexible, but…I know how much you love what you do, and I’d never want you to give it up. On the other hand, I won’t raise a family by myself.”