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“What? I’m not having eleven kids with you!” I practically holler, not even caring that the entire salon – and quite possibly, the entire block – heard.
Linkin chuckles. “Not a football team, Firecracker, a basketball team. Five. We can handle five kids.”
“You’re crazy,” I whisper.
“You’ve established that. And I’m only crazy for you,” he croons, his voice still doing a number on my bits and pieces.
“And we have to decide this now?” I ask, a smile creeping across my lips.
“Now. In fact, if you’ve got about fifteen minutes, I could be there in three. The guys wouldn’t even know I’m gone.”
“Not happening, buster. I’m about to work on the bride’s hair.”
“But this is not off the table, right?”
The eagerness and hopefulness in his voice makes me smile, and before I can really think about what I’m saying, I answer him. “No, it’s not off the table.”
“Yes! Thank you, baby. I can’t wait to make more babies with you,” he says softly, the smile in his voice evident.
“You’re crazy.”
“I know. You tell me often.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“Doubtful, but can I ask what has gotten into you?” I ask, glancing at the clock and realizing I’m dangerously close to running behind schedule.
“Dean was talking about Noah running in the backyard and slipping in a pile of dog shit, and Sawyer started to say Nolan still isn’t sleeping at night.”
“Sleepless nights and dog poop do it for you, huh?” I tease.
“You do it for me. Stella is almost two. Perfect time to have another.”
I sigh deeply, but not because I’m not completely on board with his craziness. In fact, I’m one hundred percent with him. I’d love to have another baby, even though I said Stella was it. Three was our magic number. But here I am, being sweet-talked into more baby-producing sex from my fiend of a husband.
“I really do need to get back in there and start Meghan’s hair. Can we talk about this later? After the kids go to my dad’s house…and we’re all alone…and naked?”
“I’m hard.”
“You’re always hard.”
“True. You make me so fucking hard and crazy.”
“My panties are completely ruined,” I whisper.
“Fuck, you’re so hot. I can practically picture you, spread out on the top of our bed. My mouth is watering to taste you.”
“Christ, Linkin,” I groan, my entire body on fire.
“Put it on speakerphone so I can hear too.” Only, this voice isn’t coming from the phone. It’s coming from behind me, and clearly belongs to someone who is not my husband.
“Quit eavesdropping, woman!” I chastise my elderly grandma.
“Emma is there?” Linkin asks, his voice suddenly completely sober.
“I want to hear what he’s saying that turns your panties into a useless scrap of material,” she coos, her eyes lighting brightly.
