The rich sound of his laughter washed over her and enveloped her in bliss. “Darlin’, we got the rest of our lives for making biscuits.”
“Just biscuits?”
He swooped her up into his arms. “Biscuits. And pies. And stewed okra.”
She laid her head against his shoulder and let out a leaky laugh.
“And corn bread,” he said. “We haven’t talked about your corn bread yet. You make corn bread?”
She pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Three-point question.”
“You’re asking for trouble, Anna Grace.”
“And you’re going to love every minute of it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
And he loved her so much, he even buttered her burnt biscuits.
EPILOGUE
Of all his assignments, Jackson hadn’t thought of any of them ashome. They’d merely been assignments, temporary places to do what he’d always thought he did best, Radish at his side. But Gellings?
Gellings felt like home.
He was willing to lay odds it wasn’t the house or the base, though.
It was his domestic Anna Grace frying up some chicken in the kitchen while Radish watched from under the table. Or maybe it was his brilliant Anna Grace putting the world in order, one house at a time, building up a reputation for herself. Probably, too, his beautiful Anna Grace growing his baby while she went on about her business making sure his world stayed put to rights.
He was one lucky son of a gun to come home to this every night.
He slid up behind his wife at the stove, put one hand to her belly that had started to swell, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “’Bout to burn those biscuits again, Anna Grace.”
“Oh!” She swatted him away, snagged a hot pad, and rescued the biscuits from the oven.
They both stared at the smoking cast iron skillet on the counter.
Jackson smothered a grin. “Probably the oven’s off again.”
She gave him a look that could’ve come only from two and a half years of asking her favorite and not-so-favorite Southern women for their biscuit recipes. “Do you knowanyonewilling to tell me therealrecipe for these stupid things?”
“Probably not, darlin’.”
“Then you can tell ’em all I’m fixin’ to feed you canned biscuits the rest of your life.” She looked at the stove and gave a girly shriek. The fried chicken was smoking now too.
He snagged a plate and spread a couple of paper towels on it, then eased up next to her. “How about you let me finish up for you?”
He swallowed a chuckle at herI do it myselfface, but then her doe eyes went all soft and a smile sweet as summer rain crossed her lips. “I’m in trouble if this is a boy, aren’t I?”
“You bet your pie, Anna Grace.”
She laughed while she heaped fried chicken onto the plate.
He waited until she’d turned the stove off and stepped over to the fridge. He knew his wife loved him more than he ever would’ve thought possible, but he also knew better than to spring potentially unhappy surprises on any woman while she was standing next to hot oil. “Think I might could get you a real biscuit recipe,” he said.
She plopped a Tupperware bowl full of potato salad onto the counter. “How’s that?”
“’Bout the same way I got you my momma’s sweet potato pie recipe.”
