Wendy Markham - Slightly Suburban

Jack barely gives the paper another cursory glance before handing it back to me. “Okay, well…good.”

“Good…what?”

“This is good. There are houses in our price range, so if we decide to look up there at some point, at least we’ll have something to look at.”

We have a price range? And these houses are in it?

Hallelujah.

“But we have to strike while the iron is hot,” I tell him, and add for good measure, “You know, we can’t let the grass grow under our feet.”

“Slow and steady wins the race,” Jack returns with a grin.

“Maybe,” I say, slipping from the arm of his chair onto his lap, “but a rolling stone gathers no moss.”

What does that even mean? I don’t know. But it sounds motivational.

I guess not to Jack, though.

“We’ll look someday,” he says, pushing a clump of my hair out of my eyes, “when we’re ready.”

“I’m ready.”

“For family starting?” he asks, and I laugh and shake my head.

“No family starting yet,” I tell him.

Jack reaches for the remote, aims it at the CD player and presses a couple of buttons. Alicia Keys gives way to U2’s “With or Without You.”

Which happens to be a major aphrodisiac—at least for me.

Go ahead, try it—listen to that song and see if it doesn’t instantly put you in the mood.

The opening bass is enough to do it for me, every time—and Jack knows it.

“How about a dry run on the family-starting thing, so to speak?”

I loop my arms around his neck. “I’m game…if you’re game for a dry run on the house-hunting circuit next weekend.”

Jack tilts his head.

I kiss his neck.

Bono sings.

We are so there.

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