In private, either in the mansion or in our townhouse, he spends hours happily curled up with me on the couch, with his head in my lap and his hand against my tummy.
Carter, the bastard extraordinaire, usually sits on the other end of the couch, with Owen’s feet in his lap and an amused smirk on his face as he watches his two pets together. With Carter’s presence, it means no questions will be asked about the three of us being together. Especially at the townhouse, because everyone thinks Owen’s next door.
We’re having a boy, and he is, so far, healthy and developing normally despite what I went through.
Owen’s already named him Peter, after one of Carter’s brothers who were killed in action.
Peter Benchley Taylor Wilson.
Taylorwas my requirement.
Yeah, I know, but Daddy puffed up when we told him, sooo…
#happygrandpa
Then again, just to prove what a bastard my hubby is, he gave me a little stuffed crab toy after Connie first told our story publicly…
#gotcrabs?
My goddamned office isoverflowingwith motherfucking crabs. It’s apparently my “thing” now.
I guess there are worse things to be known for.
Like dying.
George—excuse me,GovernorForrester—sent me a large picture that I immediately had hung in my office, a blown up print from the scene inMonty Python and the Holy Grail, where Eric Idle and John Cleese are arguing about taking away the not-dead-yet guy.
Only George had piles of crabs Photoshopped over the bodies in the cart and John Cleese’s shoulder, and scattered all around them, and a dialogue bubble from John Cleese says, “It’ll be stone crab in a moment.”
I laugh to the point of tears when I unwrap it. Ofcoursehe found wrapping paper with crabs on it.
Even my sweet, gentle boy jumped on Carter’s sadism wagon and seems to find me a new crab-themed something-or-other every dang week.
Sigh.
What I went through was almost enough to break me and make me beg to pull out and return to private life.
Almost.
Thank god I didn’t. This…this is pure politicalgold. On top of all the good we’ve already accomplished during our first four years, I can’t walk away now. We’ll announce my pregnancy tomorrow morning, win or lose.
Owen isn’t happy about this, but we’ll make Kevin Markos our first interview. He literally gets two minutes, live, downstairs in the lobby, just him and one photojournalist walking with us out the back hallway to our waiting car, and that’sall. And with only me and Owen, not Carter.
Markos isn’t getting the scoop about me being pregnant, which is the only reason Owen agreed to let us talk to Markos in the first place.
Markosthinkshe’s getting a scoop, a foot-up by being able to have first cameras on us in the morning, ahead of our afternoon sit-down.
Heh.
One journalistic ratfuck, coming up. I’m sure it’ll piss Markos off, but Carter suggested doing this, despite how Markos and FNB will likely paint a target on us as a result, because it sends a message that only took us four years to finally be able to deliver.
Fuck you and your shitty network over that goddamned live interview after the school shooting, you assholes.
Ice-cold revenge still tastesdamngood. Daddy thinks it’s a genius move, and even gave Carter anattaboywhen we told him.
When the inevitable questions arise as to why we cut FNB out of the info about my pregnancy, Carter will take the incoming fire on that one and claim he was still half-asleep, and oh, darn, it was over so fast, and we were moving so quickly to get to our next interview, that ittotallyslipped our minds.
Whoops.
