This orgasm ban is driving me crazy. I’ve never needed the release more than I do now. Living with a man who looks like sex on a stick will do that, but the added effort he’s put in of cooking me dinner, making my coffee to my liking, and now researching how to help with my pain means I’m even more turned on.
“Teresa called,” he says. “I may need to head to New York soon. It’s been a while since I’ve checked in and showed my face around the office.”
“How often do you make trips up there?”
“I try to go at least once a month. I don’t want to be an absentee boss. My main focus right now is the team, but I still need to show my staff that I’m dedicated to all my ventures.”
What he doesn’t say is he doesn’t want to be his father. A boss who demands excellence and perfection but spends most of his time at the golf course now that his kids are old enough to do his bidding. It’s always been a contentious relationship. I was hoping it got better when I left, but all signs point to that not being the case.
“You couldn’t be an absentee boss if you tried.” I squeeze his arm. “You’re not him. You could never be him. I’m sorry things haven’t gotten better.”
“Why would you be sorry? They treated you like shit.”
“Still, I wished taking myself out of the equation would’ve helped.”
“The damage was already done.” He can’t hide the sadness in his tone and swallows roughly.
His phone rings, interrupting the moment. Surely, some of the work he alluded to. “Let me take this and then I’ll get you another dose of medication.”
He stands and gently rests my legs back on the couch before walking down the hall to his home office. In the silence, my mind drifts back to the last interaction I had with his family—the one that ultimately led to our downfall.
Ten years ago
His family hates me. Not just hates me, but loathes my very existence. I know we rushed into things. We met last summer and got married shortly after the end of the season. It may seem fast to meet and marry someone within a few months, but I love him. Deeply and emphatically, with my whole being, I love Grant Davenport.
We may not have a traditional relationship, but it doesn’t make it any less real. He supports me in ways I’ve always dreamed, and I support him. Watching him on the mound, living his dream as a major league pitcher brings me as much joy as closing a deal with a client does.
But as I stand here in the grand ballroom of the Waldorf Hotel on the opposite side of the room from the Davenports, it strikes me that it may not be enough. Because as much as I love him, what kind of life will we have if I’m the reason he doesn’t have a relationship with his family? I’ve tried everything. I sent his mother a gift basket for her birthday last month. I’ve invited her to lunch in the city. I’ve arranged golf outings for his father and brothers. I even bought this new fancy dress to attend their fundraising gala for a charitable endeavor I don’t even think they understand the purpose of.
Nothing I do is enough.
They weren’t quiet about their displeasure of our nuptials or tactful enough to demand an annulment privately. No, they called us over for lunch the Sunday before Christmas to what we thought was an early holiday gathering but ended up being a staged intervention. His father even presented the paperwork he had their family attorney draw up. When Grant refused, a shouting match ensued. It was all I could do to make it to the bathroom before throwing up what little I’d been able to eat, which of course led to accusations that I was pregnant and trapping him in a marriage for a payout later.
I didn’t give a fuck about his money. I had my own, and what I didn’t have, I was working for. I was the youngest and only female agent at the PR firm. It was a highly competitive industry and an even harder firm to join, but I was lucky enough to land an internship with them in college, working my ass off until they offered me a permanent position upon graduation. It was the best PR firm in New York. I was biding my time until a promotion and then eventually would be starting my own agency. It was all part of my five-year plan.
One Grant and I discussed at length.
One that he was fully supportive of.
He still hoped to play for New York for several years, and I made it clear I would not chase him across the country as a trophy wife. I had my own goals, and nothing was going to stop me from achieving every single one of them.
Not his baseball career and not his pretentious family.
As if they know I’m thinking about them, six heads turn in our direction. I don’t miss the judgmental eyes of Mrs. Davenport as she scans me from head to toe. It’s a black and white gala, so I chose a modest floor length black evening gown. The square neck barely shows a hint of my cleavage, and the satin material skims my body without being too form fitting. The last thing I need is a conversation about how inappropriately I dressed for tonight’s event. Grant’s hand flexes at the small ofmy back when he sees his brothers make their way across the floor in our direction.
Grant is the middle of five Davenport children who are only separated by a total of ten years. Reginald Davenport IV, the oldest, was four years older than Grant, and Theodore, the youngest, was six years younger. Being so close in age, they’d always been a tight group. Or at least, that’s what I’d thought, which is why I expected more from his brothers at the Sunday intervention, but they refused to speak up for us. That was six weeks ago, and communication was still almost nonexistent between them. I don’t know what ultimatum was handed down by their father before we arrived, but the usual close relationship between the five of them was suddenly frayed. I couldn’t help but feel responsible for that. It gutted me.
“Look at me,” I whisper to Grant before they could reach us. He peers down at me, and I caress his stubbled cheek. “It’s you and me.” Even as the words leave my lips, I taste the lie in them. How much longer could we hold on when all the odds were stacked against us? We’d been living in newlywed bliss during the offseason, but in two weeks, Grant would report to spring training in Florida and then our relationship would be mainly long distance as the season ramped up and he traveled.
“Grant, Taylor, nice of you to join us,” Reginald greets us with mildly suppressed disdain.
“Cut the shit,” Grant says. “I’m here every year. This year wouldn’t be any different just because you’re being an asshole.”
Nathaniel and Carter are the closest in age to me and Grant and look like they’d rather be anywhere but here.
“What are your plans once Grant reports to spring training?” Reginald asks, breaking the awkward silence. Does he honestly think I just sit around and do nothing?
“I’ll be staying in New York. Lots of work to be done.”
