And I don’t plan on disappointing her.
21
SARAH
By the timethe gallery doors open, I’ve adjusted the sleeves of my black dress at least fifty times and texted Carter twice, begging him to bring me something else to wear. Why did I think I could handle long sleeves? I have long arms, so long sleeves stress me out, hitting me an inch higher on my wrist than they do anyone else. Which is why I keep tugging on them.
Emerson steps up beside me and presses a wine glass into my hands, but I quickly shake my head and try to hand it back.
“I can’t drink this. I haven’t eaten anything. And I can’t eat anything because then I’ll throw up.”
“Then just hold it,” he says through gritted teeth, refusing to take it. “Because if I see you adjust your sleeves one more time, I’m going to rip them off your dress altogether.”
“Actually, that might help,” I say. “Do you think we could get a clean tear? Right at the seams?”
“Stop it,” Emerson says. “Your dress is perfect. You looklike a million bucks.” He takes me by the shoulders and spins me around. “Just look for a second. Look at what you did.”
I take a deep breath and look around the space. It looks perfect—even the late addition the gallery didn’t hang until this morning. The lighting is exactly right, the energy is good, and the gallery owner, a man named Bradley, says he’s had a wonderful response to his marketing efforts and expects a full house tonight. There’s already a small crowd milling about, wine glasses in hand as they study my work.
I have sixteen pieces for sale, all hung in the main room of Second Light. The rest of the gallery is open too, but so far, most people seem drawn to this space, drifting from one wall over to the other.
Selling all sixteen pieces would be a dream. Selling half would be a solid showing, enough to convince the gallery to work with me again. Less than that, and this might be the last time I get a solo show here.
“You did good work, Sarah,” Emerson says, giving my shoulders one last squeeze. “Now just breathe and enjoy it.”
“I’ll breathe once Calista Reinhardt has come and gone,” I say as I glance toward the main entrance of the gallery. It’s hard not to dwell on how big it will be if the head gallerist at the Rooke is impressed tonight. I told Carter a show at the Rooke would be career-defining, and it would be. It would also all but guarantee an O-1 visa. But that’s not the real reason I keep glancing at the door.
As comforting as it is to have Emerson with me, I’m not sure I’lltrulyrelax until Carter is here.
Despite having a day off, he ended up having to go into the practice facility for some maintenance physiotherapy on his shoulder. He’d forgotten about it, but this close to the playoffs, the head athletic trainer wouldn’t let him skip, so hebegrudgingly headed into the practice complex late this afternoon. He promised he’d be finished in time to get here, so I’m trying not to freak out that he hasn’t arrived yet.
“Jeremy was furious he couldn’t come with me,” Emerson says. “He’s still waiting on his signed jersey. Did I tell you I’ve finally figured out why he loves hockey?”
“You didn’t, but I’d love to know,” I say, at least grateful to have Emerson as a distraction.
“It’s the thighs,” he says. “I can’t believe it didn’t occur to me sooner.”
I laugh. “You can’t evenseetheir thighs. They wear too much padding.”
Emerson’s eyes widen as they lock on something over my shoulder. “No, but you can in a pair of nicely tailored suit pants.”
I turn and see Carter, all six-foot-four of him, stepping through the entrance. My eyes drop to his legs, and Emerson is not wrong. Carter knows how to wear a pair of pants, his muscular frame filling them out to absolute perfection.
Carter scans the room, clearly looking for me. When we finally make eye contact, he smiles, and the tension in my shoulders eases the slightest bit.
He turns a lot of heads as he makes his way through the gallery. It’s hard for him not to—he really does have quite the presence—but some people seem to recognize him, their eyes following him all the way to me. It occurs to me that so far, whenever we’ve been out in public, we’ve been with his team. In environments where everyone present fully expects to see a bunch of professional hockey players. But tonight, he’s the only hockey player here.
To his credit, Carter seems very good at ignoring the attention. He probably has a lot of practice. I’m used topeople recognizing Miles, but something about being thewifeof a pro player hits different than being a sister. There’s a sense of ownership, a pride that takes me by surprise, but there’s also a sense of trepidation. I don’t exactly love attention, and my husband is someone who’s going to get it everywhere he goes.
“Hey,” he says as soon as he reaches me. He slips a hand around my waist and tugs me into him. His eyes flash, and I think of the moment we shared last night when I all but begged him to kiss me.
He doesn’t waste another moment before his lips are on mine in a hello kiss to rival all hello kisses.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says as soon as he pulls away. “You look beautiful.”
I smile, lips still tingling. I really do need to plan daily outings with this man, just so we can do this on a regular basis. But mostly, I’m just so incredibly happy to have him next to me. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He holds my gaze. “Is Calista here yet?”
