“I don’t think so,” I say. “Honestly, she might not even show. Her plans could have changed, or she could have decided she isn’t actually interested?—”
Carter silences me with another breath-stealing kiss.
“What was that for?” I ask, though I’m not about to complain.
“It just seemed like the smartest way to shut you up,” he says.
I huff out a teasing scoff, but he only grins, then he takes both my hands in his, giving them a gentle squeeze.
“She’ll come,” he says. “Don’t psych yourself out.”
I channel his easy confidence as Bradleyapproaches with a look in his eye that tells me the schmoozing part of the evening is about to begin.
Carter leans over and takes the still untouched wine out of my hand. “I’ll bring you some water,” he says, his voice close to my ear. “You’ve got this.”
For the next thirty minutes, Bradley guides me around the room to meet all of his VIP guests. I smile and say thank you and answer questions and try to talk about my “inspiration” in a way that feels both interesting and accessible. But on the inside, I’m mostly just thinking about not tugging on my sleeves. Or not guzzling the entire bottle of water Carter gave me all at once.
Carter stays close by, not a part of my conversations, but near enough that if I needed him, it wouldn’t be hard to make eye contact and send him a distress signal. I’m also watching him. Noticing how easily he talks to people.
At one point, he’s pulled into conversation with a couple of men who look up at him with obvious admiration. One of the men pulls a pen out of his pocket and offers it to Carter. I could be wrong, but it looks like he’s asking him to sign the show brochure.
Carter holds up a hand and gives his head a quick shake, then looks over at me. The man nods and pockets the pen, then shakes Carter’s hand. They all laugh together, and I can’t help but marvel that even after he declined signing an autograph, assuming that’s what he did, he still managed to make everyone feel comfortable and end their interaction on a positive note.
He’s honestlyso goodat this—at talking to people. He’s warm and engaging and interesting and he’s a good listener, and he does it all sonaturally.
I’ll be fine tonight. I’m talking and smiling,engaging like a pro. But that doesn’t mean I won’t have horrible sweaty armpits the entire time. Or that I won’t need at least three days to decompress once all this is over.
Eventually, I manage to sneak away from Bradley and duck into a recess near the gallery offices for a moment of peace and privacy.
But not solitude because Emerson follows me in. “Hi! How are you?” he says. “And by how are you, I mean are you aware that your husband is legitimately in love with you?”
My heart climbs into my throat at just hearing Emerson say the words out loud. Itdoesfeel like Carter’s been looking at me differently lately, but I can’t be sure I’m not making it up. It’s hard because I’ve always had good chemistry with Carter. And because heisso good at communicating, it’s hard to tell what’s special treatment and what’s just Carter being Carter.
“He is not,” I say.
“Honey. Yes, he is,” Emerson says. “He walked into this gallery and immediately found you like you’re his oxygen. And that kiss…are you kissing like that all the time? Because if you are, I don’t know how you aren’t pregnant yet.”
“Can we please not have this conversation here?” I say, even as a blush crawls up my cheeks. “I need to network. To focus. I need to sell paintings, and this is not going to help me.”
“Answer my question, and I’ll buy one myself,” Emerson says.
“You can’t afford me,” I tease. “Butno, we only kiss in public. When we’re at home, we follow the rules you told me I needed to have.”
“Rules, schmules,” Emerson says. “I’ve changed my mind. You need to lock that man down.”
It’s a ridiculous suggestion, seeing as how we’re already married and living together. Can you get more locked down than exchanging vows to love and cherish until death do you part?
But I fully understand Emerson’s meaning because nothing about my relationship with Carter feels locked down. It feels more like a ticking time bomb, three hundred and fifty days away from going off.
Across the gallery, Carter looks like he’s hunting for me, so I step out of the recess, dragging Emerson with me, and lift my hand to catch his eye.
He smiles and heads over.
“Did those guys ask for your autograph?” I ask as soon as he arrives.
Carter nods. “They did.”
“But you didn’t give it to them?”
