“You mean weaved?” I scoffed.
Carter started massaging my shoulders. “I love how the style flatters your face. Makes you more beautiful.”
It felt good to hear a compliment that had been less frequent lately. I leaned my head back against his hard abs and looked up at him. “I’ve missed you, too.”
He squeezed my shoulders. “I know. It’s been crazy. Trying to keep negotiations with the Cowboys quiet has been hard. All these late-night meetings, trying to make sure every detail is dotted before it’s presented to the Commissioner for approval.”
“You’re sure you want to do this? Your teammates will feel betrayed. I thought you always wanted to play for the same team. We’ve established a village here. The children have friends and love their school.”
“Dallas is home. I grew up idolizing the blue and silver. I want to be remembered like Tony Romo, Deion Sanders, or Emmitt Smith.”
“You’re already remembered now by the Rams. You have the most sold jersey on the team three years straight.”
He bent to press his lips to mine. “You just don’t want to deal with my mother.”
I rubbed his bearded cheek. “Oh, I love to hear how Stank can’t do anything wrong and how I trapped him with those two gorgeous babies. Why wouldn’t I want to move closer to her?” I grinned. His mother and I had our moments of goodwill, in which she seemed to accept me as family. Unfortunately, those moments were too few and far between. She was just one of those mothers who believed no woman was good enough for her sons. At least Carter could recognize his mother’s attitude toward me and didn’t try to defend her behavior to me.
“Look on the bright side. Dallas is closer to your sister and the rest of your family. A short drive away. The children can grow up around both families.” He straightened back up, and I refocused on the mirror.
“That’s the only bright side because I love living here. Just promise you won’t sign the deal until we discuss it together.”
“It’s what the St. Patricks do.” He reassured me as his hands left my shoulders and dipped under my T-shirt to cup my breasts. “Your titties got so juicy after the babies.” He licked his lips. “I can only imagine how much bigger they’ll be once we get pregnant again.”
Before I could protest, he swooped down and kissed my lips upside-down. The more I tried to argue, he tweaked my nipples and kissed me harder until I dripped wet. Within seconds, he dropped his pants, and I pushed down my leggings. Soon, we were fucking in the vanity room of our massive walk-in closet, and all my worries and fears about our marriage were forgotten for the moment.
BEING CARTER ST. PATRICK'Swife wasn't always easy. I always had to be the perfectly coiffed and styled woman for any public event or game. Hence, the sew-ins, lace fronts, or dramatic, sleek ponytails. My own natural hair was too unpredictable unless I had a stylist on hand for the extra-special events, like the ESPY Awards or when we were in the playoffs. That same stylist met with me quarterly to update me on the latest trends and even how to wear casual outfits best.
I had to be ready to smile and nod whenever the camera panned my way, whenever he made a touchdown or a fumble. Pretending I adored my husband even when I didn't care to be his wife, especially when we argued before a game without making up. All eyes were on the quarterback’s wife and whether I was worthy to walk by his side any time we were in any circle outside of the football field. It helped immensely that Carter never made me feel unworthy and always held my hand proudly. He knew these showy events affected my self-esteem and drained my social battery. Before every event, we usually devised a game plan for how best to mingle and exit without being noticed, and we rarely stayed longer than two hours.
Tonight was no different. We were at an ESPN party at the beautiful, historic J Paul Getty Museum, and Carter hated these parties as much as I did. Being a star quarterback in the NFL didn't suddenly make my introverted husband an extrovert. He often had to drink a glass or two of alcohol to relax at events like this, a habit he considered a necessary evil since he wasn't a drinker. As we entered the breathtaking garden outside the museum to get some fresh air and see the sparkling fountain surrounded by manicured shrubs and small green trees, Carter took a long gulp of scotch.
“Think you’ve had enough,” I started. He didn't hold liquor well and sometimes would be loud and obnoxious. "You haven't eaten much either."
"I had two lobster crepe thingys and some of those dessert bites that floated around." Carter downed his glass and half-slammed it on a passing waiter’s silver tray. “Now, I’ve had enough.”
I pulled on the right lapel of his royal blue jacket. “You’ve been drinking more than usual.”
“I had three, and I’m not drinking anymore tonight.” He scanned the garden and sighed loudly.
“You had five, and no, you’re not drinking anymore,” I corrected as I searched his face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he uttered, moving his neck from side to side as if easing tension.
“I hate when you do that.” I moved slightly away, and he reached for my hand, tugging me back.
Carter grabbed a glass of white wine when another waiter walked past. “Do what...not listen to my mother because you're not talking to me like my wife?”
I folded my arms and continued, “Pretend everything’s cool when it’s not. I know you. Are you going to tell me what's going on?”
“Well, maybe you don’t know me. I mean, I thought I knew you, but shit happens.” He took a swig of his wine, and I took the glass from his hand when he lowered it from his mouth. I quickly finished the cool, crisp, sweet wine before he could take it back.
“You’re talking in circles.” I lifted his wrist and checked the time on his Rolex. “We’ve been here over an hour, so we can escape. We can talk in the carI’mdriving home about what's really bothering you.”
His eyebrows rose sharply. “Hell, no. I don’t trust you driving my car.” He drove a slate black Bugatti that he'd had custom-made to include leather seats with his name engraved on the headrests. Carter wasn't a car collector, but this car was his other baby. He bought me two vehicles two years ago—a pearl white Maserati and, for the family, a maroon Cadillac Escalade.
“You can’t drive now.”
“I’m not drunk.”
