Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
A fter what felt like eons on the campaign trail, Brockton held a slight lead against his opponent, the guy getting my vote, which meant Blake and I were finally granted parole with the condition that we’d join the tour again when called on. They only forced us along because of Robert’s power trip and his need to lord over my husband’s and thus my, life. But this reprieve amounted to the company needing my husband back at the office to deal with a couple large contracts in person. Zoom worked well enough, but Blake shined in person. His ease with trustees, his charm when closing deals. Picturing him in the boardroom got me all fluttery. No lie.
Blake surprised me with a reroute to our reprieve on a plane leaving Arkansas.
“You look like you need some sun.”
“I look like I need my own clothes and a whole lot of alcohol. I’m so tired, Blake. I miss our bed—you know, the one in our home in Vermont. I know you think I married you because I love you, but the truth is, I love your mattress.”
He barked out a playful laugh. “How do I compete with that?”
“I’m sorry…” I patted his chest. “You can’t.”
“Mingati.”
I blinked. “Pardon?”
“I said, Mingati. As in, maybe two weeks in Mexico might help.”
My head jutted back. “Mattress? What mattress?”
“So just to confirm… Do you think you might want to spend two weeks with me at a resort in Cancun even at the expense of spending two weeks without your true love, our mattress?”
“It’s a sacrifice…”
“Good,” he said, then he bent in, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Because we’re on our way there now.”
“Blake, honey… there’s a problem. We need our passports and I need at least one swimsuit. Plus, there’s that whole I’d prefer not to wear gray, taupe, or brown skirt suits with sensible heels all around Mexico, to think about.”
“I guess it’s good that I’ve been planning this for a while and have your passport and a big suitcase packed full of everything you and I will need for this trip.”
“You have? You do ?”
“I’d like to see the mattress arrange a surprise like this. All he does is lie around the bedroom. He has no motivation.”
“I was confused,” I teased, climbing onto his lap to get close, running my fingernails through the back of his hair the way he loved so much. He closed his eyes and shuddered. “Can you ever forgive me?” I asked.
“I might. But I feel totally betrayed,” he teased back.
“Well, if you forgive me, I’ll let you do that thing you’ve been wanting to try…” Then I bent in to whisper exactly what thing I’d been referring to in his ear so the flight attendant didn’t hear. His whole body jerked.
“Are you serious?” he asked, and we were no longer teasing.
I shook my head. “Totally.”
“How soon are we talking? Like, I have to ease you into it with a few days of relaxation and copious amounts of alcohol or, like, as soon as we shut the door to our villa?”
Our villa ? He’d rented us a villa? Holy shitballs!
I knew exactly how to answer that. “As soon as we shut the door.”
Once the plane touched down in Mexico, my eager husband whisked me to the private car he’d procured to take us to the resort. I thought I’d at least get the chance to snap some pictures, but the man was on a mission. And what kind of wife would deny her husband something he so clearly wanted after promising to give it to him, for a photo op? Was I nervous? Sure. But was I excited? Every yes imaginable.
We failed to leave the villa for two full days. And for proving to be the best husband ever , I let him check a few more boxes off his to do to my wife list. But on day three, my body needed a break. See, the resort sold lube for both the front and back doors, right in their store and once he found that out, well, two days ago, my ass had been classified undiscovered country and now he could nickname it Tokyo—but like because of one person’s cock and fingers—oh, and his tongue, and those toys he found online and had overnighted to us, instead of the forty-one million populating the actual city. Whatever . It sounded different in my head. Some things he had to explain to me because I never dreamed they were possible, but let’s just say I might’ve been a contortionist in a past life.
Yes, I’d earned that nice, long soak in the tub.
“I thought we might take in the pool and eat at a restaurant today,” he said to me as I walked out of the bathroom still wrapped in my towel.
“We probably should see some of what Cancun has to offer.”
“You mean offer you .” He dropped his voice to that seductive tone he got when sex was involved. “Cancun has already exceeded my expectations.”
Oh, lordy ! “No!” I snapped, holding up my hand in the gesture for stop. “You can’t use that voice because then we won’t leave the room and I won’t get to see Cancun.”
“Can I use it tonight?” he asked, hopeful.
“Probably.”
“ Yes! ” He fist-pumped the air. My husband was officially an idiot. But heaven help me, I loved him.
I dressed in a red bikini that I didn’t remember owning, especially since I had to remove the tags, and a fishnet coverup. He dressed in his swim trunks, then my husband led us out to the pool, a pool with a view of the ocean. I’d never seen the ocean look so blue and welcoming.
The warm breeze blew on us from the water. I officially loved Cancun. We ate at the pool bar while we chatted it up with other couples vacationing or on their honeymoons, which Blake and I were technically both.
After a productive day of drinking my body weight’s worth of frozen margaritas, we dressed for a night out on the town and he took me dancing. The next morning, we got up bright and early because Blake had arranged a private tour of the Mayan ruins of Tulum. Me , at Mayan ruins! We also visited the El Rey and Coba ruins.
Funny, I’d been so envious when Pen returned from her honeymoon where Ant had surprised her with a historic tour of the Mediterranean. And now here we were on our own historic tour. We spent the next two days hitting all the sights the area had to offer and while we were on the bus back to the resort at the end of that second day, I silently said a thank you to those brazen birds who’d flown away with Blake’s lunch back in Paris on the Seine.
My life had started that day.
Unfortunately, two weeks passed in a blur of sunny skies, taking in the sights, lots of booze, and copious amounts of sex. The next thing I knew, we were on the jet back to the USA because my husband had an important meeting requiring his attendance. It sucked, but what could we do?
At least we got to sleep in our own bed again. I’d missed Maisie and the rest of the staff. The morning after Blake’s meeting, we were summoned to another brunch at Robert and Adair’s home.
Why? Why did they hate me so much as to force me to dine in their presence? I was prepared this time, though, dressed in my brunch armor of a sleeveless navy dress with a scoop neck and a matching bolero jacket. Sensible pumps included. Always sensible pumps. My hair I threw up in a chignon. Like I said, armor.
“You look beautiful, as always,” my husband said while leading me by my hand out to the car. “But when this campaign is over, we’re burning every black, navy blue, gray, or taupe garment that you currently own.”
“Don’t like those colors on me?” I asked, clicking my seatbelt into place.
“They look fine, but they aren’t you. My Glory wears pink and red and emerald green or yellow. My Glory wears her hair down and full of those gorgeous curls that first caught my attention.”
“I know you have to wear them for work, but I wouldn’t mind seeing my Blake out of suits again.”
He waggled his eyebrows and I socked him in the arm.
“I don’t think that’s our problem.”
“Thank God.” He leaned in to press a very welcome kiss to my lips. Then he shifted the car into gear and we were off.
Something had changed from the first unfortunate brunch I attended with Blake to now. The Parkers didn’t make me feel welcome by any means—don’t be ridiculous! Two-thirds of them still hated me. Save for my husband—he’d better like me—and Jupiter, I knew they never would. But they simply ignored my presence in the room.
Most people would probably get upset by being ignored. I found it liberating.
Robert and Brock talked strategies and the upcoming election while Adair and Emily planned more celebration dinners and campaign luncheons.
I stuffed a bite of harvest quiche into my mouth and chewed. Harvest quiche—that was what they called it. A cheesy quiche packed with all kinds of vegetables. I ate while listening to the conversation between Blake and Jupiter, and answering when appropriate, as in when one of them asked me a question.
It went on this way for the first half hour or better, lulling me into a false sense of security, so much so that I was ill-prepared for Robert’s sneak attack. It went something like this:
“We’ll need to fly your mother out here for a few weeks,” Robert said and I didn’t answer, not realizing he’d actually spoken to me. I waited for the conversation between Blake and Jupiter to pick back up. It didn’t. “Well, Gloria?” he asked irately. “Can you make it happen within the next two weeks?”
Only then did it click that the words leaving Robert Parker’s mouth were aimed at me, and I blinked.
“ Sorry ?” I asked, continuing to blink. At this point, I lost my ability to discern fantasy from reality. Why’d he have to pull this now? I’d been ignored. I missed being ignored.
Who gave him the right to no longer ignore me? There were rules, dammit!
“Glory,” Blake whispered my name, nudging my arm.
“I don’t know,” I managed to get out. “She has work—why… do you want my mother to visit?”
My stomach started cramping. I pushed my plate back, knowing I’d be unable to take another bite. Maybe ever again for the rest of my life. Robert Parker asking to meet my mother wouldn’t end well.
“Yes, Father…” Blake jumped in. “Why are you involving Glory’s mother in anything?”
“Does she have something to hide?”
I blanched. I mean, I didn’t think she had anything to hide. Just, we weren’t exactly on speaking terms and I couldn’t know how the Parkers would react when they met Carl. Did conservative millionaires live together unmarried? And then, given the lack of diversity in the Robert and Adair friend circle, how would they feel about an interracial relationship?
In the wake of all this, and for the sake of my sanity, I said, “My mother doesn’t have anything to hide.” Because we weren’t living in the damn dark ages.
“Good,” Robert replied. “My people have informed me that there are a couple of news stations that won’t let the story be— ‘Who is Gloria Parker?’”
“Who cares?” Brock joined in.
“ Voters . Therefore, we now care too. We’ll need to meet with her,” Robert went on. “There needs to be an understanding between families.”
An understanding ? Why did those words coming from Robert Parker’s mouth sound so incredibly threatening? Oh, because he lived to threaten anyone he deemed lower than him, which I think might’ve consisted of the entire population of the planet.
In my head, I shoved back from the table, threw the linen napkin on my plate, and shouted, “You will not intimidate me!” before storming out of not only the dining room, but the entire house.
My reality looked more like me shrinking down in my seat, nodding my head, and meekly stating, “I’ll call her.”
“I’ll call her?”
I hated myself in that moment. Hated myself .
Robert and Brock made plans concerning my mother around me, totally ignoring my presence again. But the security I’d felt minutes ago took off for parts unknown, leaving me feeling very alone and highly vulnerable.
Thankfully, my husband picked up on the signs and swooped in to my rescue.
“I take it there’s nothing more you need from us?” he asked the table.
His father refused to answer in words, deciding we were inconsequential enough to flip his hand in the air to dismiss us. Blake grabbed my elbow to pull me up from my chair, and he led us out of the Parker home.
I really needed to grow a backbone where these people were concerned.
“I had no idea they wanted to meet your mother,” Blake said on the drive home.
“Honey, I know that. We’re a team. You’d never betray your teammate.”
“Given that I actually haven’t met your mom yet, I’m looking forward to bringing her out here.”
With a slump of my shoulders, I admitted to my husband the thing that I didn’t want him to know. “I still haven’t talked to her.”
Blake jerked his head in my direction. “What do you mean you haven’t talked to her?”
“She’s left some voicemails but I never called her back. I sent a text that said I’ve been super busy and I’d call when I could, if it makes you feel better.”
“Gloria—you’ve got to be shitting me?”
“I don’t know what to say to her now.”
“You say ‘you hurt me when you kept Carl from me, but you’re my mom.’”
I huffed out a sharp breath. “You wouldn’t say that to your mom.”
He slammed on the brakes and we both jutted forward. “Adair gave birth to me but has never been a mom. We’re talking apples and broccoli, here.”
“Don’t snap at me.” Tears started welling in my eyes. “It’s a complicated situation. And I don’t know, it just felt easier to let it go.”
He pulled off to the shoulder of the road, shifting into park, and pulled me against him for a hug. “Glory—” He sighed. “I’m sorry I snapped at you and I know she hurt you, but she’s also your only parent. Give her a call, if not for you, do it for me—a wedding present.”
“The ass play in Mexico wasn’t enough?” When he failed to laugh the way I hoped he would, I agreed, “Fine. I’ll call. But you get to field the questions about why I was photographed at Brockton Parker rallies.”
“Deal.” He smiled down at me, shifting out of park, but refused to move until he kissed me. I deserved a damn kiss after this mess of a morning. He definitely took the hint and my heart felt full again.
“And Glory—I’ll be right there with you holding your hand if you want me to be.”
“This might be more of a holding me on your lap for maximum moral support kind of call.”
He shook his head. “The things I do for my wife.”
“Well, as long as you’re doing things for your wife” —I pointed to the road— “maybe you could get the car moving again?”
On the drive home I tried to plan out exactly what I wanted to say to my mom when we talked. My head was a mess of potential conversations and all the ways my mother could respond to my invite. My heartrate spiked to painful levels as those responses turned uncomfortable or downright angry, because I worried about how Robert Parker would react if she failed to show. But at the same time, I worried more about his reaction if she did.
Blake unlocked the front door because he already had his key out. I kicked off my shoes but he walked with his shoes on into the kitchen. Then I jogged upstairs to change into my comfies. I simply couldn’t place a call of this magnitude to my only surviving parent wearing brunch drab. I desired color and comfort for such a momentous task.
This call required my piano kitty leggings and the rust-colored T-shirt that used to belong to my dad. The fabric hung down to my knees and offered absolutely no shape. Then I pulled on my pale pink slipper socks. We kept the air on even though it’d technically on the cusp of fall. The weather didn’t care about technicalities. It wanted to stay summer, so we stayed summer.
I laid out Blake’s favorite crimson joggers and worn-out Harvard T-shirt, the one he’d owned since before graduating from there six years ago.
He loved that washed-out shirt and I loved Blake, so I saw no problem him with him wearing it—especially not when he bald-faced lied to me about thinking my piano kitty leggings were cute.
As I wandered back downstairs, I heard the distinct sound of a blender zsuzs ing coming from the kitchen.
“Sit your cute piano kitty bottom down on the sofa,” he called out to me, and—and how the heck did he know about my piano kitty leggings to begin with? It appeared I’d married a mind reader.
“I can—” I started to respond, but got cut off abruptly by his response.
“Sit your cute butt down.”
“Okay… okay… calm your tits there, buddy. I’m sitting.”
His laugh carried out to the living room. The sound lightened my mood while I waited on the sofa. After about ten minutes, Blake walked out of the kitchen carrying a frozen strawberry daiquiri in one hand and a beer in the other. He set the beer down on a coaster, then handed me my drink, pecked a quick kiss to my lips, and said, “Be right back.”
The man jogged back into the kitchen, reemerging a moment later carrying a large charcuterie platter filled with meats, cheeses, veggies, dips, and bread and crackers.
My mouth dropped open.
“What?” He shot me that dimple again. “We didn’t really get to eat.”
I nibbled away at my bottom lip wondering if we could skip the call for a while longer because his kindness went right to my lady bits and gave me some truly wicked ideas. His returning bedroom eyes gave away everything he felt for me and my heart melted all over again. “Damn, Blake Parker, if we weren’t already married, I’d be your booty call for the rest of my life.”
“Does one negate the other?” he asked and good question. “Can’t you be my wife and my booty call? Because, Glory, I’m addicted to your booty. I can honestly say it’s the only booty I want to call on for the rest of my life. But that doesn’t mean you get out of contacting your mom.” Damn him for reading my mind again. “Tell you what,” he went on, “we get through this call and then we can explore that one upstairs.”
“I laid your comfies out for you.” Yes, that was what I said. Don’t come at me. I couldn’t exactly contact my mother while fighting back rock-hard nipples and the urge to let myself orgasm.
But God help me when he loosened his tie and started unbuttoning his cuffs. It was like Clark Kent removing his glasses to show Lois Lane the sexy superman behind them. I ask you, what rational, hetero woman didn’t cream in her panties from that? Even as he made his way to the stairs, his one last glance over his shoulder gave the promise of ‘ we’re not finished .’
Cheese. Meat. Daiquiris . I forced myself to think about anything besides Blake upstairs stripping. It worked. A thick piece of cheddar called to me from the platter. I placed it on a cracker and shoved the whole thing in my mouth at once while waiting for him to change.
He caught me chewing like a chipmunk with my puffy cheeks, but kindly refrained from teasing me, opting instead to snatch my clutch from the table next to the door. I’d set it there when I kicked off my shoes. And my phone was in my clutch.
“No more stalling,” he said, tossing the clutch onto my lap.
“I wasn’t stalling.”
“Good.” He dropped onto the cushion next to me, draping his arm along the back of the sofa. “Then make the call.”
“We don’t even know if she’s home.”
“That’s the beauty of a cell phone—she doesn’t have to be home.”
Okay, I hated when he, or anybody for that matter, made sense when I couldn’t seem to make myself make sense.
To make me more comfortable, he gathered my knees, twisting my body so my back rested against the arm of the sofa, draping my legs across his lap. I opened my clutch to withdraw my phone, and before I could second-guess the decision, I brought up and then pressed my mother’s contact.
Points for Gloria.
It rang.
And it rang.
Well, it appeared she was busy. As I moved my finger to press the end call button I heard, “ Gloria? ” in my mother’s voice.
Big girl panties.
“How are you?” I sounded very formal.
“I’m the same as always,” she replied.
“And how is Carl?”
“ Wonderful ,” she gushed. The smile in her voice resonated through the line. A smile, I’ll add, that I realized I’d missed.
I swallowed back that little bite of sadness. “Good to hear.”
“How’s married life been treating you?” my mother asked, accusation thick in the air between us. “You stopped in Michigan with your husband ”—and oh, yeah, she really let me have it with that one word— “and didn’t bother to stop by.”
“I texted.”
“Gloria, you got married at the courthouse. I got that little tidbit out of Penelope.”
“I was hurt. Keeping Carl a secret after you begged me not to leave you.” How could we get past that ? And why was I expected to move us past it?
“ Sweety …”
“I didn’t call to argue. Putting you on speaker so you can meet Blake.”
Why did I feel like crap again?
And why did life have to be so complicated?