Chapter 21
SARAH
By the time the 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 look like 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’ll truly relax 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 he begrudgingly 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 even see their 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 to people recognizing Miles, but something about being the wife of 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?”
“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 Bradley approaches 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 honestly so good at this—at talking to people. He’s warm and engaging and interesting and he’s a good listener, and he does it all so naturally.
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.
It does feel 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 he is so 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. “But no, 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.