Page 3 of A Very Grumpy Father's Day
Shit. I think I’m dying. It’s problematic. “Fuuuuuuck.”
“Morning, sunshine.”
And there she is. The woman who keeps my entire life running smoothly and still handles me with the ease and precision of a comic book superheroine who can type seventy words per minute while breastfeeding an infant, making a frittata, and rolling her eyes at me. She calls me out whenever I’m being an asshole or an idiot in a way that is both sexy and endearing. Her glossy dark hair is up in a long ponytail—one part Betty, one part Veronica, and all mine. The former executive assistant of my dreams is the wife I never even allowed myself to fantasize about having. I would hire her over and over again if I didn’t know for a fact that she’d say no to working for me. And I would ask her to marry me over and over again if I didn’t live in fear that one day she’ll realize what a terrible mistake she made when she saidI do.
I slowly sit up to watch her place a serving tray on the bed. She knows perfectly well that I’ve been in a constant state of blue balls for two and a half weeks, but she’s torturing me by leaning forward. Her full breasts taunt me from a low-cut T-shirt. She knows I’ve developed a weird thing for nursing bras, but more importantly, she knows that I know how much she likes that I like her boobs in them. Even more importantly—I know how much she likes what I do to her boobs. We will never get tired of riling each other up or getting each other off.
And that, in a nutshell, is what keeps our marriage and sex life hot and agonizing, right there.
On the tray sits a plate of buttered toast, a bottle of water, a bottle of ibuprofen, a baby monitor, and steaming-hot aromatic ink-black coffee in aWorld’s Best Dadmug.
“Good morning, wife,” I say, in a tone that speaks directly to her clitoris. It takes all the willpower I possess to keep from hurling myself at her. But even with alarming good looks, abs, and a marriage certificate—when you wake up in a bathroom, you gotta play it cool and make your woman come to you.
She does not come to me.
She picks up the bottle of water and ibuprofen and remains exactly where she is, frowning at me.
So this is how it’s going to be.
I get up. Slowly. Not because my head is throbbing, but because I am the master of this house and I want my lady to want me. I want her to beg for me. And I need that ibuprofen.
“Thank you,” I say, before swallowing two pills and gulping down half a liter of water.
She does not hold her hands out to take the bottles back from me. She crosses her arms beneath her generous maternal bosom and continues frowning at me, her hard expression breaking for a split second only when she hears our daughter gurgling from the baby monitor.
But I see her. I watch her gaze as it reluctantly travels down and up my naked torso. I hear her trying to control her breath. I see her thighs squeeze together in those sweatpants as she rests a trembling but determined fist on her supple hip.
“She in the playpen?” I ask as I pick up theWorld’s Best Dadmug.
I don’t even need this coffee. I have had a crippling addiction to my wife for years, and I have absolutely no intention of ever quitting her. Every part of me is suddenly wide awake. Only this woman I married could be a balm for my soul, a caffeine hit to my heart, and a fucking rocket launcher for my cock at the same time.
But I’m gonna play it cool because that’s how Big Daddy Cannavale gets into his lady’s pants. Smooth like whiskey. Easy like Sunday morning.
“Mm-hmm” is all I get in response.
We moved here three months ago, and she’s been frustrated with me for all three of them because half of our belongings are still packed up in boxes in the two extra bedrooms and she doesn’t know where everything is. It’s not my fault we’re so busy. It’s definitely not my fault that other people are not trustworthy enough to pack or unpack our belongings for us.
“You and Ciara survive the night without me?” I ask. It’s a somewhat rhetorical question, since they did, technically, survive the night without me. But I would like the answer to benot really. Orbarely. Orplease don’t ever leave us again.
“Surprisingly, yes. And half the day too. Unlike the other member of our adorable little family.”
I scoff at that. “Hardly. It was nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Yeah, that checks out,” she says, her words dripping with sarcasm. “When you came home you couldn’t stand up straight, but you were mumbling about a hot dog and asked me to check you for ticks since you were in the Hamptons. You were afraid Ciara would get Lyme disease, so you got into the bathtub and fell asleep in the middle of a sentence about never leaving the house again and having all our children homeschooled.”
I place the coffee mug back down on the tray and drag my fingers through my hair, flexing every muscle I have until we both remember how sexy I am. “I don’t recall any of that. But I am glad to be home.” I place a kiss on her cheek. She smells like dishwashing liquid and vanilla and sadism. I will never stop wanting her, and I will continue trying to seduce her until my last breath.
I caress her arms, ever so gently. She shudders. There are goose bumps. She will be mine.
She clears her throat and pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Well, perhaps this will jog your memory.” She opens up her voice mail app, plays a message, and puts it on speakerphone. She holds that phone flat in the palm of her hand, smirking, like she’s serving up my humiliation on a platter. “Nine thirty-five p.m,” she says, like the narrator of a nature show.
I cross my arms at my chest, lick my lips, and get ready to be amused by how awesome I sound when I’m out with the guys.
I hear the fucking Chumbawamba song in the background.“Hello? Babe? Oh, it’s a message. It’s me. Just checking in. Things have been surprisingly mellow, so I think I can get home by eleven. Tonight, I mean. Eleven tonight. You’re probably busy with Ciara. Text me to let me know how it’s going. Love you.”
She plays another message. “Ten forty-eight p.m.”
“I love you. Got your text. I just wanted to hear your voice. Are you asleep?”It sounds like I was running. Why was I running?“Okay, you’re asleep now probably, but if you wake up you can call me back anytime. I guess I won’t be home before midnight because we’re in the Hamptons? But I will—I have the ringer turned on. Wait, do I? …I just turned my ringer on. So if you need me for anything, I will answer my phone.”And then I yelled in my best long-haired Daniel Day-Lewis impression,“You stay alive, no matter what occurs! I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you!”
