Page 69 of Better Daddy
“We did get him up on stage that one time, though,” she points out.
Above us, a raindrop hits the top of the car with atink. It’s followed by another, then a third, but I ignore it, focusing on my wife.
“Only because he was bloody pissed.”
She smirks. “Drunk, Sully. You’ve spent more than twenty years in the US. We say drunk.”
I chuckle. The woman has always given me shite, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
The patter of the rain on the roof gets a little steadier, but even as the legs of my trousers get wet, I don’t mind.
“Fine,” I say. “He wasdrunk. And so were you, after seven Jäger bombs.”
She shakes her head. “It was redheaded sluts.”
“Bloody lies.” I scoff.
“No way. I hate Jäger bombs, so you let me pick.” She flashes me a smile that instantly convinces me that she’s right.
Come to think of it, that’s probably how she got me to toss back those rank shots she chose that night.
“So,” she goes on, “we drank redheaded sluts.”
“Maybe.” I kiss her forehead, knowing she’s one hundred percent right. I know well enough that if she had wanted the drink, I would have let her order without protest. I’d give her anything, back then and now.
As we turn into Central Park, the rain turns from a steady drizzle to a mighty pounding. My legs are soaked, and since we continue to move forward, the rain now hits my chest and shoulders.
Beside me, Sloane shivers, so I pull her in closer.
When the man on the bike finishes his fourth song, he stops and turns around. “I know you paid for the full park tour, but are you sure you want me to continue on, sir?”
I glance at my wife, at her damp hair and her wobbling bottom lip. Though she’s being a good sport, she’s soaked and no doubt miserable.
“Take us to the restaurant.” My heart sinks as I make the decision. So much for my perfect night.
“Sully.” Sloane burrows closer, her teeth chattering.
I’m a fucking plonker. What was I thinking, bringing her out like this?
“We can’t go anywhere like this,” she says. “Let’s just go home.”
Fucking fuck. She’s right.
Tamping down my frustration, I calmly tell the man to head back to our penthouse. As we ride in silence, her words hit me, and my mood lifts. She wants to go home.Our home.Not her place. Home.
By the time he pulls to a stop in front of our building, the rain is coming down so hard, I can barely make out his words when he tells us to have a good night.
I rush to open the door for Sloane, but she’s already beyond soaked. Her hair clings to the side of her face as water runs down her cheeks, and her entire body trembles.
“Go on up. Take a warm shower. I’ll find us something to eat,” I promise.
Though I expect my independent, sassy wife to protest, to swear she wants to help, she goes without a fight.
I dart back out into the rain, headed for the Quick Mart across the street. For a few minutes, I wander, unsure of what to pick up. But when my eyes land on the yellow and white package, an idea strikes. When Sloane was pregnant with T.J., she craved BLTs constantly. So with any luck, the simple meal will be a hit.
I’m standing at the stove in my sweats, almost finished with the bacon, when she comes out of the bedroom.
“I’ve missed this view,” she calls over the soft music I turned on.
