“But Ashlyn’s not the mom,” I say. “It’s that girl from last year that I went out with a couple of times who lost her shit when I didn’t feel enough to get serious.”
“The one who told you she was on the pill while she was most likely poking holes in the condom while you poured the wine?” he asks.
“Nigel,” I shake my head.
“Zane. This is ideal. Trust me. In the end, it’s going to clean up your mess with more ease than a Swifter on steroids, and it makes you look good. Better than good. Desirable. Deliciously unavailable. Because you know what’s hotter than a seasoned, silver fox underwear model?” he asks. Then, without waiting for me to answer, he says, “A seasoned, silver fox underwear model who is also a hot dad.”
I wipe my hand over my face as I think about what he’s saying. “So…you want me and Ashlyn to pretend that the baby is hers.”
“Exactly,” he says.
“I just don’t see how it’s going to work,” I say. “The logistics.”
“You’re the father, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“And the bio mom peaced out, right?”
“Yes,”
“And you’re the legal guardian, are you not?” he asks.
“I am,” I answer. “I mean, it’s still a little sticky, but they’re doing a welfare check and an ex parte for emergency legal custody, but in short, yes.”
“Then from my point of view, the logistics check out perfectly,” he says. “Easy peasy.”
I get up from the chair and see myself out. This whole thing has snowballed out of my control. I don’t know how I could stop it if I wanted to. Honestly, he’s right. If we play the part, it could work. But, that’s assuming Ashlyn will go along with it.
Chapter 24
Zane
The thingI love about art is that no one can tell you how to do it.
You don’t have to stand a certain way. You don’t have to use specific colors. The lighting can change, and it will still create something beautiful. Flaws are seen as flare instead of downfall. And it ages well. Better than wine or cheese, or even love.
I lock the door to my office even though there’s never anyone else here. Well, Bentley is here, but he’s in his room sleeping. I have the baby monitor with me just in case he wakes up. Ashlyn is out with Demi, so I have a moment alone. A moment to paint. A moment to decompress and circle back to myself.
Not a lot of people know I paint and sketch. In fact, other than Caleb, I don’t know that anyone knows. I’ve always kind of kept it to myself. It’s an outlet for me. Something I don’t have to change for other people. I don’t have to share it if I don’t want to. I’m not hiding it. I’m just holding it close. Because unlike modeling, it’s not for anyone but me. In a way, it’s a part of me that no one else gets to see. In a world where my whole life and everything about me is constantly under stage lighting, having something like that is invaluable.
The painting I am working on right now is…complicated. It’s set on a black canvas. A seascape of sorts. I don’t usually do landscapes. I’m more of a body and portrait person. But when I started this one, the ocean just kind of filled the space on its own, and the sky evolved from the horizon. And the male figure took shape in the middle of it all. No face. No clothing. Back to the audience, just staring out over the water.
At first, the water was tranquil. The sky was light. But then, as I went deeper, it grew darker. Cloudy. Torrent. Now, as I sit here with a brush in hand, I’m finding that the waters aren’t so tame.
The baby monitor crackles, and the sound of Bentley stirring fills the room. I stop, pausing the brushstroke, and stare at the baby monitor. Like if I don’t move, he’ll go back to sleep, and for a moment, it goes quiet again.
I dip the brush into gray, swirling it with blue until it creates a deep gunmetal color. As I create a wave in the background towards the horizon, the monitor crackles again. This time he isn’t just stirring, he’s fussing.
I sigh, closing my eyes for a moment in the hope that he will soothe himself. I would love to have another moment. When that doesn’t happen, I open my eyes again, brow furrowing, and stroke the brush to the canvas, bringing the wave closer to the shore. Closer to the man. Closer to me.
Bentley is wailing now, and part of me just wants to turn it down…or off. I know I can’t do that. So instead, I put my brush down and pick myself up, padding my way back to the nursery.
The door is cracked, and I walk inside. He’s lying on his back crying real tears. I can’t imagine what could be so terrible aboutbeing a little baby, lying in a comfy crib, with people waiting on you hand and foot.
“You got it pretty good from my point of view,” I say. Not that he can understand me. Not that he would care if he could.
Yeah, except his mom left him.
