Page 24 of The CEO and the Mountain Man

River, ever the artist, was always listening.

He went through her laptop and picked one of his favorite pictures. Mine too.

In it, River was maybe two, and we’d found him playing with Monica’s makeup brushes. Monica grabbed her phone and snapped the picture before she let me clean him up.

Her composition was exquisite. There he was, sitting in a puddle of light on the bathroom tile, his sandy brown hair lit up like a halo around his cute toddler face, which was striped in teals and reds. He was holding several of her makeup brushes between his fingers, like a juvenile Edward Scissorhands. The best part, though—the very best part—was his beaming expression. He had maybe seven teeth in his head, so he was a snaggle-toothed, drooling mess, and his eyes sparkled with glee.

“Do you think she’ll like it?”

“Son, she’llloveit.”

He’d asked if he could paint it at my condo so that he could keep it a surprise and give it to her at our Christmas dinner. I was more than happy to give him the space, and he spent the better part of November painting a masterpiece.

I’m biased, sure, but it wasbeautiful.

I’d hung it in the condo in my ensuite bathroom. Where only I could see it.

So … of course he couldn’t paint anymore.

Something about my own stupidity made me chuckle.

“What’s so fucking funny?” he seethed, his face going red.

“Me,” I said on a sigh. “I’m a fucking joke.”

Confusion filled his expression, so I explained, “I didn’t even ask you if you wanted to come to this place. I basically dragged you out here, asked not one single question, and put you in a painting class that…” I shook my head. “Of course you would hate it.”

Something like guilt or shame filled his eyes, his puffed-up shoulders slumping.

“Not your doing,” I insisted. I pointed to myself. “Father of the year, right here.”

My son, this sad black-and-white version of himself, paused, almost swaying in the words I’d left behind. His mouth, so frequently downturned, shifted into an almost half-smile.

“You really did drag me all the way out to Colorado, in a car, to ride horses, swim in creeks, and paint.” He huffed out a dry laugh.

“I really did,” I said, grasping onto the one thing we’d managed to agree on in months. “You should see how much it cost me.” I chuckled.

River covered his mouth, because a teenager couldn’t ever be seen finding their parent amusing. “Did it cost more than the season passes to the Institute?”

“Somuch more,” I admitted, laughing openly.

He raked his hand through his dark locks. “You even went to a store called The Mercantile, Dad.With Beau. How the hell did that happen?”

“Because I stepped in horseshit.” I had no idea why he had to emphasize thewith Beaupart. “I’m gonna hafta burn those shoes.”

We both snorted.

River gestured to the downpour outside. “Dad? Whatthe fuckare we doing here?”

A sound, a giggle really, escaped my lips. “Fuck if I know.”

And for the first time in over six months, my son threw his head back and laughed. At me, sure, but he waslaughing. Not a chuckle, not an amused huff. Big, silly guffaws.

I could weep to hear that sound coming from my son’s face. That would really put a damper on the mood, though, so I laughed with him. I put my head on his shoulder, distantly registering that he’d left his walking stick in his room. He shook underneath me, and it reminded me of how easy it used to be to make him laugh as a kid.

He’d loved it when I told the beef jokes.

What do you call a cow with two legs, Riv? Lean beef.