AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My heart is fluttering in my chest, but for a different reason now.Preschool.It makes it all feel so real. There will be a child on this earth soon, and one day, I will have to take that child to preschool. Where will I be then? Who will be with me? Will my child be safe? Can I bear to let them go?
“Sloan, picking a school for the kid is a big decision. We need to get a head start on it. I made us an appointment for an interview.” He glances at me then turns back to the road.
I’m still panicking, though. “Beck… a preschool? Now?”
“It’s just a meeting, Sloan. For intake. These schools interview us as much as they look at the kid.” He grins at me, charming as ever. “Although, it’s our kid, so it’s guaranteed to be one good-looking baby.”
“Well, yeah. Obviously.” I smile back queasily. “I’m just not convinced that it’s necessary to pressure our unborn child into being intake-interview-ready before it evacuates my uterus.”
“This is important to me, Sloan. I want our kid to have every advantage.” He whips the car into a lot, kills the engine, then twists in his seat so he’s facing me head-on. “I want the world for our baby.”
When he puts it like that, any argument falls out of me.
“Fine.” I look out of the window. “Where are we?”
He grins again. “It’s an art gallery. You, sweet angel, are tonight’s VIP guest.” He leans in and brushes his mouth over mine. Heat burns in my blood.
My body wants to stay in the car and indulge in some tonsil hockey. But my brain wants me to go inside the gallery and see what they have in store.
He comes around the car and lets me out, puts his hand once again in what I’ve come to think of as “his spot” at the small of my back, and guides me to the door.
The gallery looks like a sleek stucco warehouse slung low down an entire block. The installation above the door reads “Illuminate” in a twisty purple neon. I can already feel how much I’m going to love this place.
But the inside is so much more than I expected. It’s bright, with art that is saturated with color, bright, sharp, dramatic. The work is similar to mine, to my style of broad brushstrokes. Every piece vibrates with life.
We’re still in the foyer and I’m already drooling at how much I love everything. I can feel all my senses opening up and being moved this way and that.
When we stand looking at one, a man wearing a crisp wool suit in a semi-muted shade of mauve materializes next to Beck. “Mr. Daniels.”
Beck turns to him and beams. “David!” Except he says it like Daw-VEED. “This is Sloan Reeves. She’s an artist.” As I shake David’s hand, Beck continues, “I imagine very soon you’ll have one of her shows here.”
“Is that so?” David turns to me with an eyebrow arched. “Ms. Reeves, I would be honored if you would share your work with me if you ever feel moved to do so. Mr. Daniels has my contact info, so please do not hesitate to reach out should the mood strike.”
He shakes my hand, still gushing about this and that. I’m genuinely taken aback—he’s saying the kind of things people say when they’re bullshitting you, but I truly in my heart of hearts believe that he means it.
He bows slightly, then takes us on a whirlwind tour of the gallery. He’s knowledgeable and funny and three hours pass in the blink of an eye. Beck keeps his hand plastered to my lower back the whole time.
When I’ve gawked at and lusted over every piece of art in the building, we leave because apparently we have nine o’clock reservations. And even though I would gladly give up food for the rest of my life to spend a few more hours at the gallery, Beck whisks me away to dinner.
And then the surprises continue, because not only did Becktoleratetoday’s art-a-palooza, but when we start talking about the pieces, he blows me away by spending five straight minutes monologuing about the brushstroke technique on one of my favorite pieces.
I was so sure he wasn’t paying attention. That he was just there to flatter me. And hell, maybe he was. But when he gets quiet for a second and his eyes grow hazy as he remembers how the art made him feel, I realize something with a start:he’s perfect.
Perfect in the eyes of so many women, yeah. He’s rich and famous and athletic, so yeah, duh, of course.
But he’s also perfect forme.He’s protective to a fault, and loyal, and brave. He lets art make him feel feelings and he holds my hand while we listen to curators describe overarching themes and he wants to make my problems disappear.
Just at the moment where I’m certain I’m falling in love with him because he has paid attention, he switches the conversation topic back to the preschool interview.
“You should see this school. Brick and ivy out the wazoo. They can read and write by the time they start kindergarten. Anthony has put three kids through there. Has one that’s about to graduate high school and head off to Yale. And before you ask, yes, the preschool definitely had something to do with it. Foundations are important. It’s like hockey. If you teach them right from the beginning, start the good habits when they’re young, they carry it through.”
“I guess I never really thought of it that way.”
More like I’ve never really had occasion to think of it like that. But by the time we get back to his place, it’s all I can think about.The choices we make are going to affect this baby’s entire life. Every question will have to have the precisely correct answer. Scenarios roll through my head, each one worse than the last.
I’ve worked myself into a frenzy, so when we pull into the garage, I don’t wait for him to open the door for me. I rush inside, straight to his stash of baby books, and start reading.
If children are our future, mine isn’t going to be the dumb one.
