The shoot-out.
He doesn’t answer me, at first. I was beginning to think he wouldn’t when he finally sighs. “Yeah. I can’t say no to him, Suse. I know he wants kids. He’s never asked since our conversation years ago, but I…I can see it in his face every time the subject is brought up. Every time you and I dodge the question of kids from others and he’s standingrightthere listening and trying to pretend it doesn’t impact him, too. Someone was joking with me about it today in front of him, and…I could see it fuckingkillshim.
“I’m sure Owen’s not going to care who’s on the birth certificate as long as he gets to help raise them. In four to eight years, he’ll get to step back from this life. You know as well as I do that he doesn’t want to run for anything else. I want him to have a greater purpose once that happens, and it would make him so damn happy to be a dad. And if you run for the US Senate, all the better. He can stay home with the kids while I help you on the campaign trail.”
I snort. “You won’t be able to stay away from him that long. You big softy.”
He finally smiles and touches a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell him that. Don’t want to lose my bastard label.”
He holds his hands out to me, wiggling his fingers, and I stand to help him up from the floor. “Also, don’t be shocked if I mindfuck him a little,” he adds. “Go with whatever he says I said, huh? I might have some fun with this. He’s so tightly wound right now, I need to work some secret kink into his routine.”
I smirk. “Yes, Sir. Whatever you say, Sir.”
“Smart-ass.” He smacks my ass, then rubs the sting away and kisses me.
“Is that why you’re home early?”
“Yeah. He’ll be along shortly. Security detail will bring him. I wanted him to try to get used tonothaving me there sometimes.”
About that time, we hear a tell-tale beep next door, the sound of the alarm being disarmed at Owen’s townhouse. Moments later, the sound of him walking upstairs, then the beep as the door between his bedroom and ours is unlocked with the keypad and opened.
Carter drops me a wink and tips his head for me to go to our boy.
Owen’s…exhausted. I can see it in his face before he drops to his knees in front of me in greeting. I immediately sit in front of him on the floor, much like Carter sat with me, and I rub his scalp. This will be the last time we get to do this for a while. Tomorrow night, he’ll officially belong to the people of the great state of Florida, he’ll officially be living in the mansion, and it’ll be Carter who mostly gets to do this with him.
“Myverygood boy,” I coo. “You made mesoproud today.” I pull him into my lap so he can curl up there with his head against my thighs.
* * * *
As I sit in the hotel ballroom tonight and watch my boy, I think about last night’s conversation with my husband before Owen returned home.
Combined with this afternoon’s earlier desk fucking in Owen’s office, I know it means Carter likely had the conversation with Owen right before I was called in. Maybe just after.
Carter sometimes has a flair for the dramatic, when it suits him.
It’s also likely why he took the risk of stripping Owen there in the office, because better that than risk Owen accidentally getting suspicious stains on his suit.
Owen had a shitty childhood with a viciously narcissistic mother. Ironically, I know it’s one of the reasons Owen wants to have kids. A chance to right his own wronged childhood by having kids to bestow the kind of unconditional love on them that he didn’t receive until he met Carter and me. A way to finish healing the thin spots that still exist in his soul and heart.
I want to pull Owen into my arms and hold him right now. I want to make love to him—all three of us—and pick out baby names together.
Make no mistake about it—I’m going to let Owen name our children. And they will all have Taylor as their middle name.
And, meanwhile, I will look to see what can legally be done to have both men’s names on the birth certificate. California has added some interesting workarounds to take IVF parentage into account when it’s an open arrangement between all three people, the “parents” and the “donor,” if the donor is going to be an active part of the child’s life.
The easiest solution would be the simplest, most straightforward, and the honest one—my husband can’t father children, and we asked our single and unpartnered best friend to do so. Our best friend who also happens to want children. It’s not something we could have risked, politically, years ago.
We can now.
I hate myself.
I hate that I’m already working the angle in my head, spinning the narrative out in such a way as to gain us sympathy and votes. A personal triumph for non-traditional parenting. Overcoming infertility in a creative way.
I grow more excited as I think about it further. We wouldn’t even have to mention anything about our personal lives. In fact, it would solveallour problems. The public’s assumption would be Owen is always with us because, duh, he’s our children’s biological father, and wewanthim to be there, with us and them, because he’s a part of their lives.
We imply we used IVF, a fertility clinic, all while asking people to respect our privacy.
It’s utterly perfect! It’s…
