I almost drop my phone. “Are you serious right now?”
Laney makes a strangled noise. “We actually think it might be more believable than him being Bash’s father…”
I cannot process this right now. “I need to go. Bash is awake.”
“Love you, Em,” they say together.
“Love you both too, even if I’m still mad you’re skipping your honeymoon.”
We hang up, and I look at my pet.
Not quite the dogs and cats I had in mind, but I think this is better.
“Breakfast for you,” I tell Yolko Ono, who’s in her favorite box in the kitchen. She’s a white Silkie, which means she’s tall and slender and has fluffy white feathers covering her eyes so you’re never sure if she’s looking at you or not.
She was born with only one leg but an attitude like she has four and can actually fly.
I love her to pieces.
So does Bash.
She clucks once and dives into yesterday’s leftover fruit salad that I set beside her. I’ll let her outside to eat with the rest of the chickens later too.
Bash is singing louder to himself.
Is his window open?
I don’t think I left it cracked to let in the night air, but I can’t remember now.
If it’s open, his voice hasn’t woken Jonas. Unless he’s really good at pretending he’s asleep.
Which he might be.
But if I were acting like I was asleep, I wouldn’t choose that position.
My lifetime-ago solo honeymoon fling has his head tilted funny on one armrest of the porch swing that’s dangling from my pergola and that I only got put back up yesterday after having it cleaned and re-stained. His dark hair falls across his forehead and his legs stick out over the other armrest. His hands are tucked under his armpits like he’s trying to keep them warm.
I can probably get upstairs, grab Bash, and get out of the garage and head into town before he’s awake or before he realizes he needs to quit acting like he’s asleep.
Or, I can face the fact that Jonas won’t leave until I talk to him.
I could call the sheriff, but see again,billionaire family who will sue me for custody and make my life miserable.
The idea that my son would be subjected to the public limelight that follows Jonas everywhere makes my heart shrivel.
Bash deserves a normal childhood.
To know people love him for who he is, not for who he’s related to or how much money he stands to inherit.
If he grows up and takes over my accounting firm and feels like I gave him special treatment for giving him a job at the family business, I can live with that.
That’s small stuff.
Growing up getting preferential treatment because his father is Jonas Rutherford?
No.
I grab my coffee and a baby monitor, which I turn down to the lowest setting. I’ll still hear Bash when he’s done with his slow wake-up—mama instinct and all that—but Jonas might not.
