A Chance Encounter

I laugh. “You’re so full of shit. You love having all these girls.”

A grin spreads across his face. “True. Maybe we’ll have another one.” He shrugs and stands. He grabs his boxer briefs and pulls them up, then throws on a pair of sweats.

“No more babies,” I groan, swinging open the door. “Morning, Sunshine.”

“Did you just say no more babies?” Her eyes go wide. “Mom, tell me Dad is not convincing you to have another baby.”

“Another baby?” Camden asks, walking down the hall with his sleeping baby sister in his arms. “Hopefully this time it’s a boy.”

Easton chuckles and Kendall rolls her eyes.

“Nobody is having another baby. Your dad will be getting a vasectomy as scheduled when we get back.” I shoot a pointed glare Easton’s way before heading out of the room. “Are you all packed?” I ask the kids.

“Yep, I’m ready,” Bailey says.

“I’m pretty much ready,” Camden says, setting Phoebe in her bassinet and kissing her forehead.

“I’m good to go,” Kendall says. “I just need to go by Steven’s house so I can say goodbye.”

Easton growls but keeps his mouth shut. Steven is Kendall’s boyfriend, and while he’s a good guy, very sweet and respectful, Easton still hates him for simply being a guy.

“All right, go ahead and go. We’re leaving at eleven, though, so be back before then, please.”

“Will do!”

Since I’m taking time off from work to be home with Phoebe, we’ve decided to do something crazy and go on one last road trip before Kendall leaves for college in the fall. Easton had this tour planned before I accidently—insert glare—got pregnant, so instead of canceling it, we’ve purchased a massive tour bus and will be hitting the road. I’m not sure how long the six of us will last on a bus together, but we figured what the hell. Worst-case scenario, the kids and I come back early and Easton finishes his tour. This isn’t our first time traveling with him—though more often than not, we prefer taking a plane—but it is our first time traveling with a baby this young.

I sit down at the table, and Maria, who is still with us, brings me over a cup of coffee and a plate of pancakes. “Thank you,” I moan, taking in a whiff of the hot, caffeinated beverage. Phoebe is breastfeeding every two hours around the clock, which means I’m getting little sleep right now. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” I joke.

Maria laughs. “Oh no, but I’ll be here when you get back.” Here, meaning her private suite in our home. After I found out I was pregnant with Bailey, we decided to purchase a bigger brownstone. As much as I wanted to stay in the same area, we made the decision to move our family to Brooklyn Heights, where it’s a bit more family-friendly and the homes have backyards. Since we had the space, I suggested she move in with us, and Easton agreed. She’s more like a grandmother to our kids, which works out well since my own mother passed away a few years ago—without ever speaking to me again after she found out I was pregnant with Camden—and Easton’s parents semi-retired, spending a lot of their time at their house in The Hamptons. Don’t get me wrong, we still see them often, but having Maria around is like having a mom and grandma in one all the time. She dotes on the kids and they love her so much.

My phone dings with an alert from Google and I glance at it. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that name on my phone. I should turn the alerts off, but like I said, it’s been a long time, so I forgot they’re on there. I click on the article and read the headline: Former Governor Freeman Carmichael Dies of a Heart Attack.

After he signed the papers, we never heard from him again. But we did hear about him. Rachel did what she set out to do and exposed all of his secrets: from sexual assault, to paying off women to have abortions. His wife divorced him, and he lost the election. After that, it was as if he disappeared, which was fine by me. He got what he deserved, and I have zero sympathy for him. I skim the words, trying to feel some kind of sadness toward his sudden death, but I can’t seem to muster up an ounce of care.

“Hey, Dash,” Easton calls out from somewhere in the house. “Before we go, do we need to go by Blackwood to handle that contract?”

“No,” I yell back. “I took care of it yesterday.” Technically, I’m on maternity leave from work, but since my job is at the record label my husband part-owns, I’m always on the clock.