37. What’s The Catch?
Chapter 37
What’s The Catch?
MEGAN
W hen I got the call, I was stunned.
Linda John, assistant curator of the Los Angeles Starlight Art Foundation, wanted to have lunch. Just when I was sure she had completely given up on me. Honestly, I wouldn’t have blamed her.
The last time we spoke, she had tentatively offered me a spot in an upcoming art exhibit, In The Shade and The Shadows. But it wasn’t a guaranteed spot—I had to submit my final piece for approval before she could make it official.
A piece I never finished.
So, basically… I flaked.
At the time, I hadn’t realized just how much pregnancy—and the chaos at the club—would drain my motivation to paint. My life had become a never-ending cycle of fires to put out, and my art, which once felt as natural as breathing, suddenly felt like an afterthought.
And now?
Now, I’m a mother. My entire world has begun to revolve around Deuce, every hour of my day measured in feeding schedules, diaper changes, and the occasional nap where I can steal a moment of peace.
And to top it all off, Hunter wants to add another distraction: a wedding.
First world problems, I tell myself wryly.
A year ago, I was scraping by in a shitty apartment, dodging advances from my creep of a landlord, and doing everything I could to avoid my toxic family. Now, I’m engaged to the most incredible man I’ve ever met and raising our perfect son. Most women would kill to be in my position.
And yet… I feel like I’m losing pieces of myself in the whirlwind.
The restaurant is all sleek wood and floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind of place where artists and collectors sit across from each other discussing the next big thing in the contemporary art world.
The moment I step inside, I spot Linda John immediately.
She’s the epitome of effortless cool—her chunky silver sweater glimmers in the light, her dark-wash jeans hugging her long legs, her black leather high-heeled boots screaming money and power. She radiates that unbothered confidence that only people who have never had to worry about money seem to possess.
I, on the other hand, am wearing a tan cotton mini dress that suddenly feels too casual, too wrinkled. I smooth my palms down the fabric, silently regretting my choice.
The only impressive thing about my outfit today? My engagement ring.
She stands, offering me a warm smile.
“Hi, Megan.”
“Hi, Miss John.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Linda, please.”
I nod, correcting myself. “Hi, Linda.”
“I took the liberty of ordering us some iced teas with lemon. I hope that’s okay—I wasn’t sure if you were still breastfeeding.”
“Oh, that’s perfectly fine,” I assure her. Deuce is at home with Ruby, probably drinking the milk I pumped two days ago.
Linda studies me for a beat, then leans forward slightly. “So, how’s motherhood?”
I hesitate. How do you summarize something so monumental in a few words?
“It’s… really good.”
She nods. “I imagine you’ve been tremendously busy. I was raised by a young mother too, so I get it.”
Something about the way she says young mother makes me stiffen.
I arch a brow. “I’m busy like any mother would be, but I have an amazing support system, so…”
Linda picks up on my defensive tone immediately. “I meant no offense,” she says quickly. “I just wanted to check in—see if you’ve had time to create. You have such a special gift.”
I glance down at my glass, watching the condensation bead down the side, pooling on the table.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice careful. “But the truth is, I haven’t been able to make art a priority. Not just because of the baby, but… everything else, too.”
She nods, taking a sip of her tea. “Are you still attending State Arts?”
I shake my head. “I took some time off.”
“Do you plan on finishing your degree?”
“Absolutely.” I straighten slightly. “I never had formal art training before college, so those classes are really important to me. I feel like there’s still so much to learn.”
Linda’s eyes soften. “That’s good to hear, Megan, because I strongly advocated for your piece to be included in the Shade and Shadows exhibit, even though we haven’t seen the final submission yet.”
My heart stops. “You did?”
She nods. “That’s how much I believe in your talent. I just hope you believe in it as much as I do.”
A lump forms in my throat. Shit.
I swallow a gulp of my iced tea, trying to figure out what to say next. I’m grateful—so fucking grateful—but also terrified.
My piece isn’t anywhere close to done. And now, the pressure is on to finish it—and not just finish it, but make it a damn masterpiece.
Still, I force a smile. “Thank you, Linda. I do believe in it.”
She reaches into her nylon black messenger bag and pulls out a manila envelope with the Starlight Foundation branding on the front.
“Here’s the official contract.”
My fingers tremble as I take it from her.
“There’s an expectation sheet, a timeline, and a contract for you to review, initial, and sign. You have five business days to go over it with your lawyer. As long as your piece is done by next month, we’re good to go.”
I nod, the weight of the moment settling over me.
One of my paintings—on display at a Starlight exhibit.
This is the kind of exposure most new artists dream about.
But as usual, I can’t help but question my good fortune.
Why me? There are so many better artists.
Is there a catch?
Did Hunter pull some strings behind the scenes to make this happen?
I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to just accept good things without assuming there’s an ulterior motive but it is.
“Thank you, Linda,” I say. “I’ll review this with my husband and our lawyer and get back to you.”
She pauses, tilting her head. “Did you get married recently?”
“That was a slip of the tongue.” I shake my head, blushing slightly. “We’re getting married in a few months.”
Her lips curve. “Nice. If you’re planning on changing your name, let me know when you submit your final piece. We’ll need to have it listed correct on all the promotional materials.”
Change my last name?
I hadn’t even thought about that.
Megan Middleton.
It does have a nice ring to it.
“I’ll let you know.”
Linda stands, grabbing her bag. “I have another meeting across town, but stay and have lunch on me. Then, go home and get to work. I want to be able to tell people that I discovered our next great homegrown artist.”
I grin. “Thank you, Linda. I appreciate you not giving up on me.”
She winks. “Oh, I’m not a quitter, Megan. And I’d bet the farm that you aren’t either.”
Later that night…
Hunter sits on the chaise lounge in our living room, reading over the contract for the third time while Deuce sleeps soundly on his chest.
I glance over from the kitchen. “It’s too good to be true, right?”
“No,” he answers plainly.
“Then why are you reading it over and over?”
He smirks. “Because that’s what you do with a contract before you sign it.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be a smartass, Middleton.”
His gaze lifts, amusement flickering in his steel-gray eyes. “Maybe you need to learn not to be so suspicious of everything and everybody.”
I scoff. “I get it from you!”
He grins. “Don’t you dare project your paranoia onto me.”
I lower my knife, laughing. “Hunter, you have a security team on me that rivals the damn Secret Service.”
“Which we have plenty of real world evidence to prove that it’s a necessary evil. This is something entirely different. Your talent is obvious and special, and I shouldn’t be the only one to benefit from seeing it.”
Suddenly, I grin. “Are you trying to get some tonight with those flowery words?”
“That’s not what I would say if I were trying to make you spread those thighs for me tonight.”
“Is that right?” I smile. “And what would you say?”
Hunter silently slides my contract carefully back in the envelope and places it on the side table. Next, he lifts a sleeping Deuce in his arms, kisses his belly, and then walks him into the nursery, placing him in his bassinet.
“No snappy comeback?” I chuckle as I get back to chopping the ingredients for my salad.
When Hunter returns, he’s actively rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “Do you need help with dinner?” he asks.
“No, I’m almost done.”
“Then I’ll watch,” he says in his signature deep baritone voice, and I immediately realize…I didn’t win that one. The flirtation game isn’t over.
When I’m finished chopping my last piece of chicken, I feel the heat of Hunter’s breath behind me the moment I place the knife down on the cutting board.
“As I was saying before, I’m a pretty simple man. I say what I mean, and mean what I say. Therefore, I wouldn’t have to say anything extra or flowery, as you put it, to get you to spread your legs for me.”
My panties dampen as his lips grow closer to the back of the neck.
“All I’d have to say is spread them, shoulder-width apart, wouldn’t you?”
His hand trails down the side of my neck and travels to my right breast. He gently squeezes my right nipple and whispers against my skin, “spread ‘em”.
Obediently, I spread my legs and my hands grip the edge of the counter.
“Wider,” his voice commands with an edge I haven’t heard in a long time.
I’m wearing a pair of loose workout shorts, which he slowly lowers down my legs, revealing a pair of powder-blue panties with lace trim. He loves this color on me.
“Did you wear these for me?” he growls.
“Maybe,” I flirt.
“It’s good to know that I’m always on the mind of my wife.”
“Future wife,” I tease.
“Wife,” he growls defiantly as he moves my hair to one side and peppers my neck with kisses, then moves one of his hands between my legs.
“Okay, okay,” I moan, loving his caress of my pussy. “What’s two months and a marriage license mean—wife it is.”
He chuckles sinisterly. “That’s the right answer, Mrs. Middleton.”
“Oh, about that,” I say as his fingers slide between my folds.
“About what, baby?”
“I’m not sure if I’m going to take your last name.”
His fingers stop their glorious work, and I curse myself. Why the hell would I bring this up now? God, I hate when I get diarrhea of the mouth.
“Why the fuck not?”
Welp, I put it out there now. I might as well follow through. “It seems a little outdated, don’t you think?”
“No, Megan, I don’t think it is, but what I know is I’m going to spend the rest of the night convincing you why you should take it. Dinner can wait.”