Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Ridge
I drive down Sunset Boulevard into Beverly Hills, my sports car humming across the smooth blacktop.
I’m fidgety and cross, Whitney interrupting my day and demanding I come over so we can talk about the upcoming holidays at her new place—a house I bought so Roman would have a solid foundation to call home.
I discovered the French architectural style home in excellent condition, and for a bargain.
The chateau-inspired structure from an earlier era reflects the rich history of its previous celebrity resident.
I paid extra to have crews in and out, making a few minor updates for Roman, Mira, and Whitney, who moved in a week ago.
It will be interesting to see what she’s done with the place now that they’re settled.
As I pull up to the corner lot, I can see the high mansard roofline through the mature trees dotting the property, glad the entire acre is closed off with an updated, iron security fence.
I made sure Roman’s safety came first before anything else.
I punch in a code at the gate and proceed to the front entrance, where I park my car.
Even though I own this mansion outright, I don’t walk in unannounced.
Instead, I ring the doorbell and wait. It isn’t long before Mira answers.
“Hello, Mr. Wilson.”
“Hey, Mira. And please, call me Ridge. No more of this ‘Mr. Wilson’ nonsense, okay?”
“Okay, Ridge. If you say so.”
“How are you?” I ask.
“I’m good. Won’t you please come in?”
I follow her inside and immediately grimace at the interior décor. Whitney’s been working with an expensive Beverly Hills designer, transforming the notable old home into a vibrant world of her own. Mira leads me into a spacious room with high ceilings and elaborate trim.
“I’ll let Whitney know you’re here,” she says.
“Thanks.”
She leaves, and I look up at a black chandelier in the center of the room before I stare at the large fireplace prominently positioned between a pair of French doors dressed in extravagant, blood-red curtains.
Whitney’s taste is definitely eclectic, the entire room feeling like a rock-and-roll version of Marie Antoinette.
“Geez…,” I whisper under my breath. I run a hand through my hair and grit my teeth, unsure if giving Whitney full rein on this home was such a good idea.
“Ridge,” she squeals with delight, entering the room. “What do you think?”
I turn and scowl at her.
“What’s wrong?” She’s all made up for our impromptu get-together. But her frown lines are still showing.
“What have you done with this place? It looks like Mardi-Gras threw up in here.” I wave my hand around the room with disgust.
“Oh, stop.” She waves me off. “It’s fun, and besides, I read somewhere that the colors are beneficial for kids in the early months. It’s all good.” She plops onto a chaise longue and pats the tufted fabric dangerously close to her thigh. “Come. Sit.”
I look around the room, my eyes landing on a wooden chair at a game table. I grab the top rung and bring the chair closer to Whitney so we can sit and talk in the safety of our own personal space. Once I’m settled, I say, “So, talk.”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know why you’re so grumpy all the time. Why can’t you be happy when you visit me, huh?”
I lick my lips, careful with my words. “I’m here to visit my son, Roman.”
“Our son,” she reiterates with defiance.
“Fine. ‘Our’ son. Now, where is he?”
She dramatically sighs and leans back in the expensive chair, stretching her bare legs out in front of her. “Ro is napping.”
I grit my teeth again to steady my rage. This woman has done everything in her power to get what she wants. A new house. A luxurious SUV with all the bells and whistles. Her face splashed across the world on television and magazines, touting her good fortune as the baby mama to my son.
At first, I was accommodating because I only wanted what was best for Roman.
But now, I can see clearly how she’s been using me and nickel-and-diming me to death.
Not only that, she seems to relish keeping my son from me every time I come to visit, claiming he’s napping so she can have me all to herself.
She’s using this power over me because she knows I have no interest in moving in with her.
Especially since I told her point-blank that I would never, ever marry her.
I stand and push the wooden chair out from under me with a clatter and storm toward the staircase. Whitney is on her feet in a millisecond, running after me to keep up.
“Where are you going? We haven’t even talked about the holidays yet.”
“I’m going to find my son.”
“I told you, he’s asleep. We can talk for a little bit, and then he’ll wake up. You’ll see him in an hour or so, I promise.”
“We’ll talk after I see Roman.” I’m determined and keep going, Whitney’s whiny voice trailing behind. I’m glad she stopped following me, probably realizing she’s crossed another line with her ulterior motives.
Upstairs, I can hear music playing. I follow the sound to a bedroom and open the door with a flourish.
Inside, Mira is seated in the middle of a blanket on the floor.
Roman is strapped into a bouncy seat, fully awake and smiling.
Thankfully, this room looks completely normal, the colorful jungle theme happy and welcoming.
“Mr. Wilson, I mean… Ridge,” Mira rasps, struggling to her feet.
I inhale deeply in an attempt to calm my fiery nerves. “Do you mind giving me and Roman some privacy? I need some quality time with my son.”
She looks at me and then at Roman. He coos and grins, his focus aimed right at me. Mira nods. “I’ll be down the hall in my room if you need me.”
“Thank you.” I breathe a sigh of relief and close the door behind her.
The minute she’s gone, my world stops spinning and my face splits into a wide grin.
“Hey, buddy.” I lower myself onto the blanket and tickle his double chin.
His little arms and legs flail as if he’s excited to see me.
I sit right next to him and pick up a thick book with colorful pages.
I read to him, my enunciated words coming out slow with my baritone pitch.
It’s just me and my son, and I’m in heaven.
Several minutes later, I unclasp him from the safety harness of the chair and gently pull him out. Hugging him close against my chest, I press my lips against his soft head. He’s warm and smells like sweet powder, his scent instantly calming me.
I rock him slowly, his squeaks and grunts dissipating as I hold him steady and feel him relax.
There is no other place I’d rather be than holding my son in my arms. I cherish these moments, the overwhelming sense of love I feel creating a deep connection to him.
But it hasn’t always been this way. Because of Whitney’s tactics, which kept me away from Roman during the onslaught of media attention and moving into their new home, it’s taken time for me to adjust and bond with him.
Since the media circus has started to level off, I’m finally looking forward to the future with him, our relationship as father and son growing stronger over the months and hopefully in the years ahead.
But I know Whitney’s not going to make things easy.
When she wants something, she goes all out to get it.
And she’s made it known she wants me.
The nursery music has long since stopped, and Roman is asleep.
I slowly get up and walk over to a comfortable nursery glider in the corner, my phone buzzing in my back pocket.
Cradling Roman, I grasp the phone and ease myself onto the upholstery.
Once I’m settled, I touch the screen, the phone coming to life with a surprising text message.
Happy Thanksgiving week. I hope it’s okay that I’m texting you. The text ends with a pumpkin emoji next to a turkey leg.
I exhale a hot breath before pressing my top teeth into my lower lip to thwart off a grin. The last thing I expected was a sweet text from Beverly during a busy holiday week.
It’s more than okay. Happy Thanksgiving week to you too. I reply.
If you’re in the area, you should join us. She replies.
My brow furrows, and I’m taken aback. Is Beverly inviting me to join her on Thanksgiving? I think about it for half a second before I text back my gut reaction.
I just might take you up on that.
Her response is immediate, and I’m delighted by her reply.
Really? Dinner is at 3 pm on Thanksgiving Day, but you might want to come a day early.
Why? I type quickly.
The text box percolates with tiny dots, an indication she’s typing again. I shift Roman over my shoulder, his little thumb finding its way into his mouth. The suckling sound he makes near my ear is precious.
So you’ll be well-rested for all the family fun.
It’s hard typing with just one hand, my clumsy, fat thumb pecking out each letter one at a time. But somehow, I manage.
I’m assuming you’re at your sister’s farm?
Yes. Don’t bring anything but your appetite. I made two pumpkin pies. She adds a laughing emoji at the end.
I’m excited by Beverly’s invitation to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with her and her family.
I hadn’t made any plans except to watch football and call my mom and stepfather, who are in New York.
They decided to take a trip to the Big Apple to see the famous Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in person, something that’s been on their retirement bucket list for years.
The very thought of seeing Beverly again puts me into a living daydream: homemade pumpkin pie with hints of cinnamon and cloves. Handholding while watching the parade floats and Broadway stars on TV. Passionate kisses in the pretty countryside, making up for lost time.
I’ve longed for this woman for weeks, the slow moments of life dragging by as I go through the motions without her.
I see her face in every cup of coffee, her eyes in the stars above.
That she reached out to me leaves me humming with joy.
The thought of spending uninterrupted time with Beverly is a no-brainer, and my thumb goes into motion typing back my excited response.
I’ll see you tomorrow. I end my text with a coffee cup emoji and a red heart, hoping she’ll understand the symbolism.
***
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Whitney pouts from across the kitchen table.
I’m still holding Roman, feeding him his bottle. I’d insisted, and Mira graciously hooked me up. Whitney couldn’t be bothered.
“I’m telling you now.”
“Well, I wanted you to be here when my mom arrives from Kansas tomorrow. She’s anxious to meet you.”
“Why?” I know I’m stirring the pot, but Whitney has a tendency to bring out the worst in me.
“Because you’re the father of my child!” she hollers.
Roman startles in my arms, his little mouth releasing the nipple of the bottle as he chokes out a cry.
“Now look what you’ve done,” I fume. Quickly, I shift Roman against my shoulder and gently pat him on the back to calm him down.
Whitney huffs and crosses her arms, her motherly instincts clearly not firing on all cylinders.
“Would you like me to take him? So you and Miss Smith can talk in peace?” Mira politely asks. The woman is always ready and willing, coming out of nowhere to help. She must have some kind of monitor on 24/7. That, or she’s a great shadow-lurker.
“Thank you, Mira.” I know I can’t handle Roman and Whitney in their current states of duress, so I hand off my crying son to the accommodating nanny. Too bad I can’t hand Whitney off to someone too.
When it’s just the two of us, I lean my forearms across the kitchen table and link my fingers together. Very calmly, I ask her, “How long will your mother be in town?”
She lifts her nose into the air and blinks at me. “She’s retired, so she’s staying for several weeks. She’ll be here for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
“I see. Well, we’ve got plenty of time. Please let her know I’ll meet her as soon as I get back… and that I’m looking forward to it.”
Whitney uncrosses her arms and frowns. “Since you obviously made plans for Thanksgiving that you didn’t tell me about, can I have first dibs on Christmas? I mean, don’t you want to spend your first Christmas with your son?”
“I do. We can talk about it when I get back.”
She shakes her head, clearly annoyed. “You still haven’t told me where you’re going.”
“Because it’s none of your business.”
“But what if I need to get in touch with you? What if something happens to Roman?”
I bristle in my seat. “You know you can call me day or night. You also have Arthur’s number. I won’t be out of pocket when it comes to Roman. You have my word.”
She mulls over my promise before she puckers her lips to the side and nods. “Fine.”
“Good,” I say.
I take advantage of us being on the same page for once and stand to make my getaway.
“I hope you, your mom, and Roman enjoy Thanksgiving together. Try to relax and have some family fun for a change. I’ll check in on Roman every day until my return, I promise.
” I turn to leave and stop when she calls after me using my nickname. She hasn’t used it in weeks.
“Didge?”
I look over my shoulder and notice her fallen expression filled with disappointment. I frown. “Yes?”
“You have to know, I’m thankful for you.”
I tug at my earlobe, unsure how to respond. “I’m thankful for you and Roman too.”
Her tired smile is slight. “Thanks for stepping up.”
“Thanks for showing me grace.”
She rolls her eyes. That’s when I take a good, hard look at Whitney Smith. I almost feel sorry for her.
Almost.