Page 7 of Reckless Single Daddy

She just shakes her head, clearly flustered by me. I guess I may get my answers after all if this is the reaction I’m getting from her. I step closer to her and place my hand under her chin, tilting it so she can meet my eyes.

“Something is here,” I acknowledge. “I can’t explain it, and maybe we don’t need to, but I—”

Suddenly, my phone chimes, and I sigh, looking down at it. It’s Liam. I look up and see she’s seen the name, but I’m not ready to tell her about him. Not yet.

“I have to take this,” I tell her as I step away, and she nods.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I need to head back to my parents, anyway. The maid of honor’s duties are never done.”

She laughs a little as she walks past me down the street, leaving me standing there with my phone.

“Dad. Dad, are you there?” I hear the little voice say from the phone.

I bring the phone up to my ear and sigh softly. “Hey, buddy, is everything okay?” I ask my son as I walk back toward my office.

I listen to Liam talk, though my thoughts remain with the young woman who just departed.

Chapter four

Sloane

Art has always been the thing I was sure about. Ever since I picked up a paintbrush and told myself that this was what I was meant to do with my life, everything else seemed mute or pointless. Admittedly, I wasn’t always good at art, but I guess it is a subjective medium. I just knew how it made me feel when I’d paint; it felt freeing and inspiring. Every emotion I had could be felt through my canvas, which I wanted to bring to my art so others could experience that same feeling when they looked at it.

My debut collection took place in a popular art gallery in New York City. Anyone who is anyone in the art community was there. Collectors, other artists, and journalists scatteredthroughout the event, looking to scout fresh faces in the scene. My exhibition was unique yet conventional, and for my debut, that’s what I was hoping for. Truthfully, as an artist, I never considered grandeur my reason for people to view my pieces. I wanted people to see simplicity but still be in awe of it. There is beauty in the little things, and that’s what I wanted to showcase in my debut exhibition.

And people loved it.

All my pieces were sold, and the following day, I did a feature with a major lifestyle magazine and received a call from an agent, Lori, to set up a meeting for potential representation. Everything fell into place after that night, and just like that, I felt like all the hard work, the disagreements with my parents about letting me attend art school, and the sleepless nights spent working on art pieces finally became worth it. It felt like I was riding on a high that no drug could recreate.

But that was six months ago. And that high I was riding on became sobering, especially when Lori told me I needed something fresh and new. A departure from my previous collection.

I never believed in following trends when it came to my art. Every artist follows the style they’ve coined for themselves, and true fans will flock to it. That has always been my belief, anyway. But now, with the mounting pressure of appeasing my newfound fans and Lori, I know that one of those two parties would bedispleased. Do I go with what I’m being asked, or stay true to my authenticity?

As I sit in front of my canvas, I start to wonder if it’s too late. Is it too late to walk away from this success? I created it and am still buzzing. Magazines are already hyping up my new exhibition that isn’t even set to open until the end of the year. And to make matters worse, I have nothing to show for it.

What is my story? But more importantly, what am I willing to share?

My art is only part of the problem I’m facing. Running into Cade this morning wasn’t ideal after our encounter last night. I mean, what even was that? What was he thinking? What wasIthinking? Hooking up with my brother’s best friend in a dingy bathroom? That’s not me! That wasn’t even me in college, so why would I do that at almost thirty?

It feels like a blur. And even talking about it with Cade didn’t make things any easier.

I sigh, rolling my neck around, feeling tension leave my sore muscles. My canvas sits before me, still as blank and white as ever. I take in the textures of the matted material as if inspiration will magically come from within the creases. It doesn’t.

Cade wants to forget it ever happened; at least, that’s what he told me. Whether I believe him or not is to be determined. The question is, do I? Am I able to forget what happened? I’m not sure it’s that easy, especially with the wedding and how often I’ll see my brother these next few weeks.

See, by association, Mike and Cade will always be linked in my mind. If I see Mike, I’ll immediately think of Cade, and vice versa. There is no Mike without Cade. They’ve been inseparable ever since I was little, and that’s what makes this whole thing between Cade and me complicated. It isn’t that I think of Cade as some type of brother figure, because for as long as I’ve been able to remember, I’ve liked him—I mean, like, liked him. I thought it was normal for girls to have crushes on their brother’s best friends because television always made me think so. The thing is, my brother’s best friend is as old as my brother—a whole ten years older. My younger self must be screaming at me excitedly at this new revelation between Cade and me: a dream come true.

But as Cade said, it can’t happen again.

And it won’t.

I stand up and stretch, realizing that sitting in front of my canvas won’t magically put paint on it, and close up all the paint I sprawled out on the table beside me. If the inspiration isn’t sparking, you can’t force it. It’s like lighting a fire despite having wet wood—you won’t get a flame. I cleaned up, stored the paint, and decided to leave the house again. Perhaps another walk around my hometown will spark something.

I get dressed and walk downstairs. Just as I’m about to walk out the front door, my mother stops me. “Sloane, is that you?”

I roll my eyes, still facing the door. I’m the youngest of three, and neither of my siblings lives in this house, either. But I’m the only one who doesn’t live in Rose Valley.

“Yes, Mom,” I reply politely as I hear her approaching footsteps. I turn around and face her as she walks in with an air of perfection, something she’s always been very good at creating. Her blond hair bounces and glows under the fluorescent backlight from the kitchen.

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