Chapter 21: Dell
I’m not much of a sleeper. I prefer to exist on four hours a night. If I do more, I get sloppy and sluggish. Four hours keeps me knife-sharp and maximizes what I can accomplish.
After leaving Arianna, I fire up the laptop in my room. I review any messages my assistant flagged as important. My VP of Operations took the Tokyo CEO out in my stead. I have to get back to that meeting tomorrow. Missing a second day is not an option.
But I don’t have a nanny. Supposedly one is coming for an interview. I’ll have to put someone else in charge.
But who? For any task at Brant Financial I would have a whole team.
This is personal. And anyone I hire has to be vetted for confidentiality. I don’t like the idea of headlines announcing that Dell Brant dumped some orphan baby into the system. It’s total clickbait, and I’m not interested in trying to clean it up.
I ping my social media director to do a sweep of today’s publicity references to make sure nothing has gotten out based on Camellia Walsh seeing us. Or any random person who might have recognized me and posted a shot.
I shouldn’t be out in public. I can’t believe I let that woman convince me to dress down and go out with the baby.
I pluck at the running shirt. Only now do I notice the outline where Grace spit up on me. Great. That’s been there all night.
The chair rolls back as I push away from the desk and jerk the shirt over my head. This whole thing is ridiculous. Tomorrow I’m just going to walk away and leave the situation for someone else to handle.
Except, there’s the problem again. Who?
I curse not knowing my penthouse staff better. Shannon, having the sick husband. I could help with that. The shopper never even came back. What are her hours? I have no idea.
They also know about the baby.
Sigh. Maybe nobody cares. Maybe I should just have Bernard call around and have someone take her during the day. Maybe I should just call CPS and get it over with. The only qualification I have for being her father is money to support her, even if the DNA is there. I don’t have time for an infant.
I kick off the athletic shoes and strip away the jeans. I haven’t worn a combination like this in years. My formal dress has been an armor of sorts. If I’m in a full suit worth more than most people make in a month, then no one will guess where I came from. No one will ask ridiculous questions.
Shit.
I’m feeling anxious and out of control. This is not the life I’ve built. Every company I run, every start-up I fund or buy out, every VP, director, or person of significance in my company is there because they keep everything in my possession running smoothly.
Then this fourteen-pound child mucks all of it up in one day.
I rummage through the closet for athletic wear and pull on a pair of gray shorts with a string tie. No point in a shirt. No one is going to see me.
The athletic shoes go back on. Time to burn some of this angst away. Feel some control.
I head down the hall to the living room. Bernard has taken Maximillion back to the atrium, but I open the door again. “Come, boy,” I say. I could use the company. Company that doesn’t cry every few hours.
We cross the breakfast nook, pass through the formal dining room, and reach a narrow back hall. At the end is the workout room. Maximillion’s nails click on the brushed concrete floor as we cross over to the stereo. I put on some pounding heavy metal and crank the volume until it obliterates all thoughts.
It’s a little after midnight. I’ve just gotten through three sets of push-ups when Maximillion gives out one short warning bark.
I look up.
Arianna is in the doorway, Grace in her arms, wearing long pajama pants and a gray T-shirt that reads “Goddess.”
It’s not wrong.
But her expression is pure fury.
I jump up. “Is Grace okay?”
“She was perfect,” Arianna says, moving forward. “She was just fine. Snoozing away. And so was I.” She’s close now, and her finger comes out to jab at my chest. “Until. You. Cranked. That. Music.”
I glance at the stereo. “Usually no one can hear.”
She walks over to one of the walls and smacks it. “This right here is Grace’s room.”
I hadn’t given any thought to what was on the other side. No one ever sleeps here. Bernard is close to the kitchen. My room is way on the end. But she’s right. This room would border Grace’s.
I head over to the stereo and turn it off. “Sorry. I’m not used to company.”
“Well, get used to it,” she says. “You’re a dad now.”
I want to correct her, but in a sense she is right. I am a dad for now. For a few more days. And she’s here to help, and I just made things harder.
Grace kicks her legs and looks around. She’s wide awake.
“Here, let me take her,” I say.
“Damn right you will.” She passes the baby to me.
Maximillion lumbers up.
We both look at him, unsure what he will do. He sniffs at my arms, then the baby’s feet. Grace spots him and starts to babble happily, reaching out her hand.
“What do you think?” I ask him, kneeling down.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Arianna asks.
But Maximillion behaves more unexpectedly than either of us thought. He lays his head in the baby’s lap.
“Huh,” I say.
Grace instantly grabs his ears and gives a sharp tug.
Arianna lunges forward as if she expects the dog to react. But Maximillion just turns his head and licks the baby’s nose.
More happy babbling from the baby.
“Well, okay,” Arianna says.
“I don’t go to bed for another couple hours,” I say. “And I have the magic swing. Go get some more sleep.”
But Arianna doesn’t leave the room. She plops down on a padded bench by the weights. “This is kinda cute,” she says.
I sit on the floor mat, Grace in my lap. Maximillion curls up beside us, his head on my knee, staring at the baby.
Grace thinks he’s the best toy ever. She grabs his ears, his nose. She accidentally sticks her finger in his eye, but Maximillion just blinks.
Arianna yawns. “They seem to get along.”
“They do,” I say, pleased more than I can say.
She lies back on the bench press seat and closes her eyes. I take her in, the belly, the hips, her bare feet on the floor.
I guess very few people see her like this. She’s probably a polished, professional owner of an upscale child spa to most of the people in her life. I wonder if she has a best friend, someone she confides in.
Somehow, I don’t think so.
There’s a loneliness in her. She’s driven by work. Surrounded by good people. But all people who work for her.
I make the connection to myself. We’re alike.
“That’s three things in common,” I say softly. Cereal. Time-wasting games. And how we conduct our lives.
I look down at Grace. She’s conked out again, her head on Maximillion’s long nose, her hands still curled around his ears. His eye shifts to look at me, but he’s careful not to disturb her.
“We’re their slaves, aren’t we?” I ask him.
Ever so gently, I slip a hand beneath the baby and pull her up into my arms. Max follows my lead, slowly pulling back until he is free.
Grace sighs and shifts, then settles closer.
I wonder if Arianna has fallen asleep on the bench. I stand up and walk over.
“Arianna?” I whisper.
She doesn’t stir.
I’ll come back for her. I carry the baby out of the weight room and through the house. Maximillion trots beside me. I open the door to the atrium, but when I quietly say, “To bed,” he simply sits on his haunches and looks pointedly at me, then the baby.
“Fine.” I’ll get the baby down, deal with the dog, then Arianna.
We head down the hall. Grace’s room is still softly lit by the lamp. I set her carefully in the bed and wait a minute to make sure she settles.
Okay.
I head for the door. “Come,” I say.
But Maximillion plops down in front of the carriage and refuses to budge.
“Maximillion! Come!” I whisper hoarsely.
He rests his head on his paws and ignores me.
I can’t raise my voice, or I’ll wake Grace.
“Maximillion,” I say again.
Nothing.
Now I’m stuck. I’m not about to lug a full-sized greyhound out of the room. Nor can I use a “command” voice with Grace so close.
“I’m coming back for you,” I say to him, although I have no idea what I’ll do.
I head back through the house for Arianna. I’m not sure what I’ll do with her either. Wake her up? Carry her? Work out around her until she wakes up on her own?
When I return to the weight room, she’s curled on her side, knees drawn to her chest. I had no idea the bench press cushion was that comfortable.
I stand over her, unsure. The whole mess is my fault for cranking music at midnight.
The rolled edge of the cushion has formed a little indentation in the side of her head. This can’t be a good way to sleep.
I consider shaking her awake. Or I could just carry her to bed.
Which is appealing.
But as I lean down to pick her up, her mouth is just too enticing. I’ve read the storybooks. There’s more than one way to wake up a beautiful slumbering woman.
So I do.