Page 55 of The Sculptor

With Astor still on paternity leave with his daughter, things here at the office are relatively quiet—meaning no one is working, including me.

“Are you naked?” I ask conspiratorially, holding the phone closer to my ear.

Ray laughs. “No. Areyounaked?”

“Not yet, but the day is young.” The minute I make Vance blow a blood vessel, I’m out of here, begging my poor wife to make up for a shitty day with naked time.

I’m not seeing a downside to marriage.

Granted, it’s only been forty-eight hours since becoming a married man, but so far, I can eat, sleep, and fuck my wife whenever the mood strikes—which has been considerably often. As in hourly.

“Is that what you do before the holidays? Get naked at work?”

I stare at the inside of my forearm, where I woke Ray up at four a.m. for her to draw her heart somewhere I could see it. There’s a tinyFuckerwritten underneath it, but I think it only adds charm. She didn’t need the sleep. She needed to be tired so that any idea of leaving or calling Langston would seem exhausting at the mere thought.

I’m nothing if not thorough.

But still, just in case, I deleted Langston’s contact information from her phone and put a tracking app on it instead. That doesn’t mean she can’t find his email or call someone else, but I’m hoping she won’t. I’m praying her good morals will prevent her from reneging on her promise to sit this one out—which she only agreed to after I showed her the email I sent to Langston.

There is nothing she can do at this point but wait—and paint—and make love to her husband. Let’s not forget that last one. We have nearly two decades to make up for.

Besides, if Langston has documents that contradict Jude’s death certificate, then we’ll really have an issue.

But right now, I don’t know what the real issue is.

I don’t know the truth. There are so many possibilities that could have happened.

Langston might not have kept any record of the adoption. Worse yet, even if he did, our son might not have made it in this thing called life, anyway. For all we know, he could have died in a car accident or something else terribly tragic. Hell, Ray’s mom could have been delirious and given her inaccurate information.

The possibilities are endless.

But one thing is certain right now: My wife is safe and healthy, and I can promise her that we will be reunited with our son, even if it’s only through closure.

“Duke? Are you still there?” I shake off thoughts of Jude and try to put the smile back into my voice. “I’m sorry, I was just thinking of what I wanted for dinner.”

“Stop.” She chuckles. “I can barely move. I’m so sore from all your ‘dinner requests.’”

This statement only makes me feel slightly bad. “I’ll give you a massage when I get home.”

“No thanks.” She lets out this unladylike snort. “I know how massages end with you.”

I grin.

“You spend ten minutes undressing me, five minutes lathering me in oil, two minutes actually massaging, and forty-five minutes fucking my brains out.”

She acts like we’ve done this a few times.

“Fine.” I chuckle. “We’ll soak in the tub together. I’ll bring home some bath salts.” Which will still end up with her naked on my dick, but she doesn’t need to know that. We’ll let her live with that romantic dream of actually being cuddled without penetration.

“You lie, Duke Potter. But at least you’re adorable about it.”

“I try.” I chuckle. She isn’t falling for my bullshit. “But for real. I really do know what I want for dinner—in addition to your pussy.”

“I need to see Dr. Potter!”

I pause, hearing the familiar voice out in the hallway.

“Oh, my gosh! Is that Langston?” Ray whispers on the phone like he’s going to hear her.

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