Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Naomi snorts. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”
“Whatever.”
“There’s a number here, call her.” She reads off the number as I dial it on my phone. It rings several times before a voicemail starts. “Hello, this is Rita. I’m out of the country until after the first of the year. Please leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as possible. The gallery is open Monday through Sunday from eleven a.m. until five p.m.”
I hang up. “Well, that won’t help. Any other ideas?”
“Not yet,” Naomi says, “but I’ll keep thinking.”
“Thank you.” I pull her into a hug. “I can’t imagine my life without you.”
“And you’ll never have to.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon hanging out, and once Kendall wakes up, I help her with her homework while Naomi makes dinner. Afterward, I give Kendall a bath, and once eight o’clock rolls around, I put her to sleep and then head out to work. As long as I’m not showing, I can continue to work at the club, but I have no clue what I’ll do for money once my baby bump appears.
The club is bustling tonight, and I don’t get my first break until just after midnight. Like always, I pull my phone out so I can text Naomi and check on Kendall. Only when my phone lights up, there are a million notifications.
I click on the first one and it takes me to a post on Facebook. I read it three times before my brain accepts what I’m seeing.
Freaking Naomi.
She posted a couple pictures of Easton and me—ones where you can see his face completely, but you can’t see mine, only the back of my head—with the caption: MIA: Please share so we can find this man. It’s life or death, and has tagged me in the post.
I roll my eyes at her dramatics and click on the post. It’s already been shared twelve thousand times and there are just as many comments. I scroll through the comments and am stunned by what I see.
Are you stupid? Everyone knows who this guy is.
OMG! Is this Easton’s girlfriend? Lucky bitch.
I bet she’s not showing her face because she’s ugly.
In response to that one, someone wrote: Yep! Her profile doesn’t have any pics of her. Definitely ugly.
My heart rate accelerates. I’ve made it a point to keep my profile set to private. I highly doubt after seven years Kendall’s sperm donor even remembers I exist, but I’m not chancing it. Aside from my name—which is only my first and middle name—and my profile picture—which is of some flowers I took a picture of in Central Park, nobody can see anything from me: not what I look like, where I live… nothing. And I prefer it that way.
I continue to read more comments, stopping at one that mentions his last name.
Duh! Everyone knows who Easton Blackwood is.
The comments continue on. Some nice and some mean, but they all have one thing in common. Everyone, but me and Naomi, seems to know exactly who Easton is.
I pull up Google and type Easton Blackwood. The first site is Wikipedia. Curious as to how popular this guy is, I click on it, and sure enough, the father of my baby’s face pops up. It says he’s a musician and—
My stalking is put on hold by my phone ringing.
“Hello?”
“Oh my God, don’t kill me but—”
“I know, I saw.”
“So, you know you’re knocked up by a music sensation who’s worth over a half a billion dollars?”
I gasp in shock. “I hadn’t gotten that far yet, but yes, I’m aware the man I had sex with is famous. How do we not know him?”
“Probably because we listen to mostly country music.”
“Hey, I listen to other stuff…Like Jordan Walker.”
Naomi laughs. “You only listen to Jordan Walker because he showed up at the club that one time and gave you a lady boner.”
“He was hella hot.” I shrug even though she can’t see me.
“You’re getting off course…”
“Sorry.”
“I listened to his music and it’s good. He sings that song, “Lost.” The one that Kendall loves to sing and dance to.”
“Yeah…” I know exactly which one she’s talking about, but I didn’t know who sang it. When we’re baking or cooking, I’ll put my Apple Music on shuffle so we can dance to the music. But it doesn’t mention who sings which song.
“He’s on some world tour right now,” Naomi adds, “and since it’s sold out, because he’s so famous, they’ve added several more shows.”
I close my eyes and drop my head against the wall. How can this be happening? My mission in life has been to remain low, in the shadows, and not only did I get knocked up by someone famous, but he’s also apparently one of the most popular musicians out there right now. This is like the definition of not low.