Page 21 of Daddy Detectives: Episode 1
Ian has left the house only once since we brought the babies home—last week when we took them to their first appointment with the pediatrician. Otherwise, he’s been a total homebody. That’s really not like him. He’s usually so outgoing. In his free time, he’s either on his yacht or out taking photographs, almost always with me in tow. I don’t like him going out on his own. He’s not easily recognized in public, but because of his wealth he’s often a target for unwanted attention.
“I guess I have to come with you,” I offer. I keep my tone casual, even, because I don’t want him to think I’m being overprotective.
He frowns. “Yes, because your name is on everything now. You’ll have to sign for the changes, too.”
Ian’s net worth is a staggering amount of money that continues to grow because it earns way more in interest than he spends. Ian’s paternal grandfather, Tobias Martin Alexander, made several fortunes with a telecommunications company he founded in the early twentieth century. Ian’s younger sister, Layla, inherited the other half of the Alexander dynasty. The two of them are on everyForbeslist imaginable. Looking at Ian, with his trendy pop culture T-shirts and ripped jeans, you’d never guess.
Before we married, Ian refused my suggestion that he have his attorney draw up a prenuptial agreement, even though I begged him to.
“Nope. What’s mine is yours now, too,” he’d insisted. So now I’m officially part of the trust. And now we need to update the trust to provide for our children. I glance at these two-week old babies who have absolutely no idea of the wealth they’ll inherit one day.
“We need to figure out what to do with the kids while we’re gone,” Ian says, frowning as he mulls over the problem.
“Can’t we take them with us?”
He shakes his head. “They’re too young to go out. Do you know how many germs are out there? There’s that awful respiratory virus going around, not to mention yet another new strain of Covid. And they’re not fully vaccinated yet.”
“Then we’ll get a babysitter.”
Ian nods as he props Lizzie against his shoulder and pats her back. When she lets out a loud burb, he smiles. “That’s my girl. Let’s ask your mom if she’s free to babysit. My mom will be working, and Layla’s busy with midterms coming up.”
Ian’s adopted mother, Eleanor, is an assistant district attorney in Chicago.
“I’ll call my mom,” I say. “I’m pretty sure she’d jump at the chance to babysit.”
I carry our plates to the sink, rinse them off, and put them in the dishwasher. Ian still hasn’t said a word, and it's worrying me. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I cross my arms over my chest. “What’s bothering you, baby?”
Ian’s gaze shoots to mine. “Nothing. I had a bad dream. That’s all.”
“Bullshit.” I cross the room and take Lizzie from him and lay her in her infant seat. Then I pull Ian up onto his feet. “It’s more than that.” We’re nearly the same height—I’m just a tad taller—so it’s easy for me to stare him in the eye. “Talk to me.”
When he looks away, I slip my hand around to cup the back of his head. My fingers slide into his hair. “Talk to me,” I repeat, my voice low and quiet.
Ian sighs. “I’m afraid to tell you.”
Now it’s my turn to frown. “Afraid to tell me what? You know you can tell me anything.”
He blows out a heavy breath. “I know we talked about doing the PI business together, that we’d be partners, and in the beginning I was all for it—really, I was. Hell, it wasmyidea. But now—well—”
“Now what?”
He gives me such a beseeching look. And then he blurts out the words so fast I can barely follow. “I want to be a stay-at-home dad. I don’t want to work. I want to take care of our kids.”
I’m finding it hard not to smile. He was all worked up over nothing. “This is what’s been weighing on your mind? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”
I sigh. “You should have said something before now. I think it’s a great idea. In fact, that answers the question about what we’re going to do for childcare.”
“You’re okay with me staying home?”
“Yes.”Hell, yes.I’d be able to go to work without worrying every second that Ian could get hurt.
His hopeful expression is just too much. “Really? Ingrid said you’d be okay with it.”
“As usual, my mother is right.” I hold him at arm’s length so I can see his face. “Ian, please, I beg you. Next time, tell me what’s on your mind. Don’t tie yourself up in knots worrying about how I’ll react.”
Even though he nods, he looks far from confident.
