Surprise Daddies (#1-4 Box Set)

by London James

So I need to make it a normal visit, at least on its face. I have my assistant clear my calendar that day and try to think of how I could possibly find out the truth about my dad.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Briony

  The month and a half or so that I’ve been at Ash’s has been the best I’ve felt in a while. Sure, he lives in a gorgeous brownstone with central air conditioning and has a cleaning lady who keeps everything spotless and a kitchen that would make Ina Garten weep but that isn’t everything.

  I miss Zara but hanging out with Ash in the evenings is just the right mix of relaxing and fun. If he isn’t too exhausted after getting home late, we eat dinner and watch something stupid on Netflix or play video games. If I’m working, he helps where he can with BloomBrightly. With his advice, Zara and I slayed our first interview with the startup incubator we applied for, and I’ve spoken with a few of the investors he’s connected me to.

  I’ve even put my feelings for him… well, not totally behind me, but at least into the backseat. I wear baggy, unflattering sweats around the house, no makeup, and trick myself into putting my feelings in the ‘celebrity crush’ zone. I can lust after celebrities all I want, but there’s exactly zero chance of me dating Chris Hemsworth or whoever. But I definitely still lust.

  It kind of works.

  I’m still getting back on my feet financially, picking up some freelance floral design jobs and searching for apartments. Ash says I can stay as long as I need to, so I’m not going to rush into another shithole that might catch on fire because of the super’s negligence.

  It’s all really exhausting, though. Despite how exciting everything is, between getting my life together, my day job, and BloomBrightly’s growth, I’m feeling a little under the weather. Maybe I need a vacation day.

  Instead, I settle for lunch with Ash, which will cheer me up at least a little. I worked from home this morning, so I eventually get dressed and head downtown. He tells me to look for a yellow truck in the sea of food trucks parked outside.

  I see him before I see the truck, looking so good that I’m a little annoyed. He’s just wearing his usual work outfit—blue button-down shirt, jeans—but the way his hair is tousled by the wind, and the way his shoulders look in that shirt is almost too perfect. I’m not the only person noticing. He is totally oblivious to the women — and men— giving him a once-over as they walk past him. He’s holding his phone, but not focusing on it, deep in thought.

  “Oh, hey,” he says when he notices me, smiling so warmly that my stomach morphs into a tiny cluster of butterflies.

  “Hey.” I go in for a one-arm hug, which he returns, squeezing my shoulder a bit. I manage to keep my shit together and extract myself from his grip. “What’s this food truck?”

  “Ethiopian food.” He tucks his phone in his shirt pocket. “It’s really good.”

  “Never had it before.” I look up at the menu. “What should I get?”

  “You want to try a bit of everything? We can share.” He steps into line.

  “Sure, why not?” I say, standing next to him. Some woman shoots me a dirty look after checking Ash out. “You sure you want to share with me? I might eat it all from under you.”

  “We’ve gotten better at sharing,” he smiles. “I haven’t bitten your fingers off yet.”

  I snort. “The bar is so low.”

  “Hey, we used to fight over freaking popcorn like feral cats in an alley, so is the bar really that low?” he chuckles.

  He orders for us, and once we get the food, we settle on a bench, setting the large, steaming trays of food between us. It looks and smells delicious, even though my stomach is feeling a little off. Too much coffee, probably. I need to take it slow.

  As usual, our conversation stops until we’ve tasted everything. It’s everything I wanted—spicy, flavorful, filling. I wish we hadn’t split everything, but at least I get to sample all the things I wanted to try.

  “How’s it going?” Ash asks. “You heading into the office later?”

  “Ugh, yeah.” I slump. “There’s a meeting I should go to, but also, who puts meetings on Friday afternoons?”

  “Assholes do.” He sips his water. “If someone puts a meeting on a Friday afternoon, I just don’t go.”

  “But you’re the CEO—you can do whatever you want,” I point out.

  “I’m supposed to set an example for everyone. If I slack off, everyone else thinks they can too. So my only indulgence is skipping out on Friday meetings.”

  “So I might go in just to seem like a good employee. And tomorrow I’m looking at some apartments, so that’s another blah thing I have to deal with. Everything’s so damn pricey, even if Zara and I split rent.”

  “I’m sorry.” He tears off a piece of injera, the spongy, sourdough flatbread that came with our meal.

  “It’s fine.” I know he can’t relate, but it feels nice for him to say it. “What about you? I haven’t even seen you for two days.”

  He gets up stupidly early every day, even though he claims he hates it and stays at the office late. He never misses a workout and never seems to get tired. But today, he looks a little weary. He isn’t opening up to me, really, but he doesn’t pull away as hard when I ask about his feelings.

  “Just a little burnt out. It’s been rough at the office lately. My afternoon is free, at least.” He pauses, looking past my shoulder. “You want to take the afternoon off?”

  “Just… not go into work?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Everyone needs a spontaneous vacation day.”

  “Even the CEO?”

  “Yep, even me. Especially me.” He laughs without any humor behind it. “Sometimes you just need a few hours to blow off steam. Play hooky with me. I need to recharge.”

  He gives me the soft-eyed look that melts me every damn time. He has to know how effective it is because he uses it often. Usually when we’re fussing over what show to watch on Netflix. I’ve watched more Star Trek than I thought I ever would. He can convince me to do anything with that look, but I don’t have an equivalent tool besides showing my cleavage, which only fucks with both of our heads.

  “Okay, fine. Let me send an email or two.” I whip out my phone and tell my boss I have to ‘run errands.’ She’ll probably be annoyed, but it’s not like she could tell me not to. I get a little rush from it. I’ve taken mental health days in the past when I was supposed to go in, but I usually stay in my apartment, just in case I somehow run into someone I work with in my neighborhood. It’s an irrational fear since logically they should still be at work, but not strictly following the rules makes me paranoid. With Ash, I feel like I can break free a little bit.

  “Great. Have you heard of that interactive dog art installation near Barclays Center?” he asks.

  “No, but you had me at ‘dog art installation’.”

  A little smile brightens his whole face. “Let’s get Sarge and go.”

  The art installation is one of many that have popped up around the city in the past few years—basically, it’s an Instagram-picture paradise. The line outside is down the block, with people and their dogs chatting excitedly about what’s inside. Sarge sits patiently beside Ash’s feet, his tail wagging hard and fast whenever another dog approaches, while Ash and I people and dog watch.

  “Look at that little poodle,” I whisper as its owner walks past us. The dog and the owner are wearing coordinated outfits, with the dog’s bandana pattern matching the owner’s shirt. “Why is he more fashionable than me?”

  “That dog probably has a masseuse on speed dial,” Ash remarks, snickering. “He looks too pampered.”

  “How can a dog look too pampered?” I laugh. “Also, Sarge goes to a fancy doggy daycare, and you get the blow-by-blow of everything he does via text. He gets more treats than I did in my entire childhood in the span of a week. Isn’t that pampering your dog too much? Just because he’s a mutt doesn’t mean he can get away with being fancy.”

  He looks down at me, humor in his eyes. “Touché
.”

  “And also, this is the most bougie dog event ever to exist,” I continue, stepping forward when the line moves. “These dogs are living the life. There’s not one dog here who isn’t pampered to hell and back.”

  When we get to the front of the line we see the actual art space is a dog paradise. There are ball pits filled with squeaky toys, stuffed animals they can take with them, treats, colorful Instagram-ready art pieces like fake cars for them to put their heads out of with a fan blowing onto their faces, and ball pits that resemble dog food.

  The air is filled with the sound of squeaky toys and barking. It’s completely ridiculous, but Sarge loves it. He hops on every platform, runs through every obstacle course, and proudly walks around with his new toys, generously donated to the exhibit by corporate sponsors, jammed into his mouth all at once.

  A weight seems to be lifted off of Ash’s shoulders, just being there. Something must have been bothering him—not that he would tell me without prompting—but having a moment outside of the office is the cure. Is it his work? He doesn’t talk about it much, but it does take up a lot of his time. Or is it his father? He mentioned that he’s sick, but maybe he’s gotten worse. His dad issues aren’t something he ever wants to talk about.

  “Get in there with him, Ash,” I say, pointing at a gigantic bone on a patch of fake grass that comes up to our knees. “I want to take a picture.”

  Ash looks at me with his eyebrows raised. “I’m not going to get in there.”

  “Come on. Be fun for once.” I hold up my phone. “Do it for the ‘Gram.”

  “I’m not doing shit for Instagram.”

  “But what about for Sarge?” I point to the dog, who is looking up at his owner with pure adoration, his ears perked up. “He’s such a good boy. Look at that face.”

  Ash sighs and looks at his dog, whose tail wags even harder when he realizes he’s being looked at. Ash eventually crawls down on the ground, pulling Sarge next to him. I grin and kneel to get the picture. He manages a smirk while Sarge looks everywhere but the camera. I finally get one good, goofy one where Ash has his tongue out like a child in protest and Sarge is actually focused on the camera, with one ear perked up.

  It’s the cutest photo I’ve ever taken. Ash rarely looks so goofy, but it suits him. There’s something about a hot guy letting go of his need to remain good-looking that makes him even more attractive.

  I show it to him, grinning. “I want to post this on Instagram. It’s too cute not to.”

  “Is your Instagram private?” he asks, leaning over my shoulder.

  “Yep.”

  “Fine.” He pulls out his phone. “Can you send me that picture?”

  “You love it, don’t you?”

  His lips are pressed together, holding back a smile. “It’s a nice picture.”

  “You love it, you dog dad.” I send him the picture, then post it on my Instagram. “You should get it framed.”

  “And put it where? Not in my office. I’d get laughed out of the building.” He puts his phone back once he confirms he’s gotten the photo.

  “I dunno. In your house somewhere,” I shrug. “You don’t have any photos around.”

  “I’m not big on them.” He clips Sarge’s leash back on. “I didn’t have a very photo-worthy childhood.”

  He doesn’t sound sad—just matter of fact.

  “You’ve been an adult a lot longer than you’ve been a child. I’m sure you have some nice ones from college or the military. Pictures of your friends, places you’ve been. They’re nice to have around.”

  He makes a little dismissive sound, avoiding my gaze. “I suppose.”

  That’s Ash-code for ‘I’m done with this conversation’, so I leave it alone. Did I hit a nerve? He has friends and is on good terms with them. Maybe he doesn’t care, but I’ve gotten to know him well in the past few months. He’s an avoidance pro.

  We walk through the last few installations. The last one is a room filled with TV screens low to the ground, with videos of squirrels playing and tennis balls bouncing. Sarge doesn’t care about it in the slightest. He looks a little beat from running around and slides down to his belly, panting gently. I put his new toys in my bag, and we leave the exhibit.

  “Let’s get ice cream,” I suggest once we get outside. It’s mid-afternoon, and the September warmth is sticky and heavy. “I’m craving it.”

  “Seems like a good thing to do when you’re skipping out on work.” He slides his sunglasses on. “Why not?”

  There’s an amazing ice cream place not far from where we are, so we walk there with Sarge in comfortable silence. Ash isn’t chatty, but our silences don’t always feel this natural. I feel at ease with him, like we’re actually together. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a boyfriend, yeah, but I can’t forget how being with someone you really like sometimes feels as easy as being by yourself.

  I grip the strap of my bag, ignoring the dull ache in my breasts when I jostle them. We basically are on a date, but I know I’m the only one who thinks of it that way. The thought makes me surprisingly and almost overwhelmingly annoyed.

  I must be PMS-ing. There’s no other explanation for my sudden craziness and all-around gross physical state. At least my periods aren’t much of a hassle with the birth control. Ash and I don’t share a bathroom except for the downstairs one, but I’ll probably do my girl stuff in there at some point. I shouldn’t be embarrassed about it, but I am. He’s a grown man, one who isn’t squeamish at that.

  “You okay?” Ash asks, stopping in front of the ice cream place. The doors are open to let the air through, so he steps in. It’s dog-friendly, so no one bats an eye at Sarge.

  “What?”

  “You look flushed.” He studies my face and neck, frowning.

  “I’m fine.” I busy myself with a paper menu, even though it’s also up on the wall above the counter. What’s my deal? I’m not the anxious type.

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  I feel ravenous all of a sudden. “Basically everything.”

  “I’m guessing you don’t want to share again?” he smirks, taking the menu. “You almost stabbed me with a fork at lunch.”

  “It was good! And I was practicing self-defense.” I gently elbow him in the ribs. “You were going to eat up all the injera.”

  “Sure, sure.” He holds the menu open for both of us. We order six different flavors between the two of us, plus one ‘pup-cream’ for Sarge and sit outside on a bench. The dog obliterates his serving in two bites before we can even dig into ours.

  The afternoon sun feels just warm enough on my skin to be pleasurable, and with the contrast of the cool ice cream, I feel refreshed. It really does feel like a vacation day—I haven’t checked my work email in hours and neither has Ash.

  “Wait, how are you totally off your email?” I ask him, letting some Tahitian vanilla ice cream melt over my tongue. There are little chunks of lemon sponge cake in it. It’s divine. “Won’t things implode without you? I’m hardly ever at work, and I’m terrified of what’s going on in my inbox.”

  He mixes a bit of strawberry ice cream with some chocolate before spooning it into his mouth. “If my company fell apart because I wasn’t on email for an afternoon, I’d be a shitty CEO. I trust everyone can make good decisions. That’s why I hired them in the first place.”

  “Can you please tell my boss that? She acts like I’m a total moron sometimes,” I lament. “I swear, I can’t wait until I can walk into her office and tell her I’m quitting.”

  “Why does she think you’re a moron? Why doesn’t she trust you?” he asks.

  “I think she knows I don’t care that much. I get everything done on time, and well, so she can’t just fire me, but my heart’s not in it.” I slump, letting go of my spoon. “It just feels like I’m stuck there forever.”

  “Nothing’s ever permanent. I’m sure BloomBrightly will get some backers sooner than you think and you’ll be out of there.” He gently pushes Sarge
’s nose away from his ice cream with his knee. “It’s a great idea.”

  I actually flush from embarrassment this time, and he notices. “There are a lot of great ideas that crash and burn. The worst thing I could imagine would be having to crawl back to my old job and ask for it back if we fail.”

  “And there are a lot that survive.” He quickly steals a bit of my vanilla before I can stop him. I give him a dirty look, which he brushes off with a boyish grin. “There are always risks involved in starting something new, but what would you regret more—doing it and failing, or not doing it at all?”

  Even with the shadow of the building across the street coming over his eyes, his gaze is intense. I get goosebumps, and it isn’t just the ice cream. Am I imagining it, or could what he said apply to whatever we are, too? Dating Ash would be a massive risk to my heart, but the more I spend time with him, the more I really, really like him. Sure, I can go through life putting him in the celebrity crush zone, but I would regret not trying to talk to him about our relationship at least once.

  My heart flutters in my chest. There’s a strong chance I’m reading into this too far. I need Zara’s opinion, but she isn’t going to be in the city until tomorrow. I focus on my ice cream again, shoving the thoughts aside.

  “I would regret not trying,” I finally say.

  “There you go.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “It’ll be fine. It might hurt, but you can get back up and try again.”

  We’re quiet again, the air between us suddenly feeling heavy. I polish off my ice cream and even manage to steal a little of Ash’s. He doesn’t protest. We don’t even say much on the walk home. Once we get inside, Sarge runs out into the backyard, and Chunk comes sauntering in from his spot on the guest bed.

  “Want a beer or something?” Ash calls back from the kitchen.

  “Maybe some water? It was really warm out.” I kick off my shoes and join him in the kitchen.

  He pours me a glass of water and cracks open a beer, leaning against the massive kitchen island. I pound my water way faster than I should.