by Jamie Knight
“It was my grandmothers. I asked my dad if he knew where it was, and by some merciful act of the fates, he remembered. I just picked it up today.”
“You flew to France?”
“The concords are very fast.”
“The concord isn't flying anymore,” Joe pointed out.
“I think you sometimes forget just how rich my family is.”
“Yeah, but come on.”
“Two castles, Joe.”
“I always thought that was metaphorical,” Joe said.
“The battlements would indicate otherwise. I tried to add it all once. The calculator exploded.”
“Come on, that's an exaggeration.”
“Only a little bit. The problem isn't the ring, it’s how to give it to her.”
“I've always found the direct approach to work. Maddie and I have been together for ten years, after all.”
“I know that's why I thought to ask you,” I said.
“Look, man, it's not that complex. You love her. Becky loves you. She's having your baby, which is a sign of commitment if there ever was one. I highly doubt she is going to say no.”
“I want it to be special,” I argued.
“You could try the custard approach,” Joe suggested.
“Die on a big hill surrounded by enemy natives?”
“No, not the Custer approach. The custard approach is when you surprise — though, with you, it would probably be more like shock — her with a nice meal, including a fancy dessert in which the ring is hidden.”
“Now, that's a good idea.”
“I have my moments,” Joe said with a shrug.
There was no one around when I got home. Apparently, I had gotten back first. Jessica really did like ducks. Seizing on the opportunity, I booted it into the kitchen and put all my hard-learned cooking and baking skills to work, making one of the nicest spreads the house had ever seen, including the somewhat novel addition of a large plate full of Philly cheesesteaks. Or at least my closest approximation of the species.
No sooner had I laid everything out than I head the front door close, excited voices filling the front room. Most of the joviality was coming from Jessica, who seemed to have energy to spare. Becky was really just trying to keep up.
“Oh, hey, babe,” Becky said, catching sight of me in my finery.
“This way, please ladies,” I said, sounding as close to a Downton Abby character as possible.
“Why is he talking like that?”
“No idea, honey,” Becky said, following me into the dining room anyway.
I pulled their chairs out for them, helping Jess up onto hers, both of them gazing with some surprise at the spread I had managed to conjure.
“This is amazing.”
“Thank you,” I said, bowing my head politely.
“Who helped? Is your mom hiding somewhere?”
“We've been doing a master chef class,” Jess said.
“Yeah, but still, wow!”
“I think I'll take that as a compliment,” I said.
“Good, it was meant as one,” Becky said, reaching for a cheesesteak and taking a bite.
“What do you think?”
“Pretty close,” Becky said, mouth still full.
The meal went off without a hitch, and then it was time for dessert. A New York cheesecake recipe I had just learned but looked pretty good none the less. I gave Becky the piece with the ring in it, not expecting her to eat it so fast.
“No!” I shouted, not quite sure how to do the Heimlich on a pregnant woman.
She blinked at me. “What? It was good.”
“There was an engagement ring in there! I was trying to surprise you! Should I call a doctor? Will the baby be okay?”
“This ring?” Becky asked, pulling it from where she had hidden it inside her lip.
“How did—”
“Felt it on the fourth bite. And yes, by the way. I will marry you.”
THE END
My Ex-Boyfriend’s Secret Baby
This is Book 11 in the His Secret Baby series,
which are based on a theme and can be read alone
but are fun to binge-read altogether!
Copyright © 2020 Jamie Knight Romance
Jamie Knight –
Your Dirty Little Secret Romance Author
All rights reserved.
Chapter One - Jinx
It was a bad luck kind of day. I could see the storm clouds. Well, one actually. Micro-sized and deepest black, it was hanging over just me, firing bolts of misfortune and rage directly at my head. My nickname, Jinx, became more appropriate with each passing second. Most of my days were difficult. This one was shaping up to be one of the worst. There was some sort of ill omen in the air. An omen I should have stopped and listened to.
The morning rush hour traffic in Las Vegas did not do much to improve my disposition. It was already hot in the desert, a fact emphasized by my air-conditioning refusing to work. As sweat dripped down my neck, possibly ruining my best silk shirt, I wondered again if this was really a new Porsche or if, yet another, salesman had screwed me over.
The only consolation was the first edition of Change Today? unspooling in the tape-deck I had specially installed into my car. It had taken nearly twenty minutes to explain to the kid at the garage what it was I wanted. Then another two weeks for them to get one and work out how to put it in. It was worth it, though. I was a sucker for authenticity, and there were precious few ‘80s So-Cal Punk bands who released on CD, and a turn-table was just a bit too unwieldy to carry in the car. I did my best to relax and just let the harsh vocals of “Flowers by the Door” put me in a better headspace as the mini storm raged just under the roof of the car.
The elevator at Sure Thing Graphics was out of commission. Of course, it was. I slapped my hands against my already sweaty face, dragging them down with frustration. The day had been such shit so far why break up the theme by actually having something go right? I was beginning to develop an absurdist sense of detachment about the whole thing — almost able to see the situation as funny, for its sheer ridiculousness if nothing else.
Four flights of stairs shouldn’t have been a problem. However, someone left a literal banana peel on the last step before the third-floor landing. The comic hijinks of my foot hitting the peel, the squish of the rotten interior, and the slide of the skin was not the same as in the movies. I didn’t slip. I jumped. My shoe got stuck in sticky goo, and the result was my foot coming out, throwing me off balance, and a direct fall to the landing below. Slamming my shin into concrete stung more than I cared to express in words, but when I punched the railing in rage, I figured out that was not the way to express myself either.
Hand aching, shin burning, I crawled up the last few stairs, nearly forgetting just how high the office was. I hauled my sorry carcass to its feet and limped through the stairwell door.
“Jinx!” Camilla shouted, standing up from behind the reception desk. “Are you okay?”
“Not particularly, darling,” I said, trying to keep things light, despite the state of me.
“What happened?”
“Oh, nothing much just took a little tumble,” I explained.
“Down a mountain?”
“Down the stairs,” I corrected.
“O-oh, my God! I…is that —” She pointed at my left shin.
I shrugged, looking down. My new slacks were ripped and stained beyond repair. “Blood? Probably. Be an absolute love and fetch me a bandage, or ten?”
Camilla marched me into the break room — thank goodness the couch was black leather — and had her fiancé, Aden, utilizing his military field medic training to fix me up as much as possible. Our Art Director, Chris, watched from a distance to made sure there wasn’t a death on his watch. It was quite a spectacle. Though it was nice to know that I still had some allies left upon this planet.
“What the fuck was that about?” Cooper, the ma
nager, asked in his usual, blunt way as he came across me hobbling to the cubical that served as my office. As Sure Thing’s only copywriter, my cubical was set as far back in the office as possible, seeing as I had a tendency to try out my work orally.
“What do you mean?” I asked innocently, blinking at him.
Coop rolled his eyes. “I can only assume it was some kind of bizarre suicide attempted, falling down the stairs like that.”
“Far from it,” I said when I had finished laughing. “Just another in a grime parade of misfortune’s visited upon my accursed head this grave and damnable morn.”
“Settle down MacDuff, it can’t be that bad,” he argued, following me into my office and perching on the corner of my desk with his arms folded across his chest. He looked like a big, annoyed eagle.
I turned to him and pointed at my leg, which was doing an excellent impression of an Egyptian mummy. “You’ve seen the bandages, right?”
“Well, yeah but —”
“And heard the screaming as my shoulder was popped back into place?” I asked.
“Okay, but still, for every door—”
“There is a window?” I asked.
“Well, yeah.”
“Curious metaphor, considering you just suspected me of attempting suicide.”
I sunk into my leather desk chair, turning so I could face my accuser. Couldn’t have him thinking he was in a position of power. Particularly considering how every fight he ever started turned out. If it wasn’t for Aden, Cooper would have likely been beaten to death years ago.
The manager sighed and rubbed his head. “What happened anyway?”
“Besides the stairs incident?” I asked.
“Of course.”
His concern didn’t surprise me, Cooper was a good friend. His question did, however, bring to light all the trouble I was going through. My shoulders, which I had kept straight all morning, dropped as reality seeped in.
“I’m losing my apartment and my best friend.”
Coop jumped up.
“Oh no, what happened to Lucky?” he asked, referring to the most special thing in my life, Lucky Duck, my dog. People might laugh, but that pup had gotten me out of a bad place.
“Nothing yet. But the overlords at my apartment complex decided to change on a dime to a no pet policy so Lucky and I have two months to find somewhere else to live because there is no way in hell I am giving him up now. Even though finding a place in my price range near the office and away from the strip that allowed pets in the first place was challenging.”
It wasn’t that Sure Thing Graphics didn’t pay well. As the premier advertising agency to the Las Vegas Casinos, our firm was pulling in plenty of money. My coworkers were sitting pretty with condos or houses of their own. I was compensated significantly for my work and valued, but my past had left me a lot of debts. The local rehab took more than half my paycheck to pay for my numerous check-ins. Gambling addiction was hard to fight, and the things I turned to keep my mind off the tables had been devils of their own.
“You could get a roommate, split the cost on a pet-friendly place,” Coop suggested, sitting back down on the desk.
“A good idea, generally. The only problem is I can’t really live with someone. It has more to do with me than anyone else.”
His eyebrows went up, and he laughed. “You could take a lover, someone with the right kind of place. Real estate and sex sounds like a good deal to me.”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Still keeping up with the monastic existence.”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that. I wasn’t exactly living in cloisters and was around lots of attractive women, but I was also annoyingly celibate. So, I suppose the description fit.
I sunk lower into my chair. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“How long has it been now?” Cooper asked. At this point, I knew he was picking on me.
“Too long,” I said, waving him out of my office and not wanting to overthink about it.
I was interested in sex, but I never seemed to find the right woman. No one was special enough. That was another thing that stayed with me from my past. When you meet your true love early and lose her, it makes the rest of your life kind of suck.
“I’ll figure something out before I start working,” I told Cooper.
Famous last words.
I really had meant to give it a good think before getting to work, but my first client came in too soon. Followed by the third and the fourth. All of them were somewhat thrown off by my battered appearance. I really didn’t feel like getting into it, so I just made something up. Each fictional scenario was more inventive than the last, each one leaving the listener with the impression that I was a big, goddamn hero — as opposed to a klutz. Let’s just say, I had a way with words.
I had fully intended to give the problem a good, hard think over lunch, but the sandwich Camilla brought me was so astoundingly good it was difficult to focus on much else. Which was a mercy in a strange sort of way because after lunch, the evil thoughts came.
As soon as I had time to think, I thought about her, Lila Dell, the absolute love of my life and the woman I was going to marry back when I was in any fit state to be thinking about such things. Before the badness. And the separation and the loneliness.
We were supposed to be living together in the penthouse suite at the Crown Jewel Casino. My dad owned the place along with a few others, and we could have had it for free. We could have been happy there. Then I had to go and fuck it all up with my gambling addiction, with my drinking, with myself. It is hard for things to turn out well when you’re born to lose. Something I’d wish I’d know before I’d played my first game of blackjack.
Soon enough, the difference between winning and losing became moot. I just needed to play — more than I needed Lila, and I lost her. A small twisting knife of pain and regret took over her place in my heart. The only consolation, twisted as it might be, was that in the last few months, I was so out of control she would have left me if I hadn’t left first. I only had myself to blame and made myself pay for it every day for the past two years. Which was why I couldn’t live with anyone else. Besides Lucky anyway. And why I couldn’t give him up. He gave me love without judgment. What a thing.
Chapter Two - Jinx
It took a lot of strength. Yet somehow, I managed to suppress the depressing memories, as well as the urges to drink and jump out a window — not always in that order — that tended to come along with such remembrances. I needed to stay positive and stay alive. Lucky needed me. And not only to find us a new place to live, so we wouldn’t end up sleeping in my car. Even though I would have if that was what it would take.
With a deep, cleansing breath, I went back to the breakroom for some much needed coffee. A large cup of joe and about ten, poorly played, games of Space Invaders later, I ventured out into the office space to try and at least make a show at doing work. Settling back at my desk, I booted up my computer and prepared to write some kick-ass copy.
I was really the only writer in a den of artists. The only one who seemed to be able to empathize with my distinction was Chris, the art director with the design fetish who really didn’t understand music the way people like I did, despite coming from a family of musicians. We had both embraced our difference and bonded over it. If I had any friends, it would have to be Chris. Though Camilla seemed to like me too in her way. I would be the first to admit I could be a bit hard to take, so the fact I had anything close to friends was a relief and more than I really expected.
Switching from tape deck to Walkman, I started up Dance With Me. By far the darkest of all the T.S.O.L. albums. A distinction akin to being the coldest part of Antarctica. The volume was up, as it so often was when I was working. One of my few concessions to modern tech was a pair of noise-canceling headphones, which made it, so all I could hear was all the low-fi goodness, coming from America’s last real rebels, who were punks in the ’80s and got
to be even more so as they got into their fifties. The band was so dedicated to the absurdist rejection of absolute states, including conceptions of genres and even names, they never released an album in the same style twice. Punk was the only commonality, and frontman Jack Grisham was credited with a different name, usually an anagram of his given moniker, on the credits of every one of them. Real dedication to the idea of being able to start fresh. I was trying to take it as an inspiration.
With music screaming into my ears, it was a wonder I could even hear her. Not only because of the headphones but also because of the distance between my cubicle and the reception desk. Yet I did. Or at least I thought I had. I had just been remembering her and hadn’t thought to see if I had a head injury. There was more than a moderate chance that I was just hallucinating the whole thing. It wouldn’t have been the oddest thing that had happened to me — even that day.
I lowered the headphones, ears still ringing from the raging decibels of fury, but the sound was still there, the unmistakable tone of Lila’s voice. As though on autopilot, I rose from my chair, bumping it with the back of my legs, sending the thing rolling clear across the cubicle until it crashed across the opposite wall.
My mind was racing. Mostly, it was trying to figure out just what the hell my legs were playing at. I didn’t want to see her. Even though I did. I missed Lila so much, a small, insane part of my mind actually believed that if I could only see her again, everything would be okay. Even though I had absolutely no idea what I was going to say if such a reunion would ever come to pass.
It was her. It was really her, standing at the reception desk — being checked in by Camilla. I still couldn’t see Lila’s heart-shaped face, but I would know her anywhere. Her blonde hair had grown down to her hips, usually kept in a very intricate braid. Her petite frame had filled out a little more, all curves and full, perky breasts. The blue suit she wore was prim, immediately indicating that she no longer worked as a dealer at my father’s casino.
