by Frost, Sosie
Mackenza pushed me away. “This is too heavy a conversation to have without pants.”
“I’m already stripped bare. What more do you want?”
She pointed at me. “You’ve never once talked about having children. Not once, Cameron. Not while you flitted away in Antarctica. Not while you jumped out of planes you designed or hopped into a dozen different careers in every conceivable industry.”
“I never thought about it,” I said. “Never even considered it. All this time, I’ve searched for happiness for myself. Never once thought that, maybe…I wanted to provide it for someone else. A baby. Someone of my own flesh and blood to spoil and pamper.” I kicked away the blankets and paced the room. “Kenza, this world has nothing left to offer me that I haven’t already seen or explored or conquered. But with a baby—I can watch them experience it all over again, with a renewed sense of…”
I couldn’t imagine the word.
Mackenza shrugged. “What? Purpose?”
“Yes.”
“So, after thirty-five years of living the most selfish life you could imagine for yourself…” She arched an eyebrow. “You suddenly think that you want to watch someone else do all that you’ve already done?”
“They’d be mine.” I had no idea what to do with my hands. I considered dressing, but I wasn’t losing any opportunity naked with the little hellcat turned kitten. I sunk into the sheets. “It’s a baby, Kenza. A brand-new life, dependent on me to protect it, nurture it, love it. To show it all the wonders of the world which have amused me. To shield it from all the shit and horrors that almost kept me in poverty in the backass corner of West Virginia.”
She nodded. “I understand that.”
“Then why are you so worried?” I asked. “Do you think having a baby means you’ll miss out on something?”
“You’re one to talk. You’ve spent your life scouring the world for answers to questions you don’t even wanna ask.”
But now I had those answers.
And she did too.
Which one of us was afraid of those questions now?
“Are you telling me you’ve never wanted a child?” I asked.
Mackenza warded me away with a wagging finger. “Of course, I wanted a baby…but I’d always pictured it happening in the proper order. Once I’d met the man of my dreams, fell recklessly in love, planned a lavish wedding with an amazing honeymoon. Then we’d start our family when the time was right—when careers were settled and money wasn’t an issue and we had the time and home and…”
“Have you ever done anything impulsively?”
She rolled her eyes. “Having a baby isn’t like hopping on a flight to Vegas for a random weekend.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a baby. A precious gift made with someone you love.”
I snorted. “And I can’t be that someone? Tell me the truth. What sort of fairytale prince did your devilish mind concoct for yourself?”
She pouted, indignant that I’d so easily read her like her own damned storybook.
“You aren’t my perfect man,” she said.
“Then who is he?”
She bundled the sheets around her and huffed. “He’s…he’s…well, for one thing, he’s utterly gorgeous.”
I waved a hand over my body. “You can’t get any better than perfection.”
“Vain, aren’t you?”
I lifted the sheet, letting her get a good, hard look at my confidence. “Fuck Prince Charming. I’m the King.”
Despite her rolled eyes, she relented. “Fine. You’re a good-looking man.”
“Would it kill you to say it sometimes?”
She pinched my leg with a wicked prick of her fingers.
“My perfect man would be compassionate,” she said.
No sweat. “Check my resume. See how many companies I saved from the brink of bankruptcy. We’re talking tens of thousands of jobs I’ve saved. That’s pretty compassionate.”
“All while making you billions.”
“Then check out my charity work. Or would your perfect man be kind to all creatures—including disease-ridden mosquitoes which destroy millions of lives a year?”
“You know I admire your charity work,” she said. “But I need more. A gentle man. A kind man.”
“Do I need to remind you that I could’ve dropped your ass down into accounting instead of taking you under my wing?”
“I’m not under your wing—I’m under your sheets.”
“And I’m especially kind there.”
“Your temperament is good.”
“And I definitely have more patience than I used to since meeting you.” I winked. “What else is on your list?”
“Athleticism.”
Jesus. “I climbed fucking Everest. What more do you need? Want me to start a company softball team? I’m a damned good shortstop.”
She sighed. “I guess I wanted a man who was wealthy.”
“Wallet’s in my pocket…” I lowered my voice. “But you’re after something else in my pants, aren’t you? Face it, Kenza. I’m perfect for you.”
But she refused to believe it.
“Cameron, I need someone who understands me. Who really gets me. Someone who knows everything about me and loves me for it.”
I scoffed. “You want someone who realizes you’re more than beautiful, but you’d be amazingly accomplished if someone just gave you a chance. That you’re a driven woman whose only goal is to prove that she’s as strong and capable as the men she values most in her life.”
She stayed quiet.
Worse, she moved to escape from the bed.
I wouldn’t allow that.
“I know your pride got hurt when I took the company, but all the torture you’ve put me through has been for one reason only—to ensure that I don’t compromise your family’s values. Your values. Professionalism. Modesty. Longevity. Legacies.” I tapped her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze. “You want to be a part of the company because it connects you to your father and grandfather—men you greatly admire and respect.”
“Yes.” Her honesty quieted her.
“And you’ve done all you can to bury yourself in an industry that’s changing faster than your company can withstand. And yet you haven’t lost your optimism or your resolve. You’re willing to stand up to men like me and the assholes on the Board because you will do whatever it takes to protect your family’s memory and values.”
“Wouldn’t anyone?”
“No.” I laughed. “Of course not. Most would’ve taken the money and ran. They’d be living on an island in the middle of the Caribbean, soaking up the sun and drinking mojitos all day.” I pointed at her. “But not you. You’re one of the most frustrating women I’ve ever met. Even when you’re unsure of yourself, you’d never jeopardize your morals or conscience, even if it means denying yourself everything you’ve ever wanted.”
Mackenza said nothing. That was fine. She was cute when speechless.
And I planned to keep her that way for the next nine months.
“I understand you more than you realize, Kenza,” I said.
Her gaze fell as she quieted. It was a good quality. Meant she wouldn’t lash out in anger or make a shit decision out of vengeance.
But it also meant she’d never tell the truth.
Not when she had time to concoct a good enough lie.
“I’m…grateful a man like you thinks so highly of me,” she said.
“It’s more than that.”
“But I don’t know what it means.”
“Just admit whatever you’re feeling.” I pressured her too much, eager to claim a part of her she was unwilling to give. “No one around to hear it but me. I’ll take as many words as you’re willing to give—as long as you make them sweet.”
“Okay…” To my delight, she snuggled closer to me, drawing the blankets to her shoulders as she rested against my chest. “Then I know exactly how I feel.”
“Lay it on me.”
> “You…Cameron Mitchell…” She closed her eyes, and the tension drained from her body. “Aren’t that bad.”
Maybe it wasn’t a flowery declaration of her eternal submission…
But I’d take it.
And I’d prove to her that I was better than not bad.
I was perfect for her.
And our baby.
16
Mackenza
No matter how pregnant I got…
No matter what the cravings demanded of me…
No matter the mood swings, irritability, or desperate hunger…
It was never worth crying over a chili dog.
Especially when they came up looking the same as when they went down.
Unfortunately, the universe had dispensed this bit of wisdom a little too late to avoid complete romantic anarchy.
While Milan offered sophistication, decadence, and glamour…
Home was where a girl could get a decent hotdog.
And Ironfield was it.
Problem was that a pregnant woman, after working an eight-hour shift with the irresistible father of her secret baby, spent every last ounce of her patience in the office doing her best to pretend that her boss was not the most gorgeous hunk of meat outside of the cart parked on Second Avenue.
It was hard enough denying attractions and hiding the flirtations around the workplace—but keeping a pregnancy on the down low?
That was tough.
And exhausting.
An otherwise healthy and ambitious career woman had only a few stomach flus and food poisonings up her sleeve before the office gossip would shift. We skirted by on talk of scantily-clad elderly women stripping for the board members, but one blip of whispered gossip would forge the scandal that was an expecting Mackenza Maxwell and her baby-daddy to be, the billionaire Cameron Mitchell.
And that news wasn’t something I wanted passed around the water cooler.
Or getting plastered on the cover of People Magazine.
At least, not until I was prepared.
Not until I could go one night without breaking down into tears because I’d nearly fallen asleep on my feet, my stomach had refused all manner of sustenance, and the only silver lining to the raincloud of my day was the potential of one honking hotdog layered with cheese, chili, onions, and the slightest dollop of mustard.
So, last night, in a moment of culinary weakness—with no energy, no patience, and nothing in my giant penthouse refrigerator—I’d done the unthinkable.
I’d called Cameron for help.
Fortunately, he hadn’t been in the office or he would’ve answered his phone to a blubbering, starving mess of a pregnant woman wishing general strife and IRS audits upon any who might stand between her and a hotdog.
Not my finest hour, and certainly not the image I wished to project to the oh-so-suave, charmingly smooth Cameron Mitchell.
Thank Heaven for small miracles.
He didn’t answer.
Problem was…I left him a voice mail.
And while I couldn’t remember the exact contents, the bulk of the message had included quite a bit of howling, gnashing of teeth, and a snotty snort midway between a whine and a pout.
He’d already seen me naked.
No way I’d let him ever hear that message.
The plan of attack was simple:
Break into Cameron’s office.
Delete the weepy voice mail begging for chilidogs.
Escape before anyone realized that I was secretly pregnant with my boss’s baby.
Easy peasy.
Especially since I’d snagged Cameron’s keys the first week he’d worked at Maxwell Intimates and had my own copy made for just this sort of emergency. A girl never knew when she’d need to recover files, dust a room with used coffee grounds, or delete damaging evidence which would compromise her dignity or girlish figure.
Fortunately, the addition of a permanent coffee cart in the building’s lobby had ensured that every morning at 10:15 on the dot, Tessa shimmied out of her knit cardigan, abandoned her desk just outside of Cameron’s office, and darted to the nearest ladies’ room.
I waited for the moment when her coffee cup tinked off the bottom of her wire garbage can, then sprung into action, bursting into his office quick enough to outrun my heaving stomach.
Fortunately, his voicemail code was the same number as his debit pin. A fact that I would’ve taken advantage of had he not insisted that I use it whenever I want to spoil myself since I was now with his child.
Just to spite him, I hadn’t spent a penny.
Cameron had only arranged to be out of the office for two days, but his phone’s voice message alert was lit up like a damned Christmas tree in October—blinking, yes, but thoroughly unnecessary.
I sped through the first three messages. Telemarketers. Nothing major. The usual paper products, telephone service, and first aid supplier who’d been told that Cameron Mitchell would love to speak with them and watch their longest, most elaborate PowerPoint presentations.
I made a note to return their calls and set up appointments.
That’d keep him out of my hair for a while.
But the next message stilled my hand.
A soft, Appalachian twang hummed over the line—gentle, patient, and yet…sad.
“Cameron, I just read your email…” The woman paused, picking her words cautiously. “Though I’m not sure how a mother is supposed to react to news of her first grandchild when it’s smooshed in an inbox between alerts for my electricity payment and yet-another cruise I never said I wanted but you booked for me anyway.” She paused. “Strange…I thought you’d be surprising me with a new yacht neither of us needed…not a grandbaby. And I’d hoped you would’ve delivered such news in person…”
Whoa.
Me too.
What the hell was Cameron thinking? Did he want to give his mother a heart attack?
The man owned his own private jet. Surely, he could’ve arranged a quick trip home to talk to his mom.
Why wouldn’t he have at least called?
This did nothing to help keep the baby a secret, but if he was going to blow our cover, the least he could’ve done was arranged a proper meeting and discussion.
Good to know the man delivered news with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
“I hope one day I can meet your…” His mom continued, flustered.
No.
Disappointed.
“Well, I certainly hope she’s your girlfriend, if not something more at this point.” She sighed, heavy. “Cameron, I’m not sure if you know what you’re getting yourself into. This is a baby. Not a jaunt around the world in your sailboat or some ridiculous excursion to a place no one has ever been or wanted to go. This is a precious gift, not something to be collected, not another trophy or accolade. Your life will change.” She hummed. “Or…it should change. But I’m not so certain you realize that…or will.”
I didn’t know his mother, but she was a wise woman.
A pit grew in my stomach. I hoped the baby had my common sense and knew not to tumble down that chasm.
“Of course, I’m happy for you…but I only hope that you’re happy too. Truly, really happy. This is a gift, son. And I pray that this baby teaches you about what is best in this life, but…” She chuckled to herself. “But this is you, Cameron. And I know how you think. If you’d only listen to me, I’d tell you what you should want too, but, I bet you find out soon enough. Until then…please treat this new life as the miracle it is, and not as another accomplishment to tick off your waning bucket list. I love you. I’ll call you soon—hopefully you’ll have much to tell me about what you’ve learned. If not, it will still be nice to hear from you without ordering you to return the jewelry, cars, and houses I don’t need.”
The message ended.
I slouched in Cameron’s chair and released a puffed breath of air brimming with newfound anxiety.
Though, technically, it was the same anxiety I’d
had ever since getting involved with Cameron.
I had every reason to doubt Cameron’s excitement. After all, a baby was just another adventure in the life of a renegade playboy who had done everything…and everyone.
And yet…
I hoped the words he’d whispered were true.
The baby excited him. The prospect of a child meant the world to him.
That, whatever happened, we were in this together.
And so, I’d given him the benefit of the doubt.
Risking everything: My heart, my future, my child.
So what if his mother harbored the same suspicions and hesitations?
She was only the woman who had birthed him, raised him, and knew him better than anyone in the world.
Moms were wrong about their sons all the time.
…Right?
Well, I had a fifty/fifty shot at finding out.
My message was next, even more blubbery and ridiculous than I’d first believed.
Even worse…
I might’ve said some really dramatic things.
Some so revealing, so damning, and so utterly reckless that I couldn’t believe the words had plopped out of my mouth.
Words like…owe you forever.
Phrases like…you’re the only one I trust.
And worst of all…a dreaded word starting with the letter L and ending with a whole mess of complication that neither of us were ready to confront.
At least…
I didn’t think we were ready.
We were only having a baby after all.
One life-changing affirmation at a time.
I couldn’t slap the delete button hard enough.
I hopped from the chair, but the next message played before I hung up the phone.
“Mr. Mitchell, this is Alan Greer.”
I recognized that grumpy impatience anywhere. Maxwell Intimates’ lawyer had run out of patience somewhere around the 2008 recession, and he’d become gruffer ever since, snuffling his words like a pig rooting through the dirt. Unfortunately, Mr. Greer rarely surfaced with anything as good as a truffle, and our company ended up stuck in the mud.
