How to Have Your Boss' Baby

by Layla Valentine

  How To Have Your Boss' Baby

  Layla Valentine

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Joey

  2. Joey

  3. Joey

  4. Reid

  5. Joey

  6. Joey

  7. Joey

  8. Reid

  9. Joey

  10. Joey

  11. Reid

  12. Joey

  13. Reid

  14. Joey

  15. Reid

  16. Joey

  17. Reid

  18. Joey

  19. Joey

  20. Joey

  21. Joey

  22. Reid

  23. Joey

  24. Joey

  25. Reid

  26. Joey

  27. Reid

  28. Joey

  29. Reid

  30. Joey

  31. Joey

  32. Reid

  33. Joey

  34. Joey

  35. Reid

  36. Joey

  37. Joey

  38. Reid

  Epilogue

  Also by Layla Valentine

  Copyright 2019 by Layla Valentine

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Reid

  I’m staring down at the contract in my hands and I’m…

  Well, I’m confused, and that’s not something that happens to me often. It never happens, in fact. Not when it comes to business deals. I pride myself on knowing exactly where I’m going, what I’m doing, and how I’m going to do it. It’s been that way since I was a kid, and that’s partially because I had to figure out a way to make the world work for me.

  And work for me it has. To the tune of a gorgeous apartment on the Upper West Side with a view that most would kill for, a bank account that keeps me more than comfortable, an internationally renowned corporation that bears my name, and a life that many would find entirely enviable.

  Everything has gone my way, because I don’t give it a choice. I’m always in control. Always cool, calm, and collected.

  So why the hell does this contract, which was written to my exact specifications by one of my in-house lawyers, make me feel as if the world has suddenly dropped right out from under my feet? It says what I asked for it to say.

  I narrow my eyes at it, staring at the words I dictated, trying to make them what I want them to be. Trying to make them feel right again. But I’m failing. Badly. And deep down, I know the reason why.

  That reason has a face. It has big, doe eyes and hair that’s curly in all the right ways. A name, even, and I glance down at the bottom of that page, where that name is written in a big, loopy scrawl.

  Josephine Evans.

  The woman who should never have been anything more than an employee. The woman who became so much more than that… then got under my skin and turned everything upside down. And the woman I now have to forget about entirely, if I know what’s good for me.

  After all, we have a deal. The contract in my hand proves it.

  Chapter 1

  Joey

  Four Weeks Earlier

  “Thank you very much for your attention to this matter,” I quickly type, trying to get to the end of the email before I lose track of what I want to say. “Sincerely, Josephine Evans, Lead Assistant Publicist, Billington Enterprises.”

  I hit send and push myself quickly back from my desk, letting the wheels of my chair coast over the plastic on the floor to take me far, far away from the email I’ve just sent. Not that there was anything wrong with it. As assistant publicist—lead assistant, thank you very much—here at Billington Enterprises, I’m well within my rights to send nastygrams to people that have displeased me. And the reporter I’ve just emailed—a member of the press I’ve worked with numerous times before—has most definitely displeased me.

  I reach out and grab the copy of the Times from my desk and scan the article again. “Billington isn’t the sort of man you want to fool around with. In fact, he’s just the sort of billionaire playboy your mother would have warned you against. And certainly not the sort you want around kids,” I read under my breath.

  “Gah!”

  I throw the paper back onto the desk, frustrated, and jerk the chair around so I can stare out the window for a moment and try to center myself again.

  It wasn’t supposed to be a hit piece. I gave Annabelle Simmons access to Reid Billington—my boss, and the head of the multi-billion-dollar conglomerate he built with his own two hands—to do a feel-good piece about his work with the community. Reid works regularly with the Boys and Girls Club in New York City, and has a whole wing named after him in the local chapter’s building. Hell, he’s donated more than I’ll probably make in my entire lifetime to that charity, and he’s planning to do the same thing again next year. He’s practically funding the entire operation, right from his own bank account.

  How Annabelle managed to go from “billionaire donates millions to the boys and girls of New York” to “Billington isn’t the sort who should be allowed around kids” is beyond me. But I am furious. No, it’s a lot bigger than that. I’m holding the heat of at least one hundred suns in my hands, and if I could have, I would have shot it out of my fingers and right at Annabelle and her obnoxious, frizzy red hair the moment I saw that article.

  I run my fingers through my own curls at the thought, wondering how they’re holding up, and pull them quickly behind my head, twisting them around a finger to try to tame any that might be getting unruly. When I was a kid, I had hair as straight as a stick, and I hated it. Come eighteen and it suddenly started doing spirals, and not a day has gone by that I haven’t missed those straight, tame locks.

  The worst part is that the curls tend to pick up on my mood. Whenever I get upset, they get even wilder. If I’m not careful, they can grow to the point that they look like they’re actually trying to eat my head. And that isn’t a good look when you’re the second-in-command in the publicity department of one of the biggest companies on the planet.

  I breathe out, roll my head once to the left and once to the right, and tell myself to calm down as I turn back to my desk.

  “So, Annabelle Simmons did a hit piece on your boss,” I mutter. “It’s not the first hit piece she’s done. There’s practically a club for the men she’s attacked during her career. And it’s not the end of the world. Hell, he’ll probably think it’s funny. A boost to his ego to hear that people think he’s a playboy.”

  “A boost to whose ego?” a low, gravelly voice drawls out, and my stomach hits the floor.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God. Tell me I didn’t leave the door open. Tell me I haven’t been talking to myself out loud again…

  But when I look up, I see that I have. The door to my office is standing wide open—and my boss is standing in it. The worst part is, this isn’t the first time I’ve done this. The entire office has bets about how often they can catch me talking to myself in here.

  But I never thought my boss was in that particular pool. He must have been passing my office just as I started talking to myself. And the powers that be—whoever is controlling the universe today—decided that they hated me.

  “Mr. Billington,” I say quickly, getting to
my feet and trying to plaster a casual mask over my features. Nothing to see here. Absolutely nothing to see. No, I wasn’t talking to myself—about you, and about a reporter I allowed into our office who then did a hit piece on you. I definitely didn’t call you a playboy. Out loud. In your hearing.

  “How are you today?” I ask, telling myself to get a grip. “I’m glad you’re in, actually, as I have some things to go over with you on the Build2K project. We’re going to start gearing up on that press campaign, so I’m preparing some talking points and I’d love to get your feedback on them.”

  Reid Billington, an impossibly hot thirty-something with hair that walks a fine line between brown and black and eyes so blue that they put the Caribbean ocean itself to shame, lifts one perfectly groomed eyebrow.

  “Does that press campaign require me to pose as a playboy?” he asks, barely concealing the smile that’s tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Or is the jury still out on whether or not I can pull that one off?”

  Well, shit. So he did hear everything, then.

  I do my best to stifle the blush I can feel creeping rapidly up my neck toward my face and lift an eyebrow of my own. “Spying on my private conversations now, Mr. Billington?”

  He leans casually against the doorframe and lets his eyes scan the room around me. “One does wonder who you were having that private conversation with. Because…”

  He lets his eyes come back to mine, his brow now creased at the obvious lack of anyone else in the room, and I can feel the blush growing by the second.

  Power through it, Joey, I tell myself. Deny, deny, deny.

  Or failing that, ignore, ignore, ignore.

  I pull a pad off my desk and wiggle it in front of me. “There’s no one in here because I’ve been hard at work on this Build2K campaign, like I was telling you,” I say. “And like I said, I’d love to get some feedback on this. Are you going to be available this afternoon, or should we put something in the books for later this week?”

  Reid straightens, seeming to pull himself out of the flirtation he’s allowed himself to fall into, and puts his hands behind his back—and with that, I can see the businessman face coming back online, the perfect, unreadable expression settling over his features.

  “This afternoon would be fine,” he says, his tone neutral. “In fact, I believe Nancy wanted to have a larger team meeting about that very thing. Why don’t we schedule that for tomorrow morning, and you can pick my brain then?”

  I nod, relieved to be back on safe terrain. “Perfect. I’ll send out the invites and get that scheduled. Shall we say ten tomorrow morning?”

  He gives me a quick nod of confirmation and then he’s gone, making almost no noise as he disappears.

  How the hell does he do that? There are times I could swear he actually floats above the ground rather than using his feet like normal people.

  I drop into my seat, feeling more than a little bit annoyed at the interaction, and push myself to go back to work, trying to ignore the lingering warmth in my face and the not-unpleasant pressure between my legs.

  Chapter 2

  Joey

  I glare at the computer screen, trying to make it say what I want it to say—and thoroughly annoyed at the amount of time I’m spending with my computer these days. But I need the editors of the biggest papers in San Francisco on my side, and so far only half of them are playing the game.

  Right, well, there’s a reason they call me a publicist. A reason I went to school for all those years to get a degree that supposedly means I’m qualified to do this.

  I start typing a response, my fingers darting over the keys.

  “Dear sir, although I understand your hesitation, given the most recent startup nightmare stories coming out of Silicon Valley, I can assure you that Reid Billington is not only steady and on his way up, but that he’s already achieved success on a number of levels. Further, Billington Enterprises—and therefore, Build2K—is the opposite of a startup. You should know…”

  I type on quickly, laying out for the editor of the San Francisco Chronicle exactly who and what Reid is, somewhat shocked that I’m even having to do it. The man is a phenomenon, and the idea that anyone hasn’t heard of him—or bothered to do their own research—is mind-boggling. Reid was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, yes, and started off with a generous loan from his father, but since then it had been all Reid.

  Billington Enterprises grew quickly, acquiring not only newspapers and magazines but some of the best blogging sites and online zines on the web. From there, the spreading out to include a still-growing publishing house, several design studios, and now a software firm, which Reid bought when it was still on the way up. Build2K has given the corporation nothing but success after success, and now that it’s ready to launch a brand new combination of software and hardware, specifically directed at photographers, Billington Enterprises is moving into a whole new realm of art.

  As second publicist, I’ve been put in charge of the press that will surround the launch of the new package. We still have several months to go before the launch happens, but we’ve planned a big opening tour in the San Francisco area, where we mean to hit up all the Silicon Valley papers and some major investors—for both relations and potential partners, and particularly for a distributor for the software. But for that tour to be a success, I need the largest papers in the area to be carrying columns about it. About the launch, about the software, about Reid.

  I sent everyone a press package with several well-thought-out pitches for articles. I gave them all the background they needed. Hell, I even gave them graphics. Billington Enterprises is one of the biggest companies in the world. Reid has been covered by the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, and People. When he became a billionaire, he made the cover of Time.

  The idea that this editor from San Francisco doesn’t believe he has the chops to make it in Silicon Valley is, quite frankly, ludicrous.

  I hit send on yet another email then minimize my email app, pulling up the designs I’ve been putting together for the press on the West Coast. And as the colors hit my eyes, I breathe a sigh of relief. This is a whole lot more my style. Yeah, I can do the communications. I can do the mean emails and the handler-of-the-talent act when we’re out making personal appearances. I can make sure the schedules happen and keep in touch with our million and one contacts.

  But the artwork. That’s where it’s truly at, as far as I’m concerned.

  I’ve always loved art. As far back as I can remember, I’ve been dabbling in anything I could get my hands on—paints, water colors, crayons, pastels, charcoals, colored pencils… Hell, I even tried clay modeling for a while, though I decided before long that it wasn’t for me. Too messy. That stuff got under your nails and into the cracks in your hands and it was impossible to get rid of. Plus, it smells weird.

  But paints. I could quite happily bathe in them, build a pool just for paints in my backyard and spend hours soaking in them until my fingers got pruny. If that even happens if you soak yourself in paint.

  I breezed through high school and went to college, where I promptly declared myself an artist and spent the next four years balancing my left brain and right brain, spending half of my days immersed in the free-flying world of the art studio and the other half being dragged by my best friend, Lana, to communications classes. She’d said that I needed something practical—and I’d let her talk me into it, much as I hated it. So when I graduated, I had a double major: Communications and Studio Arts.

  I promptly took my artsy self and descended on the New York Academy of Art—the premier school for those who wanted to grow their skills and vision. And mind-numbingly expensive. I came out of that experience with nearly $100,000 in student debt.

  And it didn’t take me long to realize I wasn’t going to pay that back selling my artwork.

  Five years later, and here I am at Billington Enterprises, working my sweet little butt off with that communications major and thanking the universe every
day that Lana insisted I take those classes with her.

  Don’t get me wrong. I still want to make art my life. I want a studio somewhere in the northern part of the state, with enormous windows that I can open for the breeze and the light. I want peace and quiet, and a place to paint to my heart’s content. And someday, I know I’ll get to do just that.

  I just need to get those damn student loans paid off first. And working at Billington gives me the best chance at actually doing that without having to sell a kidney.

  It also means that when I get to do artwork during my day job, I take full advantage of it.

  I glance down the line of thumbnails on my desktop, pressing my lips together, and realize that we don’t have quite the right look. Not yet. We need something that’s really going to grab the press—and then grab the readers of the papers—and tell them that this is something to get excited about. That Build2K is the company of the present—and the company of the future.

  I yank my drawer open and pull out my sketchpad. No matter how many times I put things together on my computer, I always prefer to start with something by hand.

  I put the tip of the pencil to the paper and started fiddling with some ideas, letting my instincts guide me as my brain gives them only the most basic information. We need something exciting, something that grabs onto the viewer’s attention and doesn’t let it go. Something colorful, but not gaudy, something that screams both ingenuity and class—

  “Just can’t keep your fingers off your artwork, can you? Though I suppose I’m impressed that you’re not talking to yourself this time.”

  My eyes shoot to the door, my brain already supplying me with the answer to the question on my tongue.

  Reid is standing there, grinning, having once again caught me by surprise.

  “I’m working,” I say sharply, “on designs for your press tour.” I jerk the pad up in front of my face and flip it around to show him the sketches I’ve been working on.