How to Have Your Boss' Baby

by Layla Valentine

  He strolls into the office, all casual grace, the way only someone with money can do, and leans forward, his knuckles braced against my desk. A quick flick of his gaze down to the sketchpad and then his eyes return to mine, their bright turquoise looking somehow deeper.

  There’s also another grin hiding at the corner of his mouth, and it makes me squirm for reasons I can’t quite pinpoint.

  “They’re nice,” he drawls. “Though I think that one could use a bit more… I don’t know, maybe glitter would do the trick?”

  Aghast, I glance at where he’s pointing and see that I’ve started sketching on a page that already held some artwork. One of my quick sketches of the high-rise that sits directly across the street from us, and right outside my window. I don’t remember having done it, but that isn’t any big surprise; I often sketch when I need to recharge my brain.

  And that is exactly none of his damn business. I’m good at my job—I know it, and he knows it. What I do to keep myself fresh for the press is my problem and no one else’s.

  And I would have told him exactly that, except that he’s my boss. And I need this job. Reid might be a high-handed jackass half the time, but telling him so would certainly see me immediately fired, and I can’t afford that.

  So instead, I plant a professional smile on my face—my work mask—and give him a shrug. “Well, Mr. Billington, I never really thought of you as a glittery sort of guy. But we can try it, if that’s the direction you want to go in.”

  He leans further toward me, his expression growing stern. “Ms. Evans. How many times have I told you that I expect you to call me Reid, not Mr. Billington? We’re working too closely to be on such formal terms.” He ends the statement with a lightning-quick grin that throws sparks into his eyes. “If I hear you calling me Mr. Billington again, I’m going to have to think about reprimanding you. And we don’t want that, do we?”

  He turns and leaves the room, tossing a “See you tomorrow morning,” over his shoulder as he ducks through the door.

  I blow a long breath through my lips, trying to calm the hammering of my heart—and trying to figure out how he went from annoying the hell out of me to making me feel like my bones were actually melting into the chair below me.

  Chapter 3

  Joey

  I arrive early the next morning, ready to set the room up for our staff meeting, and go right to my office. I already prepared all the things I need: spreadsheets and talking points to pass out to the people in the office, large poster boards that include the art I’ve come up with, and another poster board that includes the projected schedule and papers, blogs, and magazines I already have agreements from.

  Then there’s the list of papers that haven’t agreed to run any stories yet. These ones are going to be the tricky ones, though I’m positive I can handle it. We still have a few days before Reid leaves for San Francisco. Plenty of time to sweet-talk those editors, fill them with a few more rainbows and sunbeams when it comes to Billington Enterprises.

  The investors? Well, they aren’t my problem but there’s a large display with their names on it as well, since they’ll be part of the tour, too. We’ve booked Reid for only two days in the Bay Area—he didn’t want to take more time than that, given how busy the main office is—and we’ve filled those two days with everything we can think of, from meet-and-greets with some of the heavies in Silicon Valley, to interviews with important reporters, and meetings with possible investors and distributors.

  It’s going to be a whirlwind tour, I think, looking at the list of places he’ll have to hit. But it will be worth it in the end, if we get enough press out of it—and a few investors. I’m just glad I won’t be the one accompanying him.

  I turn around just as my assistant comes rushing into the room, laden down with donuts, bagels, and a carton that looks like it might easily hold fifteen gallons of coffee.

  “Did we accidentally invite an army to the meeting?” I ask, giving the caffeine-toting carton a quick glance. “Or are you planning on feeding the entire office for the rest of the day?”

  Sandra is an overachiever. Always going above and beyond. But she’s also prone to overkill—and she knows it.

  She gives me a quick grin. “I know how much Mr. Billington likes his bagels, so I got three of every flavor they had. And as for the coffee… Well, I figured all that bread might make people thirsty?”

  She ends on a question mark and I have to laugh.

  “And the donuts?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Someone told me Mr. Billington has a sweet tooth, so…”

  “Right,” I say, drawing the word out.

  It all makes sense now. I asked Sandra to coordinate the food for a meeting that includes Reid Billington, who is not only our boss but also the local Greek god-come-entrepreneur. It’s no secret that every woman in this office has a thing for him—secretly or otherwise—and I’m willing to bet that seventy-five percent of them would make a play for him, given half a chance. I also know that rumors fly around about him nearly every day.

  He’s a flirt, and he puts it to good use. He knows how to use it to get his way, and when it will get him the best deal. Though I don’t think he’s ever acted on it. At least not that I know of.

  But given his background, of course said assistant overbought. She’s trying to make sure that Reid has everything his Greek god heart could possible desire. Possibly hoping that he’s ready for a Greek goddess to join him on that pantheon of success. And that he might look at the younger members of his staff.

  “You do realize that the chances of him knowing you were the one who procured the snacks are slim to none, right?” I ask.

  Sandra flushes deeply—a sure sign that I was right on the mark with my guess. “I know,” she says, shrugging. “But after all, he is our boss, and…”

  “And we don’t want him to go hungry,” I agree, stepping forward to help her with the feast. “On that point, we’re definitely in agreement. I just wish the women in this office would stop falling over him like he was the last man on the planet. He’s only a guy. Just a human being, like the rest of us.”

  “A guy with superhuman good looks,” she mutters. “And more money than any other single man in the city. More charm, too. Don’t try to pretend you haven’t noticed.”

  Oh, I’ve noticed, all right. You couldn’t not notice something like that. The man carries an aura of power around him, and has one of those magnetic presences that draws your eyes the moment he’s anywhere in the vicinity. And once he’s got your attention…

  Let’s just say it’s hard to look away from something so perfect.

  Until he starts speaking. And then his attitude does that work for him, as far as I’m concerned. Gorgeous he might be. But that comes with a very healthy side dish of arrogance and overconfidence. I’ve never found it sexy, myself.

  I’m serious. I haven’t. And I that’s the story I am going to keep telling myself until I am out of this place and far, far away from those mesmerizing eyes of his, and that crooked smile, and those dimples that hit me in all the right places.

  “He’s just a man, and he’s our boss,” I tell Sandra firmly, taking the box with the donuts and then the other box with the bagels from her, and leaving her to juggle the coffee. “And since that’s the case, we treat him with respect and nothing else. Right?”

  “Right,” she says, breathing a sigh of relief at my help. “Let’s go get this stuff set up before it ends up all over the floor.”

  I run my gaze over the room, going through everything one more time. Schedules, check. Talking points, check. Both are laid out, a copy at each seat at the table, for people to look at. Donuts, bagels, coffee on the long table along the side of the room, check. Poster boards in place at the front of the room, with the one holding the investors at the back, for the financial people to take care of after I’ve made my presentation. Check.

  Everything is in place. Everything is ready. And I’m positive that all of it is good. We’re re
ady to go. I just need some feedback on some of the talking points and the thirty-second pitches I’ve prepared for the press in the Bay Area, and then I think Reid will be ready to jet off to the West Coast. Perfect.

  As soon as he leaves, this will be his problem—and that of whoever gets sent with him to play babysitter for the week. Thank God that won’t be me. I’ve had enough of Build2K to last me a lifetime. And then some.

  “This all looks really great,” Reid says an hour later, rising gracefully from his chair at the head of the table, all long lines and dark hair, two burning pieces of turquoise in his face where his eyes should have been. “There’s just one thing.”

  A chill runs down my arms, and it isn’t because those eyes are looking at me with an intensity that I don’t think is proper for the workplace. No, it’s concern. Because I’ve done a good job on this. Sandra and I have both done a good job—and we’ve thought of everything. We’ve been here until at least ten every night for the last week, getting it all prepared.

  So the idea that there might be “one more thing” really doesn’t sit well with me. Especially when it’s coming from the big boss man, himself.

  “What’s that?” I ask, trying hard to control my frustration.

  He strolls up to me and, to my absolute surprise, takes my hand and starts examining my nails.

  “Honestly, I’m just wondering if I’m the right person to be presenting all this,” he says, his gaze coming up to mine. He gestures to the presentation behind me. “You’ve come up with everything. The press stories. The pitches for the investors and the reporters. Hell, I even think I saw a logo or two, hand sketched, in your office.”

  His cheeks dimple with the joke, though I don’t find this amusing at all. Where does he get off, coming up and making jokes after I’ve worked so hard to keep this presentation efficient and professional?

  “What exactly is your point, Mr. Billington?” I ask. “You think there’s not enough here for you to work with?”

  “Reid,” he says firmly. “And my point is that there’s plenty here for me to work with. But I’m starting to question whether I’m the right person to work with it—or if it would be better for you to be there, too. Guiding me, so to speak.” His gaze flies back down to my hand, which he hasn’t let go of yet, and my gaze follows his as if his eyes are magnets and mine have to follow.

  Which is when I realize that although I thought I washed my hands after this morning’s pre-work painting session, I evidently didn’t do a very good job of it. My cuticles are still covered in pinks and oranges, the leftovers from a quick watercolor rendition of the sunrise, which was absolutely beautiful this morning.

  I almost die of embarrassment right there. But it’s about to get much worse.

  “Of course if you’re going to accompany me on a major press tour, we’ll have to teach you how to wash your hands more effectively,” he murmurs, leaning closer and letting the grin that’s been toying with his dimples move all the way to his mouth.

  Get yourself together, Joey, the voice inside my head says suddenly, and I realize that my mouth is gaping open like a fish’s—and no words are coming out.

  I yank my hand out of his and roll my shoulders, lifting my chin in defiance. “I assure you that I know exactly how to wash my hands, sir,” I say evenly. “I had an impromptu painting session this morning and was in such a rush to get here for this meeting that I must have missed a few spots.”

  Reid’s face stills for a moment, as if I’ve given him information he hadn’t been expecting, and then his eyes begin to sparkle again. He’s just opening his mouth to respond when my direct superior steps in and saves the day.

  “Besides, Josephine is far too valuable here in the office to send her out in the field,” Nancy Rosterman says, striding forward and coming to a stop right next to me. She puts a hand on my arm and begins to pull me away, the move so subtle that I almost don’t notice it at first.

  When I do, I go with her willingly. Reid had been standing close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body, the sexual tension between us tight enough to cut, and my own body’s response was…

  Well, let’s just say I’m glad she pulls me out when she does. I don’t want to become one of his office flirtations, and I certainly don’t want to lose my heart. I have bills to pay. Billington Enterprises is the only way to get that done—and that will never happen if I fall into some stupid office romance.

  With the boss.

  Reid’s eyes snap away from mine and go to Nancy’s. “You don’t think she’d do well in the field?”

  Nancy shrugs as if she hasn’t just saved me from someone who looked like he was about to devour me—and enjoy every second of it.

  “Josephine hasn’t been trained to escort you through a tour like the one we’re about to do,” she says simply. “And she doesn’t have the financial background necessary to give you the support you might need with the investors. It’s better if I go with you myself, Mr. Billington. Less chance of something going wrong.”

  My shoulders tighten a bit at the inference that I don’t have the chops to get through a tour, but I force them to drop back down. Who am I kidding? It’s not like I want to go with him, and Nancy is right about me not having the right training. Or the financial background. Sure, I’d get through it, but I’m not the best choice.

  The fact that something in my body is singing—in both fear and excitement—at the thought of spending that much time alone with Reid Billington has absolutely nothing to do with anything.

  Though I allow myself a small grin as I stride out of the room and head down the hall to my own office.

  Reid didn’t tell Nancy to call him by first name when she called him Mr. Billington. And though it might not have meant anything, a part of me, something deep down in my belly, sort of hopes it did.

  Chapter 4

  Reid

  I watch her go, my hands curling into fists as I try to get a hold of myself.

  Fuck, she’s beautiful, with her enormous brown eyes and the paint that always stains her fingers. Far too beautiful for her own good—and far too beautiful for my mental well-being.

  Her long chestnut hair is up in some sort of fancy twist thing today, but the curls are already escaping, and I can see them trailing down her neck even from here. I’m willing to bet that there will be tendrils at her temples, too, by the end of the day, just begging to be wound around fingers. Hell, who would bother with winding those tendrils around their fingers when you could take the whole mass of it down, run your hands through the silky strands, tangle your…

  No. No, no, no. Josephine Evans works for me, and she is one of the best publicists we’ve had here. Imagination enough to think outside of the box. Intelligence enough to see answers no one else seems to see. I’m not going to ruin that by starting anything with her.

  Besides, I don’t think Josephine is the sort of woman you just start something with. Not unless you’re willing to see it through to the end. And I’m not stupid enough to think I can do that—or make any woman happy enough to stay, if I tried.

  Relationships are, unfortunately, one of the few things I haven’t perfected.

  I force myself to turn around and walk toward my office, though everything in me is screaming to follow her back to hers. The woman has a habit of getting so caught up in whatever she’s thinking that she spends full ten-minute blocks staring out the window, deep in thought and completely unaware of what’s going on around her.

  I know because I’ve stood in her doorway watching her more than once. Wondering what she’s thinking about. Wondering what’s going through her mind as her face moves from scowl to childish, dreamy grin and back.

  Wondering what it takes to make her smile like that, and if anyone has ever been responsible for the dreams I’ve seen chasing each other over her face.

  And then turning away, knowing that it isn’t my place to wonder things like that—and that I’ll never have a chance to find out, regardless. The
woman works for me. And that is all I need to know.

  I drop my bag at the door of my apartment and walk immediately into the neat, tidy kitchen, letting my work persona drop off me like an outfit that needs to be thrown into the laundry. This time of day always comes as a relief to me, because I can stop performing, stop acting like I have it all together. Stop being the boss, for at least an hour.

  My mind is already on the bottle of Scotch one of my associates gifted me last weekend. The bottle is on the counter, where I left it, and a quick journey from the cupboard to the freezer later, I pour a splash of the amber liquid over ice. For a moment, I pause, watching the ice melt at the heat of the drink. Then, I pour another splash. And then a third.

  It isn’t like anyone is going to lecture me about drinking too much Scotch. In my own home. Where I live by myself—and without any real rules.

  Turning, I stare into the large space that I called my home. It’s a gorgeous apartment, I can’t deny that. It was the first thing I bought myself when I could afford it, and I’ve never looked back. I paid the best interior designer in New York to come decorate it, and she did a fabulous job. The place was done in black and white, with touches of gray here and there and even some red, just as I requested.

  Power colors. They seemed so important at the time, back when I was twenty-five and trying desperately to make my way in the world. Trying desperately to get out from under my father’s shadow. I wanted an apartment that would scream “masculinity” and “success” to anyone who entered. And I got it, complete with the view of Central Park and the in-house hot tub—which went against building regulations, but was accepted by the building’s board once I paid to increase the amount of weight my floor could handle.