How to Have Your Boss' Baby

by Layla Valentine

But that isn’t all. A glance at the letter tells me that they’ve also been complaining about me being up all night, banging around.

  I huff. “I thought this was the city that never slept!” I mutter, throwing the letter down on the counter of my kitchen.

  Well, this is a pickle. According to the letter, I have a month to remedy the situation or the manager is going to ask that I leave. I’m certainly not going to stop painting—or even get rid of the paints—so that leaves me with few choices.

  The truth is, leaving would be a dream come true. There’s nothing I want more than to move to a small hamlet somewhere, where I can buy a cottage and put together a studio of my own. Create my art and live life on my terms, rather than hustling to keep up with this city and all its expectations. I don’t want to be stuffed into a tiny apartment with bad lighting where my neighbors complain about the smell of the paints coming from my apartment.

  But moving can’t happen. Not yet, at least. I have student loans so big that I try not to think about them, and the cost of living in the city makes it impossible to save any money. What’s more, I have a life most people would kill for. I have a killer spot in the city and a terrific job. Sure, it doesn’t pay me as much as I would have liked, but I’m working for one of the biggest companies in the world. The future is wide open.

  And I’m being sent out to manage the press tour of my boss, who was voted sexiest young billionaire by People last year.

  “Well, at least that’ll mean I’m not here keeping anyone awake by working at night,” I grumble.

  I walk into the kitchen and open the refrigerator, ready for the glass of wine I missed out on when Lana texted. Figuring out what I’m going to do about my living situation can wait until tomorrow.

  Chapter 7

  Joey

  Three days later, I find myself on Reid Billington’s private plane. Destination: San Francisco International Airport. The San Francisco press tour, courtesy of Build2K and Billington Enterprises.

  Occupants of the plane: Reid Billington and me. As well as a couple well-dressed flight attendants and, I assume, two pilots at the front of the jet. Maybe one. I don’t really know how many pilots a jet this size takes. I’ve never been in anything quite like this.

  I have, though, come equipped with plenty of work, and I mean to get it done on this flight. I’ve only had three days to prepare for this trip, and they haven’t been nearly enough.

  I mean yeah, I’m ready. Just not as ready as I want to be. Which explains the jam-packed briefcase I have at my feet and the laptop I’ve stowed on the table next to me. There are things I need to do—lots of them—and I mean for those work issues to be the only thing I pay attention to on this plane.

  But it’s going to be difficult, because this jet is seemingly designed for one thing only: pure entertainment.

  A large flat-screen TV covers the front wall of the cabin, the door to the cockpit having been moved to the side to make room for it. A row of beanbags sits in front of that TV—though whether they’re secured or not, I don’t know. Perhaps they’re only there when the plane’s either on the ground or at cruising altitude, and get packed away during takeoff and landing. That seems wasteful and time-consuming, but who am I to really make that sort of judgement?

  The rest of the cabin holds the standard seats for flyers, but those seats are set on their own, rather than in rows, so people can sit by themselves. Some of the seats have others facing them—like in a train—but for the most part, they seem to be set up with individual flying in mind.

  I can’t help but notice that there are two love seats, as well. And that those don’t have seat belts at all. And I noticed when I boarded that there was a full bedroom in the back, complete with a bed and dresser.

  No, I didn’t go back there to check it out before Reid showed up. Certainly not. I saw it through the open door, that’s all.

  Reid himself comes strolling onto the plane right before our ten o’clock departure time, as if he has all the time in the world.

  “Cutting it a little close, aren’t you?” I ask, glancing pointedly at my watch and then getting back to work on my laptop.

  “I had some loose ends to tie up before I left,” he says.

  At this I look up at him, already thinking that my job as herder of the boss is going to be more difficult than I anticipated. I’ve never worked closely enough with Reid to know whether he runs late as a rule. If he does, he needs to know that it isn’t going to fly on this trip.

  “What could possibly have been more important than getting to your plane on time, so we could leave on your press tour?” I ask, putting the emphasis on the fact that this tour is all about him.

  He gives me a slow, confident grin—but it’s followed but a self-deprecating shrug. “I told the Boys and Girls Club that I’d drop off their new ping-pong tables in person. And it took longer than I thought it would. Something about the space not being ready yet.” He shoots me a look over his sunglasses, eyes flashing at me. “Am I in trouble already?”

  I lift one brow, forcing myself to play the role—though part of me is dying to laugh at the look on his face. “The last time I checked, planes had specific schedules for taking off. Like, all planes. Everyone flying out of a specific airport has to do so at a specific time. I don’t think air traffic control smiles on them running late. Tends to mess with worldwide schedules.”

  He shrugs at that. “Which is exactly why I made it a point to not actually be late. Shall we?”

  And with that he drops into his seat and buckles his seat belt, calling for one of the flight attendants to bring us both coffee—and to make mine strong and bring some mocha syrup in a smaller container.

  I go back to work, carefully not paying attention to the fact that Reid was late because he was making a delivery to the Boys and Girls Club—or that he evidently knows how I take my coffee in the morning. Which means he’s been doing his research.

  Chapter 8

  Reid

  I eye her over the top of my mug, wondering how long she’s going to pretend to be working. Because it’s absolutely obvious to me—though I’m sure she’s trying to hide it—that no work is getting done. Her face is turned toward the laptop, and occasionally she reaches out to flip a sheet over on the table next to her, but I can see that there’s no typing going on.

  And I don’t miss her eyes flicking toward the window once a minute or so. Or the way they sometimes slide toward me, then shy away when she realizes I’m looking at her.

  No, she definitely isn’t working. And I have to admit that my skin is itching, my tongue yearning with the need to start talking to her. The wish to get to know more about her. The wish to get to know something real about her.

  Sure, she’s my employee. And yeah I’ve known… well, I’ve known of her for several years, ever since she started moving up in the publicity department and our paths started to cross. I saw her first as a junior, one of the assistants to one of the assistants. Fresh-faced and new, though it was obvious even then that she’d done something between college and coming to work in my building. In all honesty, I’ve been intrigued by her right from the start. Right from the first time I saw those chocolate eyes flashing in indignation at something I said.

  Even back when she was an assistant to an assistant and didn’t actually have the stature to do anything about it.

  But that doesn’t mean I know anything about her. Not in terms of things that matter. And though I realize that it probably isn’t a good idea—is probably a very bad idea, as a matter of fact—I’m finding that it’s all I can think about. What makes this woman tick? What makes her so intent at work, so businesslike, when she’s obviously an artist in her real life?

  How and why did she start working for me, in a position that required more professionalism than art, when she seems to have been built for something else entirely?

  The fact that she’s a kick to tease doesn’t exactly encourage me to leave her alone.

  No, I’m not look
ing for anything with anyone. I know I’m not set up for that—and I suspect I’d fail miserably in the boyfriend role. But as long as we’re the only two people on this flight…

  “Are you going to pretend to work the entire time?” I ask without leading into it.

  Her eyes shoot up, dark and flashing. “Pretend?” she asks sharply. “Who says I’m pretending?”

  “You’re spending more time looking out the window and pretending not to look at me than you are looking at that laptop. Something on your mind? Or are you already bored with office work?”

  Her mouth twitches in something that could turn into a smile, and something inside me relaxes. My instincts were right, then. She does want to talk. I just have to find a way to set it up.

  “For your information,” she says sternly, “I’ve got a lot of work to do. Because you know that whole press tour we’re flying toward right now? It’s not exactly going to run itself.”

  It isn’t my first time on a press tour. I already know the rules. And I know she isn’t telling me the entire truth. I have good people—very good people. They would have been preparing for this for weeks. Months, even. There might be a few details left to wrap up, but I don’t buy the whole ‘I have last-minute work and if I don’t get it done the entire world might end’ act.

  I lean forward, put my elbows on my knees, and rest my chin on one fist, doing my best to look serious.

  “And what exactly is this serious work you’re doing so seriously? What is it that can’t wait—or isn’t done yet?”

  She glances down at her laptop, her face transforming from stern schoolteacher to panicked intern. “I… I…” she stutters. Within a moment, though, she’s regained her composure and is looking at me with narrowed eyes.

  Narrowed, molten-hot-chocolate eyes. Eyes that are shooting sparks right at me.

  “I have to get the pitches ready for the reporters, to start with,” she says.

  I make a show of tipping my head and considering that. “Hmm… No, I don’t believe you,” I finally decide. “I’ve seen the pitches. We had a meeting about them the other day, remember? And they were perfect. Next?”

  She opens her mouth for a moment, closes it again, and then presses her lips together. “Also, the graphics. They’re not done yet.”

  This one I dismiss immediately with a flip of my hand. “Nonsense. I saw you sketching them by hand. I doubt they’re anything but perfect.”

  A long-suffering sigh, and then: “The information for the investors—”

  “Isn’t your problem, it’s mine.”

  “But the flyers we’re going to—”

  “Are already printed and in my briefcase in the back of the plane,” I say, cutting her off again.

  “But the—”

  This woman just doesn’t quit.

  “Josephine,” I interrupt. “Do you ever stop working?”

  That, at least, gets me a long, heavy pause.

  “Never when I’m on your time, sir,” she finally tells me.

  There’s a lot behind that statement, given her tone of voice, but that’s a problem for another day. In the meantime…

  I get up and stroll toward the front of the plane, where I open the cabinet underneath the TV. Inside is every sort of electronic device anyone could ever want—including gaming consoles, controllers, and drawer after drawer of potential games. I look around for a moment, a finger to my lips, and then choose my favorite game, which features a number of ridiculous characters racing down a set of ridiculous cartoon tracks against each other.

  Yes, it’s childish. So sue me. I never really had a childhood, and I’m going to make up for it now, no matter what anyone else thinks. If that means getting to play the most juvenile video games I can find when I’m on my own time, then that’s what it means.

  God knows I’ve worked hard enough to get here. I’m going to enjoy it. At least a little bit.

  I pop the game into the console—Wi-Fi up here sucks, even with the best tech money can buy, so it’s easier to use hard copies for this sort of thing—grab a controller, and turn back to her with a questioning look on my face.

  “Care for a race?”

  She’s tempted. I can see it on her face. A straining toward the TV that tells me that she’s played this game before, and that the kid in her is champing at the bit to play it again.

  But then she pulls herself back and tips her head to the side.

  “Unfortunately, some of us have to work.”

  Right.

  “And what if I told you that I need you to play it with me because I don’t like playing by myself? What if I tell you I almost never have people on this plane with me, and that if I do, they very rarely want to do anything other than talk business? What if I required it, as your boss?” I let my voice stay light on that last line, though the idea of requiring anything of her—of being allowed to tell her exactly what to do, and how to do it—immediately brings my blood to a boiling point.

  Good God, I’m ready to jump this woman and she hasn’t even shown the slightest interest in me. Get yourself together, man, I tell myself. You’re her boss. Her employer, for God’s sake.

  And I am absolutely, completely not looking for a relationship with anyone. I tried it once. It didn’t go well—but it did show me very clearly that I’m not equipped to walk that road.

  I have to keep my hands to myself here. Have to.

  The universe must be paying attention to that intent, because Josephine tips her head again, then shakes it.

  “Unfortunately, I really have to get this work done. You have fun, though.”

  Have fun. Right.

  Chapter 9

  Joey

  I watch him playing. Come on, how was I going to help it, really? One of the youngest billionaires in the world, and he’s sitting there on the floor in a bright red beanbag chair, on his private jet, and playing one of the most juvenile racing games around.

  Cartoon characters racing each other on a cartoon track with weapons like banana peels and perfectly round, perfectly black bombs. I mean really. It’s the last thing I expected him to do.

  And that goes right to the point of it, doesn’t it? that snarky, always correct, and completely condescending voice in my head says.

  I hate that voice. That doesn’t make it wrong, though.

  Because I am definitely starting to realize that there are a lot of things about Reid Billington that I haven’t seen before. The fact that he made a trip to the Boys and Girls Club himself, to make a delivery. The fact that he noticed the paint on my hands during a meeting where he should have been focusing on business pitches.

  Bad Joey! I lecture myself. He’s my boss, for the love of chocolate cake! The man who signs my paychecks! Well, not really; I’m pretty sure that’s a rubber stamp. But the point is the same.

  Yeah, Reid might be a surprise. Yeah, he might be a whole lot more childlike and fun-loving in his private life than I’ve given him credit for. He might actually have a heart made out of twenty-four-carat gold.

  That doesn’t mean I have any place thinking of him as anything more than my boss. He’s probably paid for that gold heart out of his trust fund. Probably isn’t even real.

  And while I’m making lists, I also don’t care that he’s playing one of my favorite games of all time—the one Lana and I used to stay up playing until the wee hours, even when we had a big exam the next day. And I definitely don’t care that he’s making the same mistake in every race. One that would make him easy to beat. One that would…

  I get up from my chair and stroll casually toward the front of the plane, coming to a stop right behind him.

  “You know, there’s an easier way to avoid those banana peels.”

  I’m not looking at him, but I can hear the grin in his voice when he answers.

  “Is there? They’ve always been the bane of my existence. If you could teach me how to get around them, you might just become my new favorite person.”

  I let a smile touch my
lips, grab a controller from the cabinet under the TV, and drop into the beanbag next to him.

  “Mr. Billington, prepare to have your ass handed to you,” I say.

  He mumbles something under his breath—something I don’t quite catch—and I turn to him.

  “What was that?”

  He gives me a crooked grin, putting those dimples on full blast. “I said that I look forward to it, Miss Evans.”

  At least one hundred and one games later, we’re interrupted in our competition by one of the flight attendants showing up suddenly at Reid’s side.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Billington?” she says. “We’re about forty-five minutes out, sir. We’re going to need you two to get into your regular seats and get buckled up before we start our descent.”

  I stare at her, shocked, and then glance at my watch. If we’re nearly there, that means we’ve been playing this game for…

  “We’ve been playing for six hours?” I ask, aghast.

  How had that happened? One minute I was telling Reid that I was going to hand him his ass, and then we were flying through the game, both literally and figuratively, laughing and shouting and generally causing so much noise that I can’t really believe we weren’t lectured by the flight crew. We filled in the gaps while we waited for the game to load again with random conversation—things we wanted to see in San Francisco, how we were going to make the most of the two days we had there, the hotel we were staying in. Casual conversation, as if the game itself had taken down the walls that usually exist between us.

  It was like… playing a game with a friend, the time flying by just as quickly as it used to when Lana and I would play the game, stuffed into the tiniest of dorm rooms and using a TV that was barely bigger than my two hands put together.

  And now that it’s over—or nearly over—I feel sad that it’s ending.

  I look up, knowing that thought is showing in my eyes, and find Reid looking at me. And to my surprise, his eyes are saying the exact same thing. We’ve both been having such a good time that we forgot to be boss and publicist. We forgot to be professional.