How to Have Your Boss' Baby

by Layla Valentine

  Suddenly he clears his throat, shakes himself a little bit, and withdraws his hand, pulling rapidly back into himself.

  “In the office, I mean. As a publicist. You’re valuable as a publicist.”

  I stare at him, my mind reeling at the number of things he’s letting slip in response to my complaint. And seeing right through the flimsy blockade he’s trying to put up.

  Reid Billington. Billionaire. Entrepreneur. Businessman.

  And secret romantic.

  Forget trying to get out of here just to go home. I need to get out of here before I drop everything and make a move on the boss.

  Chapter 13

  Reid

  I keep my mouth shut after that and watch her, wondering desperately if she’s going to hear me. Hear what I’m saying—or what I’m trying to hide. I can still see the temper burning in her eyes, the frustration at being asked to take on the extra responsibility on top of everything she’s already doing for the company. I can see the anger boiling right below her skin.

  But I can also see something else. A softening around the corners of her eyes as she takes in what I said. A dulling of the knife she had been ready to slash me with.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her quietly. “I know I ask you to work too much, and I know I expect a lot from you. From everyone who works for me. But that’s what this company has always been about. The teamwork. Everyone pulling together, getting it done. We might be a large company, but right from the start, I designed it to be something we were all fighting for. Something we were all equally committed to.”

  She pauses, as if she’s considering that, and I can see that knife getting duller and duller. The anger fading even more.

  “You’re right,” she finally says. “I’ve never thought about it before, but the way you’ve set things up…”

  “Makes us all part of the same team,” I finish for her, my excitement starting to build. “Yeah, I’m the owner, but look at the way it’s constructed. Your department has all the power it needs, and you work completely independently of everyone else. The other departments are the same. Everyone is equal, everyone has all the power they require to get their jobs done. And that means they’re all working independently, all working for their own reasons—and at their own pace. Sure, we have deadlines, like the launch for Build2K, like this press tour. But I do everything I can to keep my sticky little fingers out of it. To let the talent manage themselves.”

  “Why?” she asks, leaning in. “You’re the head of the joint. Don’t you want to have your sticky fingers on the pulse all the time?”

  A pause on my part, because the question she’s asking is a lot bigger than she realizes. And it goes right to the bottom of my soul.

  But it feels far too early in our… well, whatever this is… for me to be busting out with old family wounds and the loss of an entire childhood to parents who cared more about work than for their own family. The need for the feel of a clan—even if they’re only my employees.

  “I never want to be the person who needs to be involved in everything,” I reply instead, skimming over the surface and giving her a bleached and sanitized version of the truth. “I hire the best people I can find. I give them the training they need to stretch their wings and grow. And then I set them free and count on them to use their own talents to do the best job they can. I’ve found that doing so allows them to buy into the company, to take a pride in their work that they might not have had if I was breathing down their neck all the time.” I give her a shrug that I know is both self-deprecating and charming at the same time.

  I’ve used that shrug before. I know how it affects people. But I’m hoping she’ll see it for what it is: an admission of both pride in my version of management and the knowledge that there are people out there who are more talented than I am.

  “I hire people who are at the top of their game,” I say. “I’d be an idiot to get in their way and try to tell them how to play that game. I’d rather have them be my partners in crime.”

  She gives me half a smile, and though it only takes up one side of her mouth I can see it reaching right into her eyes, turning the brown into a beautiful, melting milk chocolate, full of rich promise.

  “Partners in crime, huh? That’s an interesting way to characterize your employees.”

  I lean forward, incapable of stopping myself. I so rarely get to discuss this sort of thing with anyone, and the fact that she’s opened this door is more exciting than I care to examine. My body has been yearning for her for weeks, but this conversation is bringing up something entirely new. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, my mind is moving in step with my body, finding fertile ground for real, true conversation.

  It’s refreshing and beautiful and intoxicating. And incredibly scary at the same time. Because it’s coming with the realization that I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like her.

  Which is followed closely by a stabbing fear at the thought of needing to let go of her.

  But I put that to the side. I’m not even sure where it came from, and it’s certainly not going to serve me well right now.

  “Your drinks, sir, madam,” the waiter says, appearing at our side with a tray that holds two tumblers full of liquid.

  I jump, having completely forgotten that there was anyone in the world other than the two of us, and quickly move backward in my seat, tearing my gaze from Josephine’s molten eyes and looking at the waiter.

  “Perfect, thank you,” I say, putting my professional mask back on.

  “Scotch, neat,” he says, putting one tumbler of amber liquid in front of me. “And a whiskey sour,” he continues, giving Josephine her glass.

  She smiles up at him, putting her charm on full display, and something in me tugs. Something unpleasant.

  Something that doesn’t want her smiling like that at anyone else when she hasn’t yet started smiling at me that way.

  “Whiskey sour?” I ask, trying to get her attention back on me—and intrigued by the drink itself. For some reason, I would have expected her to order something… I don’t know, more colorful.

  She takes a sip, closing her eyes in what looks like complete bliss, and then gives me a wry grin.

  “It’s going to be a long day, and I wanted something to give me a boost,” she says simply. Then she tips her head back and forth, conceding that she had ulterior motives. “And I might have wanted the liquid courage, too. I was angry when we ordered drinks. I didn’t think you’d be so… accepting of my criticisms. Figured I’d need a drink that gave me the motivation I needed to keep talking.”

  I bark out a laugh. I can’t help it. The idea that she would talk back to me is refreshing in and of itself—and the idea that she’d do it even when she thought it was going to land her in trouble, doubly so.

  I definitely didn’t know her very well before. And I’m starting to feel like my life has been less for that void.

  “Listen, Ms. Evans,” I say, reaching out to lay my hand over hers again. Yes, it’s overly friendly. Yes, it could make trouble for me.

  But I did it before, and I noticed that she didn’t stop me. And right now, though her hand twitches in surprise beneath mine, she doesn’t move. Just widens her eyes and purses her lips a bit.

  “I’ve been handing you more work because you’re incredibly talented, and I know you can handle it,” I continue, doing my best to ignore her scent. Whiskey and coffee. And that lighter note—the hotel’s soap. “I’ve actually been planning a promotion for you. I was going to surprise you with it when we got home, but… Well, it seems like you’ve forced me into showing my hand. So… what do you think?”

  I release her hand and sit back, giving her the room to digest this news and think up her response. I don’t want to pressure her.

  But I don’t know what I’ll do if she says no. I’m not lying about the promotion. Nancy is planning to step down within a matter of months, and we’ve been talking about this for some time. That doesn’t mean Josephine is going to be on board, th
ough.

  The woman in question is chewing on her bottom lip right now, and my stomach starts to sink. That’s not the expression I was expecting to see. Something tells me I’m not going to like what’s coming.

  Finally, she says, “The truth is, I’ve actually been thinking about quitting.”

  I stop breathing for a second, unable to believe what I’m hearing. I can understand her being upset—even stressed. But quitting?

  And right then, for the first time in what might be my entire life, words completely fail me.

  “Oh,” I say, unable to come up with anything even slightly graceful or convincing. A moment later, though, my words come rushing back—and flow out of my mouth in some sort of word vomit that’s also an entirely new experience for me. “Well, I hope you won’t do it, Ms. Evans, because I have to say I’d be heartbroken to lose you. In fact, I can’t think of anything worse. The company depends on you. I depend on you. If you want to change departments I can certainly consider that. I’m sure I can find a way to make work more pleasant for you, to make sure you stay satisfied in the job. I—”

  And then it’s her putting her hand on mine. “Calm down,” she says with a laugh that brings a flush to her cheeks. “I didn’t say I was quitting. Just that I’ve been thinking about it. With all the work, I haven’t been able to focus much on my art, and that’s where my heart truly lies. It’s just…”

  “That’s what you want to do with your life,” I say, understanding dawning. That certainly explains the paint she’s always wearing under her fingernails. She is an artist. “So why are you working at Billington?”

  She gives me a quick shrug and a bashful smile. “I have to make a living, right?” Then she puts her hand up in a “stop” motion, her flush deepening. “Not that it’s not a great company. That’s not what I meant. You’re not like a last resort or anything like that. But with student loans and the cost of living…”

  “You have to have a corporate job to keep living in the real world,” I finish for her, nodding. “Don’t worry. I’ll try not to take the fact that my company is killing your dreams personally.”

  She shakes her head frantically. “That’s not it at all! I love the job. I love everything I’ve learned, and I like…” She gives me a glance from under her lashes, and stops herself suddenly.

  And just like that, all the blood in my body rushes right to my crotch. That look, those intense eyes under those long lashes, the curls escaping from her updo to cascade over her forehead…

  I yank my attention back to the real world. She’s finally opening up to me. This is no time for dreams.

  “But you’d rather paint for a living, if you could?”

  She takes a deep breath. “My parents raised me to follow my dreams. So I felt like I could fall in love with whatever I wanted, and that was artwork. Not just painting. Sketching, charcoals, pastels, you name it. Well, not sculpting. That clay—”

  “Gets under your nails and won’t get back out,” I say, nodding. “I hate the stuff. Also, it smells weird.”

  She laughs outright at that, loud and joyous, her head thrown back in the most expression I’ve seen from her. “That’s exactly right, how did you know?”

  “I decided to try it, once,” I tell her, grinning back. “I thought I would find it soothing. Like meditation that you did with your hands. But I found it distasteful. The feeling of the clay actually made me want to throw up.”

  She nods enthusiastically. “That’s exactly what I hated about it! And that smell!”

  “That smell,” I agree quickly. “So, you decided against sculpting.”

  “I did,” she says, nodding again. “I decided that the paints had my heart when it came down to it. The color, the depth, the texture…”

  “The emotion,” I add, seeing that painted—if you’ll forgive the pun—all over her face.

  “Exactly. The emotion. So I went to college and declared myself an artist, and spent… well, half of my time painting. And the other half letting my best friend drag me to communications and psychology classes. In the end, I graduated with a double major—Studio Arts, along with Communications. I went to grad school to continue with my art, and that just ran up the loans I had to take. Which is how I ended up using that communications degree. And here I am.” She finishes with a wry shrug.

  “How much do you owe?” I ask, throwing caution to the wind. Two days ago I would never have dared to ask. Now, it feels like a natural jump. It feels like she’ll answer.

  “Over a hundred thousand,” she says immediately, no hesitation in her voice. “More than I’ll ever make selling paintings. At least until I’ve made a name for myself.”

  Over a hundred thousand dollars. I pause on that for a moment. It’s true that I have that many, many times over. I could cover those loans out of my main checking account without even touching my savings. But that doesn’t make it an easy, breezy number.

  For someone like her, it must be absolutely terrifying.

  “And your parents encouraged this?” I ask. “They thought it was okay for you to keep taking out loans and pursuing art degrees?”

  She raises one eyebrow. “Are you questioning their parenting skills?” But she puts up a hand before I can answer her. “My parents encouraged me to dream. They wanted to see me follow those dreams, make whatever I wanted out of my life. They believe in love and freedom and making yourself into your ideal traveler in this journey called life.”

  “They believe in sunshine and rainbows,” I say, recalling something I said to her in the New York office. “No wonder you’re so prone to daydreaming.”

  “Well I make a concerted effort to save most of my daydreaming for when I’m on my own time,” she says firmly. “What you see at the office? That’s just a piece of it.”

  And even if I’m only seeing a piece, I find myself jealous of her. Jealous of that ability to dream. Jealous of those parents that encouraged it. It’s so different from the way I was brought up. I can just imagine her childhood, full of designs painted on the walls of her bedrooms and art classes and family dinners. Parents who listened to what she wanted. Parents who cared.

  “And have you ever wanted to pass that torch?” I ask, following that thread to its next step. “Ever wanted to have children of your own, so you can encourage them to travel through this journey called life? Your own little astronauts and dreamers?”

  She laughs, but she shakes her head. “I don’t even know how to travel through life on my own. I’m definitely not equipped to teach anyone else how to do it.”

  “So you’ve never thought about having kids?”

  Breathing out a sigh, she sits back in her chair, the magic of the moment fleeing. “Not seriously. I’ve just never thought it was in the cards for me, you know? And I don’t think that’s the worst thing. What about you?”

  I decide to tell her the truth. Or at least a part of it.

  “I want kids,” I say. “I always have. But the company takes up so much of my life, it’s like…”

  “It’s like Billington is your baby,” she finishes, her eyes filled with understanding. “I get that.”

  And, honestly, I believe that she does.

  I reach down and take her hand in mine. “Have dinner with me tonight,” I say, my voice suddenly breathy. “Not for business, not for brainstorming. But just because.”

  A pause, and I hold my breath, terrified that she’s going to turn me down.

  “I would love to,” she answers, surprising me—and, given the widening of her eyes, surprising herself.

  I don’t answer. I just grin like a fool, my emotions bubbling over at the thought of taking this woman to dinner. For the first time, I have feelings for someone else that are over ruling every rational thought in my body. I have feelings that are stemming from so deep in my stomach that I can barely feel anything else.

  And it’s wonderful. More wonderful than anything I could have imagined.

  Chapter 14

  Joey


  I stare at myself in the mirror in my bedroom, my mouth dry.

  “What on earth were you thinking?” I ask the reflection looking back at me, my tongue stumbling on the dryness around it. “What do you think is going to happen here?” A pause, a deep sigh, and then, “What do you want to happen?”

  And therein lies the question, doesn’t it? Because I’m of two completely different minds, there. On one hand, another meal will give us time to continue to brainstorm and throw around ideas for the remainder of the tour—about stories we can pitch to the press, companies we want to stop in at, and even how we want to fill the free fifteen- to twenty-minute intervals in between. When you’re on a business trip, there are always business matters to be taken care of. Always things to be discussed, things to be handled. And a dinner will give us more time to sort all of that stuff out.

  On the other hand, we were also supposed to be sorting that stuff out during lunch. And we didn’t even discuss it. Instead, we fell into a surprisingly natural conversation about how Reid ran the company, my love of art, and even family. Nothing could have surprised me more, but it was so easy, so natural, like catching up with an old friend.

  It had gone a lot deeper than that, though. The random touches, the laughter, the sharing of deeper secrets…

  Anyone watching us would have been completely justified to assume that we were on a date. Sure, probably a date that was early in the relationship, given the shy touches and the subject matter. Our conversation would have made it obvious that we didn’t know each other well, that we were just starting to figure each other out.

  But the conversation would also have indicated that we were each fascinated with the other—and that we were intent on learning everything we could.

  No matter how much I tell myself we’re just getting together to continue discussing business, that second point about lunch is way too bright to just ignore. It’s too true to put to the side. And something in my heart tells me that that’s why he asked me to dinner—and why I agreed.