Shopping for a CEO's Baby (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 16)

by Julia Kent

  You can't be much late, she texts back. Myers is picky about that.

  Amanda's having a medical problem.

  The sound of the faucet turning on tells me Amanda's trying. Go, girl, go. You can do it.

  None of those baby books I pretended to read (but had Gina summarize for me) mentioned being stuck in an obstetrician’s bathroom with your wife using essential oils to try to pee.

  Not a damn one.

  Is she okay? Are the babies okay?

  They're fine. She's fine. It's... personal.

  Did she pee her pants? It happens. I can send a new set of clothes, Gina replies.

  Why would you think that?

  “IT'S NOT WORKING!” Amanda wails.

  Because my last boss had a pregnant wife and her body was like Old Faithful. Poor woman.

  Do you know a lot about pregnancy, Gina? I ask, wondering if she can get me out of this.

  What's Amanda's problem?

  The sink turns off. Amanda huffs. “Now I'm nauseated by the peppermint and my bladder feels like it's so big it's massaging my sinuses, and... HELP me!”

  Tap tap tap

  “Did the peppermint oil help?” asks a woman through the door.

  “No,” I say on Amanda's behalf. I have to. She's currently sobbing so hard she can't speak.

  “Honey,” the woman says softly. “We can catheterize you if we need to.”

  Amanda's face flies up from being buried in her hands, eyes wide. “Catheterize!” she gasps.

  What does catheterize mean? I quickly text Gina.

  Tube shoved in your bladder to drain it.

  Through your abdomen? I ask.

  She follows up with a texted image.

  “OH GOD NO!” I bellow, nearly dropping my phone.

  “Right?” Amanda says, my comment taken as a form of support. “I don't want that!”

  “How can we get you to pee?” I ask her.

  Bzzzz

  Gina says, She needs to do something pleasurable. Something she likes more than anything in the world.

  I type the words, Like sex? But before I can press Send, Gina writes back:

  And not sex.

  Damn.

  You need to send me a Cheeto-cini from Grind It Fresh! I text back, smacking my forehead. What the hell am I doing talking about this with my assistant?

  She should be fixing it for me.

  I can't.

  Gina's two-word reply dissolves into a red wall of disbelief.

  You what?

  I can't, Andrew. I'm occupied.

  If you can text me, you can order a Cheeto-cini to be delivered to me.

  You'll have to do it. I'm voice texting. Can't use my hands.

  “What are you doing?” Amanda gasps, still crying.

  “Trying to fix this for you.”

  That just makes her cry harder. Amanda's the fixer.

  Gina, I'm your boss. This is an order, I type, knowing I've lost the frame the second I hit Send.

  Gina's reply is a single photo. It appears to be someone between another person's legs, the only thing I can see knees on a table and a masked person's face between them.

  I can't, Gina replies again.

  What the hell is that?

  I'm getting a lunchtime wax, she replies.

  A what?

  A Brazilian.

  “What the hell is a Brazilian?” I shout, which makes Amanda stop crying, face scrunching in confusion.

  “Who's getting a Brazilian right now?” she asks.

  “Gina.”

  My wife goes red faced, big eyes popping out, brow rising. “Why would she share that intimate detail with you?”

  “She's telling me she can't work right now.”

  “It would be pretty hard to work when someone's slathering hot wax all over your nether regions so they can – ”

  Oh. That kind of Brazilian.

  Never mind, I type back quickly, deleting the photo.

  Good, Gina responds. Because the next photo was going to make it so we never make eye contact again, Andrew.

  What does that mean? I start to type.

  Because I really, really don't want to know.

  I backspace, trying to think, the moment too much.

  And then I remember.

  I'm a Fortune 500 CEO. My superpower is focus.

  So I close my eyes. I take a deep breath. I go inward. I find the solution.

  And I hug my wife.

  “I am going to fix this for you. Give me ten minutes.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Of course. But what are you doing, Andrew?”

  Before she can finish, I run out of the room and find the stairs. Down, down, down I thump, moving lightly but fast. I've been on the board of directors of this hospital for a long time and I know the layout pretty well.

  This practice is in the wing where Amanda and I went to a birthing class, in fact. Back when she still did mystery shops.

  I navigate to the cafeteria, finding my first bounty.

  Snack-sized Cheetos.

  I grab the orange bag and scan the room, spotting the ice cream section, hoping for a smoothie bar.

  Score!

  A simple orange-vanilla smoothie rests in a cooler as if it's been custom-made for my purposes, victory so close. It even has a spoon taped to the side.

  I toss a ten-dollar bill at the cashier and sprint out, clutching my purchases, taking the stairs again. I suddenly appreciate my time with Vince all the more.

  When I return, I barrel into the one-person bathroom, Cheetos and smoothie in one hand, the other on the doorknob. I take one step in and the shrieking begins.

  “OH MY GOD, GET OUT, GET OUT!” she shouts, the piercing sound turning my eardrums to bleeding shreds.

  “Amanda, why are you – ”

  I do a double-take.

  That woman who's shrieking?

  That's not my wife.

  “I am SO sorry,” I shout just as a hand–a strong, angry one–grabs the back of my collar and pulls.

  Hard.

  “Andrew?” the woman squeaks as the door slams shut, yanked by the same beast who has me lifted up off the ground a good inch, which is damn hard, given that I'm well over six feet tall.

  How did she know my name?

  And who the hell is this?

  He twists me, tossing me against the wall as a crowd of white coats and green scrubs turns my peripheral vision to a blur.

  But I'm clinging to the Cheetos and the smoothie, no matter what. I may have to turn them into a weapon.

  A fist is pulled back, cocked by a bulging arm driven by protective instinct, and it takes my eyes a split second longer than it should to see the threat.

  And the face attached to it.

  “Gerald?”

  Rage turned him into a red marble statue, but then his mind comprehends who I am and his arm lowers, slowly.

  “Andrew? Why the hell are you crashing my wife in the bathroom?”

  “Suzanne?”

  “Hey, Andrew,” says a muffled voice from the other side of the door, followed by the sound of a flush.

  “What's going on out there?” Amanda calls out, her voice muted, too.

  “Excuse me,” says Dr. Rohrlian with more authority than I expect, her presence sudden and fierce. “This kind of violence is absolutely unacceptable in our office. You two need to stop immediately.”

  Gerald releases my shirt.

  And rolls his eyes at me, looking at the Cheetos and the smoothie cup, which is now sweating.

  But not as much as I am.

  “It's a misunderstanding,” I explain to her. “I thought that was my wife's bathroom.”

  “We're good,” Gerald says to her. “I didn't know what was happening. We know each other.” He glares at me, contempt no man should ever reveal to his former boss pouring off his scarred face like a nuclear reactor melting down. “Not that you're allowed to barge in on my pregnant wife
when she's in the bathroom.”

  “It was an accident!”

  Just then, Suzanne walks out, looks at the food in my hand, and says, “Amanda needs an emergency smoothie?”

  “Andrew?” Amanda calls out.

  “Go help your wife,” Gerald grinds out.

  “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “Oh, you'll pay.”

  This time, I take great care entering, relieved to find Amanda–and no one else–in the bathroom two doors down. Without a word, I take the bag of Cheetos, place them on the top of the toilet tank, and take all my frustration out on them.

  “What are you doing?”

  Bang bang bang

  “Turning this into dust for your smoothie.”

  “My what?”

  Ignoring her, I open the bag. I pour the dust in, untape the spoon from the side of the cup, and stir.

  Then I hold my masterpiece before her in triumph.

  “A Cheeto smoothie. This will help you relax enough to pee.”

  She looks down.

  And gags.

  “What's wrong?” A cold flush turns my skin to iron.

  “It's chunky.”

  “It's what?”

  “If I take a bite of that, I'll throw up.”

  “But–but I pulverized it for you!”

  “It needs to be blended.”

  “BLENDED?”

  And... she starts to cry again, clutching her belly, making me feel more insanely pissed than I have ever felt in my entire life.

  Because I can't give her what she needs.

  I grab the cup, open the door, and move quickly to the same medical assistant who checked us in.

  “Excuse me, Lisa,” I say, looking at her badge. “Is there a blender somewhere here? In the break room, maybe?”

  “Blender? Like, a kitchen appliance?”

  “Yes.”

  She looks at me, then the smoothie. “You're unhappy with your... shake?”

  “My pregnant wife is duct-taped to the toilet after an ultrasound, her bladder more distended than a beached whale, and I'm trying to find a way to get her to relax enough to pee.” I hold the smoothie aloft. “This is my one chance.”

  “Pregnancy craving?” she asks, standing.

  “Something like that.”

  “Margie has a Vitamix in the cabinet, for some protein-shake diet she's on. Come with me.” She takes me down the hall to a beige door marked Employees Only. Inside is a wall of cabinets, also beige.

  Lisa starts opening doors, hitting pay dirt on the third try. She pulls the monster out and plugs it in. I dump the smoothie in, clapping the top on, then I–

  “Careful. These things don't just blend. They heat. You could end up with smoothie soup if you do it for too long.”

  It's hard to hear above the machine, getting louder as I turn the dial all the way up to Liquify.

  “THANKS!” I yell.

  The mixture turns a perfect, day-glo orange.

  “What is that, anyway?”

  “Orange-vanilla smoothie with a bag of Cheetos in it.”

  She lets out a low whistle just as I turn the machine off. “That's one I've never heard before.”

  “She's pregnant with twins and her bladder is turning it into triplets. I'll do whatever it takes.”

  “Good man. Go!” she says, slapping my shoulder like we're in a relay race. “I'll clean this out for you.”

  “Thank you!”

  I race back to Amanda. The sink is running. Poor honey. Must be trying again. I tap, then open the door.

  She's standing at the sink, washing her hands.

  She looks up and grins. Then her eyes drift to the smoothie in my hand.

  “I peed!” she exclaims.

  “You did? How?”

  “Marie.”

  “Marie?”

  “I texted Shannon, who texted Marie, and Marie did this guided meditation thing she learned for teaching yoga. I imagined my Kegels were dissolving into breast milk that feeds the babies and suddenly, I peed.”

  “That’s what made you pee?”

  “Mm hmm.” Her stomach growls. “Man, I'm hungry.” She takes the drink out of my hand, eyes it, then sips.

  And winces.

  “That is disgusting, Andrew.” Before I can stop her, she tosses it in a perfect arc into the trash can, scoring three points.

  “I–”

  “Don't you have a work call?” She kisses my cheek. “I understand if you need to rush off.” Her own phone buzzes.

  I stare at her.

  It is going to be a long twenty weeks.

  7

  Amanda

  My two p.m. appointment fills me with a deep sense of amusement.

  And dread.

  Mostly dread.

  Because do you know which two names are written in that time slot?

  Agnes DuChamp and Corrine Morris.

  That's right. Those two.

  The pinchers.

  Regulars at my best friend's mother's yoga classes, older-than-dirt Agnes DuChamp and Corrine Morris like to pinch the asses of hot young men they meet. Hot men like my husband and his brother, who now refuse to attend Marie's yoga classes on the grounds that they bruise easily.

  But also because they have actual boundaries.

  Why, you may wonder, are The Pinchers meeting with me here at Anterdec?

  Because I need them, damn it.

  And to top it off, Agnes and Corinne are here long before two p.m. Of course they are.

  “Pinch and Pincher are here,” Carol says in that droll voice of hers. “Who's next? Are you planning to put my mother on the payroll?”

  “Marie? Why would we do that?”

  “You're hiring her friends, why not Mom?”

  “You want me to offer her a job?”

  “Hell, no. I was making a joke. You think I want to work full time with my mother? There isn't enough cannabidiol oil on the planet to make that work.”

  “Why do you and Shannon have such a visceral reaction to her?”

  “Have you met Marie?”

  “Of course I have. I love Marie!”

  Carol just stares at me. Of all the Jacoby daughters, she looks the most like her mother, so it's a bit jarring to be arguing about how tolerable Marie is when I'm staring into the face of a younger version of her.

  “You love Marie enough to turn her into a colleague? Think about that for a minute.”

  “How did we get from Agnes and Corrine to Marie?”

  “All crazy women with AARP cards and no boundaries.”

  “My card is titanium,” says a gravelly old voice from the door.

  “Shut up, Corrine. Mine is a stone tablet carved by Moses himself.”

  “Are we really having this conversation, Agnes? Because you're damn straight, you're older than me. We all know it. You have the liver spots to prove it.”

  “Too bad I can't turn my liver spots into a blanket and cover my face with it so I don't have to look at you, Corrine.”

  A young woman in her early twenties, with chestnut hair pulled back in a long ponytail, and wide brown eyes, pops her head between the two old ladies.

  “Is this the right place, Grandma?” Her voice is lower than I'd expect, and there is something compact and commanding about her.

  “It's fine, Cassie. This is it. My new career, where all I have to do is be old and pretend to be stupid.”

  “Well, that'll be a change from you being stupid and pretending to be old, Agnes.”

  “That makes no sense, Corrine.”

  “Neither does that outfit,” the old woman sniffs, giving Agnes's red and white caftan some major side eye.

  Cassie taps Corrine on the shoulder. “My brother and I bought that for her for Christmas.”

  Corrine gives her a thousand-watt smile. “That's so sweet, honey.” The charm is strong in that one, because Cassie just shakes her head and laughs.

  “I'm Amanda McCormick,” I say, striding across the reception area, hand outstretched.
“And you are?”

  “I’m Cassie. I'm just the driver for these two,” she replies, looking behind her. “Mind if I wait in the lobby downstairs? Saw a good coffee place there.”

  “Not as good as Grind It Fresh!” I stress, never missing a chance to plug my friend's chain.

  “How far is it?”

  “Two blocks to the left, out the main door.” Shannon and Declan have opened two more shops in downtown Boston, in addition to the flagship store at their headquarters. It's made drinking good coffee so much easier, plus Anterdec employees get a twenty percent discount.

  Shannon insisted.

  “Get me a half-caf skinny macchiato with extra whipped cream,” Corrine calls out as Cassie starts to leave.

  “But skinny means it's made with skim milk.”

  “I know.”

  “Skim milk and whipped cream? Don't the two negate each other?”

  “Don't apply logic to her, Cassie. Waste of time,” Agnes shoots back, earning a glare from Corrine.

  “I like what I like and I don't care if it doesn't make sense.” Her eyes flit over Agnes. “Like you and that outfit.”

  And with that, Cassie departs quickly, making me wish I were her, on the way to Grind It Fresh! Anywhere but here with these two old bats.

  They shuffle into my office. Agnes leans on her walker and slams her palm on an empty space on the top of my desk. “I want two hundred thousand a year, a parking space by the elevator, and a pool boy of my own, and I won't take anything less.”

  Corrine flutters her eyelashes, long, fake things that look like a cloud of starlings hovering in front of her corneas. “Agnes, Agnes, Agnes. You suck at business negotiation.”

  “I'm stating my terms up front. It's like sex: If you aren't clear about your expectations, you end up getting pissed on.”

  “Sex has nothing to do with getting pissed on!”

  Agnes goes quiet in the creepiest way ever.

  I clear my throat, Andrew's constant offer for me to leave the company and be a stay-at-home mom suddenly sounding way more appealing. I'm already close to saying yes. It's not that I don't love my job–I do–but I don't need it. Someone else can take my role and the mystery shopping division will function just fine.

  It's more that I won't know what to do with myself if I'm not organizing and fixing problems.

  And while twins certainly need lots of attention, caring for babies is so different.

  Fear spikes through me, sudden and fierce.