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

by Julia Kent

Five flights before the end, Declan huffs and says, “Why the hell are we doing this?”

  “Because Vince said to.”

  “We pay him! He's not our boss.”

  I just grunt.

  “And you never answered my question.” The metallic echo of our voices makes even a hushed whisper feel like a scream. He stops. “Day-to-day operations?”

  I just shrug.

  “For Anterdec? An acquisition?”

  I could lie. It would be easy. It is easy.

  Instead, I stop. I take a deep breath. I let time pass, enough time for Declan to cross his arms over his unbuttoned jacket and watch me, his judgment fading by the second, replaced by a curiosity I don't see in him very often.

  “No.”

  “An investment? Something you'll dismantle and sell off for pieces?”

  “No.”

  “Andrew.” His voice is firm, but frustrated. “Get to the point.”

  “I bought a chain of gyms. I'm planning to run them. Hiring Vince is the first step. I told you about the gyms when we had dinner.”

  “You mentioned it casually. I didn't understand the implications of it. Dad is going to lose his mind over this.”

  “Why?” I round on him, in his face, pissed that of all the things his mind gravitated to, Dad's reaction is on top.

  “Because you're the CEO of Anterdec, Andrew! Dad picked you!”

  “Is that what this is about? You're still jealous?”

  “No. It's that Dad picked you and you're about to have two babies and you are the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and now you're talking about adding a chain of gyms as a hobby? You're not superman.”

  “You're worried about my time management skills?” I laugh in his face, but an image of disappointed Amanda in our lap pool makes the chuckle cut in half in my throat.

  “If that's what you think I'm saying, then you really don't get it.”

  “Oh, I get it all right, bro. You're playing the role of Dad. Thanks but no thanks. I don't need a lecture on priorities.”

  The way he grabs my arm makes me cock my other one, elbow ready to punch him. Rage blooms in both of us, fierce and sudden, violent in the way that only authentic emotion can produce.

  We're both very, very dangerous right now.

  His chest rises and falls, eyes dark, mouth tight and grim. Before he can speak, Vince bursts through the stairwell door. He looks pissed, too.

  “Where the hell are you?” He takes us in, then rolls his eyes. “Fighting? You two act like you're eight and arguing over a toy robot.”

  “I'm trying to reason with Andrew,” Declan says through gritted teeth.

  “Reason? Hah. You're trying to bring me down a peg.”

  “No.” The word echoes up like a piece of ash from a funeral pyre. “I'm not.” He sounds just like Dad. “I'm warning you.”

  “You're threatening me?”

  “I'm warning you. Adding all this to your plate is too much. Your wife is at home on bed rest. The twins could be born prematurely, and you're talking about balancing being a CEO and running your own company, too? You're on track to be like Dad. Don't let those boys go through what we went through, Andrew. You're already Dad's protégé. He groomed you for CEO. Don't treat your kids like he treated his.”

  Peering intently at us, Vince reaches for my tight arm, fist still ready, and just rests his fingers on my forearm. He doesn't say a word.

  “You're crazy,” I spit out at my brother, hating his words, knowing the reason I hate them is because there's a shred of truth in them, and if there is, what does that make me?

  Even more controlled by Dad then I ever realized.

  And I refuse to admit that to my brother.

  “I'm the father of a toddler, Andrew. I left Anterdec to grow my own company, and there's a lot of pain that goes into being away from my family. I'm not in your role–”

  “And it kills you.”

  A light huff, the kind of laugh you make through your nose, emerges from Dec, but it's not mocking. No derision. The lightness of it, followed by his wry smile, spears my heart.

  Somehow he gets around the armor I think I'm wearing.

  “No. It really doesn't. That's the thing, Andrew–it did. At first. When Dad picked you. And then over time, I realized I was relieved.”

  “Sure. Right,” I shoot back, mind and heart spinning out of control as Vince's fingers on my coiled arm keep me from floating away.

  Or beating my brother to a pulp.

  “What the hell are you doing? I didn't come here to break up a fight. I came here to show you how you can be industry leaders with a new idea that is going to change how people eat, drink, and work out, you dumbasses.”

  Dec and I slowly turn to look at Vince, who is shaking his head at us.

  “But,” he continues, “maybe this is a mistake. I don't want to work for two billionaires who can't get over their daddy issues.”

  “I don't have daddy issues!” Dec and I burst out at the same time.

  “And what do you mean, industry leaders?” I follow up.

  “Get your asses outside and let me show you.” A disgusted glare follows. “Not that you deserve my time, but might as well finish this.”

  I follow him, ignoring Declan, moving on pace with Vince. Dec catches up and flanks his other side.

  Just then, a wasp floats into my field of vision on my left, where Vince is walking. It's almost black with white markings on the face, a bald-faced hornet.

  My Epipen is in my jacket pocket.

  Dec moves a step ahead of us, eyes on the damn thing, inserting his body between me and the insect. It moves to the left, away from us, as Vince realizes what's happening.

  No one says a word until the flagship Grind It Fresh! store comes into view.

  “This is my store,” Dec announces, as if we didn't know that.

  “No kidding,” Vince mutters, yanking the front door open and barging in, turning right to head to the Test Kitchen Counter, a special section Shannon developed for this location only. When Grind It Fresh! tests new products, customers get a fifty-percent-off price break, and they conduct focus groups in the evenings and on weekends.

  Declan's executive assistant, Dave, is behind the bar, dark brown hair like Declan's, though the guy is shorter, slimmer, and manages to have even less expression than my brother. It's like cardboard with eyes, nose, and mouth.

  “Hey,” Vince says to him.

  “Hey.”

  “What are you doing here?” Declan asks Dave, who gives him a no-blink stare that would impress any psychopath.

  “Saving your company.”

  “My company doesn't need to be saved!”

  “It will if you don't partner with Vince and Andrew.”

  “Partner?!” I burst out. “What does a chain of gyms have to do with coffee?”

  “See? Told you,” Vince says sadly to Dave, whose eyebrow twitches as he gives me a condescending look worthy of my brother. “Limited imagination, these two.”

  “Get to the point,” Declan grinds out.

  “Ultraclean eating,” Vince says. “All natural, all organic, carefully sourced.”

  “Everyone's doing that,” Dec scoffs.

  “No. Everyone claims they're doing that. Most 'organic' food has crap in it. Rosemary extract? That's MSG. Xanthan gum? Converts to glutamate in the body. Natural flavors? Could be MSG, could be beaver anal glands.”

  That last part sounds familiar, but I can't quite remember why.

  “People feel better when they eat real food. Healthy food. Salad dressings made from high quality olive or MCT oil, a pure vinegar, simple seasonings, and a shake of sweetness like maple syrup or coconut sugar. People feel better when their chicken breast is grilled in unrefined coconut oil or olive oil, Himalayan sea salt, and cracked green peppercorns. Smoothies don't need sweeteners, they need properly ripened organic fruits, vegetables, coconut milk, or A2-sourced dairy. See where I'm going?”

  “Yes,” Dec says. “And it's be
en done.”

  “Not like this,” Dave says flatly. “Because it's done in farm-to-table settings on a small scale. Not in large chains.”

  “Food loss,” Declan says simply. “Without preservatives, you have too much loss.”

  “That's where you have to be willing to think outside the box. Upcharge in a gym where people already spend the monthly membership fee. In coffee shops where four bucks for a coffee is no big deal. And partner with food insecurity charities, composting services, and small environmental non-profits to manage waste.” Dave's eyes light up. The guy has an emotional range wider than a lamppost. Who knew?

  “What does this have to do with our separate companies?” I ask Vince. Dec walks behind the counter and begins using the coffee machines with a smooth grace I admire. As much as I hate my brother sometimes, he surprises me with random tidbits of personality like this.

  He's an enigma. Emotionally tight, brutally competitive, and completely wrong about anything related to me.

  But he can master a ristretto pull like it's nothing, and Amanda swears his breve lattes are as good as the master barista's. I make a mental note to have Gina set me up for training on how to make espresso.

  Because I'm sure I can be better.

  “Your separate companies are yin and yang,” Vince answers, looking at me funny. “Add a food bar in the gyms. Use Grind It Fresh!'s food distribution and purchasing power to upgrade to even higher quality food. They have a test kitchen, and we have members who want to eat clean. Who are motivated,” he explains before Dave cuts him off.

  “Imagine,” Dave continues, “all the small, local producers who could benefit from this. Food allergies are on the rise. We have a spike in people coming in with celiac disease and egg allergies, asking about products they can safely eat. Individualized food is the new trend. Give people exactly what they need, and they'll become loyal customers. Mass and fast foods are out.”

  “Not convinced,” Dec says, and I nod in agreement.

  “We know that eating clean leads to health benefits,” Vince adds, looking a little too confident. “So we reached out to one of the newer apps being marketed to health insurance companies and primary care physicians. We can calculate the macro- and micronutrient breakdowns and get our foods into their apps. Then co-market to drive their subscribers into our stores and gyms, and vice versa.”

  My spine starts to tingle.

  “Now you're talking.” Dec and I exchange a glance.

  Damn it. This might work.

  Which means.... partnering with my brother's company.

  “Wait,” I interject, needing to cut through the fog of possibility that threatens to overwhelm me. I've just had a furious argument with my brother about taking on too much. “Why not partner with Anterdec? Why shouldn't I just do this as CEO there?”

  Dave and Vince shake their heads. “No.”

  “No? What do you mean, no?”

  “Anterdec is too corporate.”

  Declan is in the middle of sipping a latte and nearly chokes.

  “What does too corporate mean?” I challenge.

  “Big conglomerates don't have the level of trust needed for this market segment,” Dave says smoothly. “And it's a growing segment. People are looking for health factors they can control, and pure food is one of them. Anterdec's too tainted.”

  “Tainted?”

  “Would you trust a fast-food chain to produce high quality organic food? Or a huge international hotel chain to provide personalized boutique bed and breakfasts? No. The branding is too strong for what they've done well. Anterdec does what it does very well. This isn't part of your brand,” Dave elaborates.

  Dec and I stop, blinking hard.

  Because Dave is right.

  “This won't work,” Dec says.

  “Why not?” I ask, turning to him.

  “Because you have too much on your plate.”

  “I'll hire people.” I point at Vince. “He's on board.”

  “I am,” Vince agrees. “But only if you two work together. I refuse to work in a tense, high-stress environment with two wusses who can't stop arguing like littermates fighting over a bone.”

  Dave gives Vince a look of love. Pure love.

  “I need time,” I snap, just as Dave slides a small bowl of salad toward me.

  “Try this.”

  “What is it?” I see chopped dried fruit, avocado, carrots, and–

  “Dried organic bing cherries, shaved celeriac, and roasted golden beets on arugula and micro-green pea shoots in a dressing of MCT oil, roasted blended pumpkin seed, maple syrup, cumin, turmeric, and ginger. Slivers of smoked salmon on top.”

  I take a bite.

  “This is good,” I mutter around my mouthful. “Really good.”

  “I just listed every actual ingredient in that.” Vince slides a small smoothie toward Dec. “You try this.”

  He takes a sip. “What's in it?”

  “Cashew milk made here on the premises with filtered water and cashews. Mango. Dark cherries. Fresh cranberries from Truro. High-polyphenol olive oil. Hemp seeds. Overripe bananas. Lacinato kale. Organic English seedless cucumber, peeled.”

  “I would never, ever drink this if I knew what was in it.” But Dec keeps drinking. “And it’s really good.”

  “Your body is sucking up the nutrients,” Vince says. “Guarantee you'll feel better all day. Imagine eating that well, and tracking your dietary needs in an app. Cross-check it against productivity at work. Against sex drive and sex life–”

  “Now you're talking,” mutters an employee from behind Dave.

  I finish my salad, chewing and thinking. I finish, and announce, “Let me think this through.”

  Both Vince and Dave nod, then turn to Dec, who sets the empty smoothie glass on the counter.

  “No,” he declares.

  “No?” All three of us are surprised.

  “If we're going to do something this complex, I need a partner who is all there. You're too distracted, Andrew.” He looks at Vince. “But I'm happy to lure you away from Andrew's gyms, if you're interested.”

  “I'll help you negotiate,” Dave says to Vince out of the corner of his mouth.

  “What do you mean, no? I said I'm thinking about it. And you don't get to decide whether my life has too much in it, Declan. That's not your job.”

  “Maybe not. But when my company is asked to invest and work with another one, it becomes my business.” He gives Dave and Vince a nod, then turns to me, pivoting on one heel before he heads toward the elevator to the corporate offices.

  “While you're thinking about it, bro, think about your priorities. Because when you want to do it all, it means nothing is more important than anything else. And kids and wives don't work that way.”

  With that, my brother has the last word.

  And I can't stop him.

  Because I have no response to that.

  18

  Amanda

  “Do it again,” he insists.

  “I just did it twice!”

  “But it feels so good.”

  “Fine.”

  “Mmmm. Like that!” he says, grinning down at me.

  “This isn't as easy as it looks, buddy.”

  “You're good with balancing, and man, when you clench like that...” He descends into non-verbal groans and sighs.

  “You're really that jazzed when I do it?”

  “I've never found your body more exciting.”

  “Your balls certainly seem to enjoy resting there.”

  “Until they–oh!” he grunts, then laughs. “That one slid off the side. Look at it go. Ping, ping, ping.”

  We're staying at our place in the Seaport District, with a small renovation project going on at the house in Weston. Neither of us wants to be exposed to fumes and dust, so we're here for the week.

  Nostalgia is everywhere. My first night sleeping over. Our first morning coffee. Our first argument...

  He picks up another ping-pong ball and
puts it in my navel, which has become an outie, but has a small ring around it that can hold a ball – but barely. The white, lightweight orb nestles in place, and then–boing!

  It jumps up an inch and rolls down my right side.

  “I love playing ping-pong with my unborn kids.”

  “I'm surprised.”

  “You are?”

  “So far, they're beating you.”

  “No one's keeping score,” he mutters, but I can tell that's a lie. He bends forward, trying to balance two balls in my belly button, when suddenly, Lefty's elbow pokes up and the ball hits Andrew in the eye.

  We descend into laughter, my side hurting from giggling so hard that Righty kicks my ribs. It’s like he’s curling little monkey toes around them.

  Warm, big palms cover the sides of my belly, like a football player sizing up a watermelon.

  “Lefty got you.”

  “Or maybe Righty?” I question, poking the right side and receiving no response.

  “You mean Joshua did.”

  “I am not naming our kid Josh. Can you imagine? The real Josh would die and go to heaven. I'm not giving him the satisfaction.”

  “Well, we're not naming either one James. We have to find some good options.”

  “We have time,” I assure him, but he's right. I hate to admit it.

  “Not much. We at least need a shortlist.”

  I stop him right there. “And we are not naming them Tom and Brady.”

  “What's wrong with those names?”

  Hard stares don't actually melt people, I've learned.

  Too bad.

  “How about Lexington and Concord? We could call them Lex and Cord for short.” This is an old joke. He pokes my belly and laughs.

  “Cord McCormick? Sounds like the lead in every cheap Western movie from the 1960s,” Andrew mutters.

  “Lex is too close to Lex Luthor,” I add.

  His stomach growls. I look at the clock. 11:46 a.m. on a Sunday.

  He brings up food before I do, which is rare these days. “I made brunch reservations for us.”

  “You did? Where?”

  “Consuela's.” He holds out his palm. “And before you protest, the doctor said you needed to gradually come off bed rest. You’ve been so good. You can handle the walk.”