“No!” I hear them call in unison behind me as I start down the short hallway toward a set of floor-to-ceiling black glass double doors. It’s as if I’ve just announced I’m walking into a live mine field. And they come running after me.
“You seriously do not want to go off plan,” Jason says, catching me by the arm. “He’ll fire you before you even start! Seriously. “
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’ll be fine,” I answer.
“And we’re pretty sure it won’t be,” Chris answers, taking me by the other arm. “Now come on, let’s go before he sees you.”
Both he and Jason tug on my arms, looking like they’re about to have the same heart attack, and I have the feeling they’d be willing to physically drag me back out of this hallway like a super-nerdy version of security before they let me so much as raise my arm to knock on Go’s door for an unplanned visit.
But then it’s too late, the black doors to Go’s office swing open on some kind of automated switch, and the sound of an airy laugh comes tumbling out.
Jason and Chris freeze, their faces setting into a rictus of fear.
And I also go very still when I see…
Sophia come out of the office, right beside Go.
“Thanks for flying me out,” she’s saying in Spanish. Her eyes are puffy and red, like she’s been crying, but she’s smiling up at him like she couldn’t be happier she met with him.
It’s so wrong—not to mention totally against my “women first” moral code. But a small flare of jealousy erupts inside me, because even the weepy version of Sophia is stunning. So small and cute in her business casual skirt set, and as perfectly proportioned as a Miss Universe contestant. Bountiful all over with a tiny waist, as opposed to thin on top and heavy on the bottom like me. It’s pretty easy to see what Marco saw in her—what any guy would see in her.
Including Go. He’s wearing a pair of silver glasses today and looks way better than any bearded nerd should in a Viking Shifters hoodie, blazer, and jeans. His clothes hug his long trim body so well, I’m guessing some level of custom tailoring went into every item he’s wearing. My heart speeds up seeing him in the flesh for the first time since that kiss, but he doesn’t see me yet because he’s too busy smiling down at Sophia.
“It was good to talk with you, too,” he tells her. I can almost hear strings of sweet telenovela music playing in the background as they start down the hallway, the black doors swinging closed behind them. “Remember, I’m only a call away if you need anything else—”
Both Sophia and Go and the imaginary music come to an abrupt stop when they see me standing with Go’s two assistants at the other end of the hallway.
6
Sophia seems just about as stunned to see me as I am to see her. Her eyes widen, and then she looks up at Go worriedly.
You know that feeling you get when two people have been talking about you behind your back? Growing up as a weird foster kid who loved heavy metal, I know that feeling well. And I totally have it again, even when Sophia covers the silent exchange between her and Go with her usual warm smile.
“Hi, Nyla,” she says at the same time Go asks, “What are you doing here?”
Then as if remembering Sophia is still there, he quickly says, “Wait, first Chris…”
Coming out of his scared bunny freeze, Chris steps forward and motions toward Sophia. “Right this way, Ms. Perez.”
Sophia follows Chris down the hallway but says, “Bye, Nyla. See you back in Indianapolis,” as she passes by. Obviously fishing.
I just answer with a calm, “Bye, Sophia.”
My mind is screaming, however. Wondering if she told Go her version of what happened with me and her family twelve years ago.
All three of us—Jason, Go, and me—silently watch Sophia disappear around the corner with Chris. But as soon as they’re out of earshot, Jason throws me under the bus.
“I tried to tell her seeing you early was off plan,” he whisper tattles to Go. “But she didn’t listen and I wasn’t sure what to do.”
Go holds up a hand, and Jason immediately stops talking.
“No, Jason, I’d like Nyla to explain why she’s decided to disrupt the plan,” he says.
Now Jason turns toward me, making me feel like I’m on some kind of hot seat.
“Well, you know I just get off on disrupting stuff. Lil’ Dis—that’s what they used to call me in high school. Joking…joking… ”
I chuckle. And I’m the only one who does. Jason’s now clutching the front of his fleece like the zipper is a string of pearls.
Go stares at me for a long, cold second before saying, “Okay, Jason…new plan. Move the Tokyo call to tomorrow, and see if Consumer Products can meet during Nyla’s originally slated time. Nyla…”
He waves his hand over some invisible sensor, and both of the black glass doors swing back open.
“Come in,” he says. It’s an invitation, but his voice is flat and severe, and he looks like he’s just invited a cockroach into his office.
I put an extra dose of foster kid sass in my step as I walk past him, trying to pretend I don’t care that he seemed a lot happier coming out of the office with Sophia than he does inviting me in.
His office really is an inner sanctum. It must sit right in the middle of the floor, because it has no windows, just four black glass walls. But it’s large and spacious with cool zigzag black-and-white flooring, and huge posters from movies like The Iron Giant, 2001, and Metropolis adorn the walls. There aren’t any guest chairs, I notice, just two low-back leather arm chairs on either side of a very modern red table.
There’s a lot of psychology going on here, I realize, as I drop into the chair closest to the door. The space is intimidating and cool, and all guests have to sit directly across from the man who inhabits it like opponents at a chess game.
Still, I like it. It reminds me of Go, and the posters keep it out of “total evil villain” territory.
“Nice office,” I tell him, meaning it.
“Thank you,” he says coolly as the black office doors swing close.
He walks over to the armchair on the other side of the red table, directly across from me, and settles his long body into it.
You’d think the beard and glasses look would be a total turn-off, sloppy even, paired as they are with hair that doesn’t look like it has been more than finger-combed in years. But even with all the hipster-nerd cover, he’s still very, very attractive, and I have to work hard to drop my eyes so it doesn’t look like I’m staring at him.
But there’s something about his intensity that makes it impossible to look away, even now, when he’s obviously annoyed with me. I’d noticed it the first time we met at Thanksgiving, too. As quiet as he’d been during most of the dinner conversation, it had been like sitting at a table with a power station, glowing ominous and bright. You could maybe pretend it wasn’t there for a little while, but eventually you’re going to look.
I clear my throat, and try to focus on something other than how hot my body’s becoming just sitting across from him. Like… “So you flew Sophia out, too?”
I peep up at him, heart clanging with alarm. I know he had me investigated back when I was dating Marco. But my foster case file is sealed and “lost,” thanks to a favor from Sam’s husband, Nikolai. No one but Sophia or me would have been able to tell him what was in that file.
I’d never tell him, and I could only hope Sophia hadn’t either.
Go sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees and gripping his hands tight between them. “She wanted to meet with me about a possible donation to Indy U—that’s where you went, too, right?”
“Yes, I did,” I reply carefully.
He grunts. “Okay school. Mediocre engineering program and no robotics to speak of, but I suppose it’s okay for a Masters in Child Psychology.”
“I’d like to think so,” I answer, not bothering to keep the super dry note out of my tone. “So did you?”
“Did I what
?”
“Agree to give money to my old college?”
Another grunt, and some shifting in his seat. I can tell he’s having a hard time with this. Being off schedule. Having me here when I’m not supposed to be, and making small talk on top of that. But in the end, he says, “Yes. Not much. A couple hundred grand.”
As someone who’d have to struggle to come up with a couple of hundred dollars to give Indy U, I can’t keep my mouth from dropping open.
“Wow!” I say. “That’s real fucking generous.”
His eyes narrow. “You curse a lot for a woman who works with children.”
“Yeah, well, not in front of them. I promised Sam.”
His beard quirks up. A half smile that feels like gales of laughter coming from him. I cheer a little on the inside when he unlaces his hands and leans back, seeming a little bit more comfortable now.
“I also wanted to gauge how much Sophia knows about this situation with the baby,” he tells me.
“Oh…” my brain struggles to adjust from the small talk to the much heavier topic of his dead brother’s baby. “I don’t think Marco had a chance to tell her.”
“Judging from the fact that he died with an engagement ring in his pocket, I don’t think so either. She says she didn’t have any idea Marco was planning to propose. She cried when I asked her about it.”
So that was why her eyes had been red. Another wave of sadness for both her and Marco stabbed through me. And I place a hand over my now slightly swollen belly, hating that knowledge of this baby would only cause her more pain.
“Did you like The Restraining Order mock-up?”
His question jerks me out of my troubled thoughts.
“Yes,” I answer, suddenly remembering why I came directly to his office in the first place. “I really loved everything I heard. And you’re right, your bracelet would revolutionize the restraining order and literally save lives. It’s seriously fucking brilliant, Go, and if you’re serious about wanting me to consult on it, I’d love the job.”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” he answers, his dark eyes flashing behind his glasses. “Though obviously the job comes with a few caveats. But before we get into any of that, I’ll need you to sign this…”
He produces a tablet and slides it across the red table toward me.
I frown when I see the legal document on it. C’mon…!
“Another non-disclosure form?”
“In my line of work, the more NDAs you’re asked to sign, the closer you are to sealing the deal,” he answers with a slight smile.
“Okay, whatever,” I grumble. But I finger sign the document anyway, and hand the tablet back to him.
I watch the long index finger on his left hand fly as he calls something else up on the tablet and then hands it back to me.
My eyebrows lift when I read the words “The Nyla and Go Ten-Year Plan.” And then they lift even more when I actually start reading it over.
“Wait a minute, you don’t want to just marry me and adopt this baby, you want me to pretend it’s yours!? And you want us to stay married for ten years, and have another baby two years after this one’s born?”
“I want us to start trying for a baby two years after this one is born. Fertility being what it is, I would never try to include having a baby into a plan, because I wouldn’t be able to guarantee the desired result.”
“But trying for one is perfectly okay, along with lying to everyone about who the father is?”
He looks to the side, considering my question, then seems to decide, “Yes, I’ve given this matter a great deal of thought over the past four weeks. Ten years guarantees my parents have an ample amount of time to grieve and bond with their first grandchild. And if you and I have a biological child together, you’re less likely to remove the first child completely from our lives if either of us decides to dissolve our marriage at the end of the ten-year period. Also, by then at least one of my sisters should be married and have children of her own, which will increase the likelihood of my parents having recovered emotionally from the death of their favorite son.”
My heart catches. Not only because he’s stating all of this so emotionlessly, but also because… “You really think your parents don’t love you as much as they loved Marco? They’re so proud of you!”
“Yes, now they are, but growing up...” His gaze casts to the side again, but there’s a shadow of memory in the tic. “Let’s just say I was extremely difficult for two recent immigrants with a limited skill set to raise. As close as my family is, I’ve never really fit in with them.”
He leans forward, once again folding his large hands between his legs. “I’m the asshole with poor social skills whose obsession with robots happened to pay off. Marco was my complete opposite. Yes, they’re proud of me, but they loved Marco on a personal level they’ll never have with me. They’re never going to get over his death, which is why I’m willing to do just about anything to help them recover from it. But that’s going to be hard to do if the media is publicly scrutinizing my decision to marry the mother of my brother’s baby.”
This is all so crazy. Everything he’s proposing is like the craziest shit I’ve ever heard. But the thing is, I actually get what he’s saying. Growing up in foster homes, I saw it all the time. The kids who needed nothing but love to shine them up fit right into families with big hearts. The super cute and deserving kids like my boss’s adopted son, Pavel, just seemed to stumble right into loving family situations.
Me, the weird black kid with anger issues, who had to hide in a corner and listen to metal at top volume so as not to lash out whenever I got to feeling too angry—not so much. Half the time, I ended up losing my shit anyway and would find myself more often than not sent back to the group home after an apologetic conversation with the family about how it just wasn’t working out. And even when I tried—and Lord knew I did everything I could think of to fit in with the Perezes—it all blew up in my face. In fact the one time I really tried, it blew up worse than all the others.
So believe me, I understood not fitting in with a normal family, but… “It just feels like we’re lying to everybody. Lies on top of lies.”
Go simply shrugs. “My parents, as I’ve already stated, aren’t ready to hear about this. Knowing Marco got another girl pregnant while he was still dating Sophia would only upset them more than they currently are. We can consider telling them the full version of the story at a later date, but for now I think this is the best way to give them something to be happy about. Also, I don’t think either of us wish to cause Sophia any more pain, and finding out you’re pregnant with her dead boyfriend’s baby would go against that objective.”
That was true. Every single thing he’s saying makes a kind of emotional sense. But… “I hate lying.”
He looks to the side, considering my words. “An admirable quality,” he seems to decide out loud. “Not in a business, in which spin is an essential part of every marketing plan. But maybe for your line of work, sure.”
“Okay, I’m obviously not a complete goody-goody,” I say, casting my gaze down to my now slightly swollen belly. “But I’m pretty sure lying is never a good idea.”
“You’re pretty sure about that because you have a limited world view, and zero knowledge of how a for-profit business works,” he answers, voice cold as his black glass walls.
“So what are you saying?” I ask him. “That you’re a liar? That’s just how you roll and I shouldn’t ever trust you?”
Again his eyes go to the side, as if he’s processing my questions through some kind of algorithm.
“Trust doesn’t come easy to you where adults are concerned,” he informs me.
“No, I guess it doesn’t,” I admit. “Not really.”
“Trust doesn’t come easy to me, either,” he tells me. “I assume everyone I encounter is either lying to me or themselves or both. Part of what’s made me successful in this field is not only looking at the data, but looking at the lies people are tel
ling me and themselves. For example, when a business owner tells us he doesn’t want to automate his clerking system because he loves his human employees too much—that he considers them family—I know it’s really because our price point is too high or he’s afraid of the tech. If we get our automation system to a price point he’s comfortable with, and make it so he never has to worry about dealing with the tech himself, he’ll be happy to get rid of those employees with their costly healthcare plans and inefficient checkout times and their real families with their emergencies that often keep them from coming to work when scheduled.”
He levels me with a frank look. “So no, Nyla, I don’t trust that business owner, or my employees, or obviously, you. But can you trust me?” He slowly nods as if deciding the answer to this question at that very moment. “Yes, yes, you can. I’m not trying to hurt you or this baby with my plan. I promise you that.”
Behind the lens of his glasses, his eyes are so dark and sincere, I feel like I’m falling into them.
“Okay,” I whisper, setting the tablet down on the table between us. “Then I’m all in.”
My acquiescence is what seems to unsettle him the most in this whole strange, strange conversation. “What? Just like that? You’re not done reading the plan.”
“Nope, I’m not,” I agree. “But I’m in. So get the pre-nup or the shit ton of NDAs or whatever else you need me to sign on that pad of yours.”
I nod toward the tablet sitting on the table between us, but he doesn’t move.
“You should read the rest of the plan,” he tells me instead. “There’s a personality addendum clause I’m sure you’ll want to think about before my lawyers draw up the final paperwork.”
“Ooh, a personality addendum, what’s that?” I ask, planting an elbow on my knee and resting my chin on the back of my hand.
“It’s in the plan,” he says.
“But I’m not going to read the plan, so you’ll just have to tell me.”
“Jesus Christ, Nyla! Okay…” he suddenly bursts out. He rips his glasses off and squeezes the bridge of his nose like I’m giving him a headache. But then he takes the kind of breaths I’m always teaching kids to take in our anger management workshops.
His Pretend Baby Page 5
