by Nikki Chase
“Yes.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I rub Mom’s shoulder soothingly. “I can afford it.”
Mom is quiet for a few seconds. “You know it probably won’t work, right?”
“I know.”
She lets out a big sigh. If her tear ducts weren’t already overworked, I’m sure she’d still be crying. Her eyes are still red and puffy, and her wrinkles have dug in deeper into her flesh.
“Thirty-five years,” she says as she rubs the back of Dad’s hand. “Thirty-five years together. We said we were going to grow old together, and I guess we’ve done that.”
“You’ll have a lot more years to spend together, Mom.”
She gives me a look. She knows I’m just saying what she wants to hear.
“I thought we were going to see the world together when he retired,” she says.
“You never told me about that.”
“We were going to travel to Europe,” Mom says with a wry smile. “Maybe buy an RV and travel to the south of France. There’s this winery your dad has always wanted to try.”
I fight the urge to tell her that they’ll get to do that, too. Hell, I’ll gift them a private jet so they won’t have to live in a cramped RV.
“We wanted to move to Florida after doing some traveling. We thought we’d get ourselves a nice little beach house. Somewhere in Daytona Beach would be perfect.”
I can buy that for them, too. And they don’t even have to wait for Dad to retire.
I mean, what the fuck? Dad makes about $90,000 a year as a CPA. It’s not a small salary compared to many people, of course. But I make that much in a slow week. They could’ve retired any time they wanted.
Still, I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want Mom to think about what could’ve been, about how Dad could’ve spent what little time he had traveling, instead of counting beans.
“We thought we’d visit you every few months, and more often once we have grandchildren.” Mom sighs with regret. “Your dad really wanted grandchildren. When you got married and Melanie said she wanted to have kids right away, he was so excited.”
“Melanie said that?” I can’t believe that heartless woman would lie to my parents like that.
She has never wanted a family with me. It was all a lie.
She just wanted to stick around long enough to get the big pay-out. No wonder she insisted on a huge divorce settlement in the pre-nup. I was too blind to see it before the wedding, but I realized later that the pre-nup was her retirement plan.
“Yes.” Mom nods with a small smile on her dry, cracked lips. “Your dad was already talking about taking the kid to Disneyland.”
I had no idea.
“You remember how strict your Grandpa Joe was?” Mom asks.
“Yeah.”
“Well, your dad used to be really close with his Granddad, who always spoiled him. He said he was going to be the world’s best granddad. His goal was to one day get one of those stupid ‘Best Grandpa Ever’ mugs.” Mom laughs softly at her husband’s silliness.
In moments like this, I can’t console Mom with talk of RVs, beach houses, or even early retirements.
But just the thought of having a grandchild makes her laugh.
Maybe that’s something I can give her.
Why not?
I can give her everything else. Why not a grandchild?
Yes, I’m done with women. Thanks to my parents, I have a high standard for a relationship that no woman has ever come close to meeting.
I thought I’d settle with Melanie—everybody settles, right? I thought I could be happy. But I was wrong. So I threw away my dream of a family, along with my dream of a healthy, happy relationship.
But maybe I don’t have to throw the literal baby out with the bathwater. Maybe I can have a baby, without suffering the complications of a relationship.
Again, I have a fortune and nothing to spend it on. Why not use that money to build the family I’ve always wanted?
Kat
The day starts with an unpleasant-but-not-unexpected text message from Vera.
“Milk gone. Shampoo, too. Don't forget to pay the electric bill.”
I groan.
I can rant about how Vera should get up off her ass and find herself a job, but I’m going to rise above all those petty emotions.
I mean, having the money to help out family is a good thing, right? I should be proud of myself for having a well-paying job.
And then I go to work to hear my boss say, “You’re fired.”
My jaw drops. “Huh?” I clear my throat. This is not how I usually talk in the office, especially to my boss. “Did you just say I’m fired?”
“Yes.” Heath smiles, flashing his rows of perfect white teeth without an ounce of sympathy. He seems almost happy about this. What kind of a monster is this man?
“Is this because of my USB stick the other day?” I ask, avoiding any mention of my manuscript.
“No.”
“Did Mr. Mikhailov complain to you?” I ask. “I already explained to his assistant that you had an emergency and it wasn’t a scheduling mistake on my part, but—”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Heath says. “If anything, you’re the best personal assistant I’ve had and I don’t know if I’ll be able to replace you.”
I frown. “So, then… Why…” I resist the impulse to scratch my head—that wouldn’t look very professional. But I’ve never been more puzzled in my life.
“I’m not firing you because I don’t like your work. I’m firing you because I want to offer you a different position,” Heath says.
As I let out a big exhale, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Still, my muscles remain tense. “What do you mean by ‘a different position’?”
“Some other kind of work,” he answers cryptically.
“Are you transferring me to another division?”
If he’s giving me a position with better opportunities to move up, I’m going to say no. Those jobs should go to people who actually want to advance in the corporate world. I’m just here to pay the bills so I can write in my free time. So I’d rather stay here, where the work is light and easy.
“No, you’ll stay right here.” The corners of Heath’s lips curl up suspiciously as he gets up from his chair.
He looks even more intimidating when he stands up to his full height, his body all hard, solid muscles. I don’t know how he finds the time to go to the gym with the kind of schedule that he has, but obviously, he makes the time. That’s a body that has been sculpted by discipline and determination.
“In the executive division?” I ask, my heart beating fast as he makes his way around the table. I don’t care what the job is. Just tell me I still have a job.
“No, right here in my office,” he says from behind me. I can feel the heat emanating from his hands, which are gripping the back of my chair.
“Huh?” Again, I lose my professional poise. I shift in my chair and twist to look up at him. Say what?
“Kat,” he says. “Kat, Kat, Kat. That’s a funny name for a grown woman, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” I say.
Hello? Kat Von D? She’s a grown woman—a kick-ass one at that. But more importantly, why aren’t we talking about my new job?
“Tell me, Kitty Kat, have you always wanted to write a book?” Heath asks, calling me by a pet name that’s not unfamiliar—it’s not exactly original—but way too familiar for him to use, especially in an office setting.
“A romance novel,” I correct him. “It’s my dream to be a romance author.”
“So you only work here for the money?” he asks.
Is that a trick question? The answer is obvious enough.
“Yes,” I say. “But when I got the job I told the HR guy about it, and he said it was okay. He didn’t think I’d last a week.”
Heath chuckles. “My previous assistants have quit pretty quickly. And yet here you are, beating the odds after more than one month.”
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br /> “Since you just fired me, I’d say I’m not quite beating the odds,” I remind him to keep the conversation on topic.
“It’s not like I gave them much work at all. I just have my own way of doing things, and they haven’t been able to do things my way. But you…” Heath leans down with his hands still on the back of my chair, bringing his face so close to mine I can feel his hot breath on my skin. “You’re good at taking directions. You do things my way. I like that.”
“Thank you.”
I change my tactic. Since he’s been ignoring my attempts at getting him to talk about this new job that he’s supposedly offering, I’ll just keep my answers short. Maybe I’ll get my answer sooner if I just let him keep talking about whatever he wants, until he feels like broaching the subject.
“Have you ever published any of your work, Kitty Kat?” Heath asks.
“No,” I admit.
“Why not?”
“I haven’t been able to find a publisher.”
“That’s too bad,” he says, without any surprise in his voice. “I hear it’s hard to break into the scene. Do you know why you haven’t been successful?”
I pause to think about it. This is something that has actually been plaguing me.
“I’m not quite sure,” I say. “Maybe my writing is not good enough. I only work on my manuscript during my free time, so maybe I don’t do it enough to be really good at it. Or maybe it’s not polished enough because I can’t afford to hire an editor.”
“I think your writing is great,” Heath says, “but I don’t really know much about books, especially romance. I mostly read non-fiction.”
“About stocks?” I guess.
Heath seems like the workaholic type, even though according to everyone in the office I’ve talked to, he's already cut down on his hours. I get it, though; the stock market is always moving and there’s always something he can do to optimize his investments.
“Something like that,” he says. Heath circles my chair. Leaning his tasty ass on the desk in front of me, he studies me with his sharp, blue eyes. He looks like an antiques dealer holding a magnifying glass to my face, appraising my value. He asks, “How much do you want to make it as a romance author, kitten?”
I ignore his continuously evolving nickname for me and answer, “I want it more than anything.”
When I was still living with Vera, I used to read a lot of romance novels to escape from my drab reality. I studied all day and did house chores all night, but when it was time to turn off the lights, I took out my e-reader and got lost in fantasy worlds where life was always perfect in the end.
I cried and I laughed. My heart broke, and then got mended again in the space of hours. Some nights, I didn’t sleep because I just had to finish books that were particularly engrossing.
So hell yeah, I want to write romance novels. I want to string words together in a way that will make people feel. That seems like such magic to me. If I could choose a superpower, I’d want to be able to make people connect with my writing and relate to my characters.
Alas, according to the publishers, I suck.
Only Jane’s encouragements keep me going. She reads a ton of romance novels too, and she says I have what it takes. But what if she’s wrong?
“I can help you,” Heath says.
“You can help me become a romance author?” I ask incredulously. Again, let’s not forget that my boss is a stock investor.
“Yes.”
“Let me guess. You know some big-shot publisher?”
Publishers have rejected everything I’ve ever submitted. They make me wait for months just to get their rejection emails—which, by the way, are never even personalized. They probably just enter my email, along with fifty-seven others, into the BCC field and fire off a form letter. It’s sad, I know.
“I do,” Heath says with a small smile that could melt the collective panties of all the single women on the Island of Manhattan. “And you just said your problems are time and money—I can help with those, too. Let me ask you another thing, how do you like my ideas from yesterday?”
I bite my cheek. It’s something I do when I’m nervous. Should I tell him the truth?
It seems silly at this point to worry about acting professional. He’s just fired me… I guess. And he hasn’t officially told me what my new job is going to be. So he’s technically not even my boss at this point.
“Yes,” I admit.
His smile widens, which only makes me feel even more like I’m losing my balance. He seems so confident and in control.
“Are you going to write something based on my ideas?” Heath asks again.
“Maybe.” I feel like I’ve given him more than enough information.
“Would you say I’m helping you turn your story into something sexy?” The way he cocks an eyebrow when he says the last word is going to haunt my sexy dreams—so yes. In many ways he doesn’t even know, he’s helping me turn my story into something sexy… or as sexy as I can make it.
Hell, before Heath Anders, I had no idea what a sexy guy was. I mean, on an intellectual level, of course I know what to look for—a tall figure, a pair of broad shoulders, maybe six-pack abs, long legs, and so on. But Heath’s the only guy I’ve met who makes me fantasize about what's underneath his Tom Ford suit.
“Yes,” I say.
“Okay. So this job that I’m putting on the table, it’s going to give you all three things you need to become a successful romance author.” Heath pauses to bask in my rapt attention before he raises one finger and says, “Time—” another finger shoots up “—money—” yet another finger joins the other two “—and sexy ideas.”
“Are you going to tell me what this job is?”
“Of course.” With his juicy ass and masculine hands still on the desk, he leans forward and fixes his sharp, penetrating gaze on me. “How would you like to carry my child?”
Kat
I can’t even say anything this time.
It was bad enough when Heath read my manuscript of the story that features a character based on himself.
Now, he fires me and propositions me at the same time? The nerve of this guy!
Heath watches me intently, his eyes roaming over my curves in a way that makes me feel naked.
But to my surprise, instead of outrage, all I feel is… I don’t even know what this is.
Heat creeps up my neck and spreads across my face, while the hairs on the back of my neck rise. My skin is so sensitive I can almost feel the heat of Heath’s scorching gaze on me.
I take a moment to collect my thoughts. I may not feel the outrage, but that’s an outrageous proposition, right? What kind of a woman does he take me for? Just because he has money, he thinks he can buy me?
“Did you say you wanted me to carry your child?” I ask. “I hope you mean you already have a child and you want me to hold him for a minute.”
“No,” Heath says calmly. “I know you know exactly what I mean. I can tell from the way you’re talking. I want you to get pregnant and give birth to my child.”
“Sorry, I have to ask.” I mentally commend myself for not losing my composure at a time like this. “Is this a prank? Is there a camera somewhere? Is this just your weird way of hitting on me?”
Heath chuckles, as if I’ve said something truly funny. I asked perfectly legitimate questions, damn it!
“No, this is not a prank. And no, I’m not hitting on you, kitten,” Heath says with an infuriatingly serene smile. “I’m just making a business deal. It’s no different from your job as my assistant—you’ll be working for me, as my employee. I’m just telling you the terms of employment. You can take it or leave it.”
It dawns on me what he’s trying to do.
No wonder people call him a bully, although most people praise him for it because he only attacks unethical companies by trading their stocks in a way that shows he believes they're going to fail. And when this gets heavy publicity because he's Heath Anders, the market react
s by devaluing those same stocks. Then Heath profits, and so do his investors.
I don't fully understand how it works, even though Jane has tried explaining it to me. All I remember is he uses a technique called “short-selling,” which allows him to take advantage of stock prices that have dropped.
Heath doesn’t give any warning when he strikes. When his opponent realizes what he’s doing, it’s already too late.
That has always been his strategy, so I shouldn’t be surprised to see him use it against me. But it’s just so evil.
“Did you deliberately fire me first so I’d be unemployed and desperate to take your offer?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at my boss.
“Whoa.” Heath holds his hands up in the air. “I don’t know what kind of a monster you think I am, but that’s not why I fired you.”
“Why, then?” I challenge him.
“I just want to make things clear and separate. If you’re my personal assistant, then you can’t be my surrogate. If you’re my surrogate, then you can’t be my personal assistant.”
“But technically, I’m neither right now.”
“Yes.”
“So I’m unemployed,” I repeat my point.
“You can always go back to being my personal assistant if you want to.”
Heath’s smile looks genuine, but he has also practiced that look thousands of times in thousands of meetings and presentations. He could be lying and there would be no way for me to tell.
The man is dangerous. I can’t take on Heath Anders. I’m way out of my depth here.
“Okay, then I’ll do that,” I say. “I’ll go back to being your personal assistant.”
“That would be a mistake, kitten,” Heath says. “In a negotiation, you should at least listen to what the other party has to offer. Always. That’s the only way to make an informed decision.”
I’m pretty sure I’m not going to carry Heath Anders’ baby in my womb, no matter how much it pays. But I’ll humor him. “Okay. Tell me what you have to offer, Heath.”
“Of course,” he says with a victorious, confident smile.
That smile makes me wonder if I should've just told him, “No, thanks,” and went back to my desk outside.
