Billionaire Baby Daddy

by Claire Adams

  Or, so I'd thought.

  In recent years, I'd begun to feel as if the close companionship I'd always told myself was an unnecessary burden wasn’t actually so unnecessary. Perhaps being alone, being entirely independent, wasn't such a great thing. Perhaps surrendering myself to another wasn't a weakness. Perhaps, in some ways, it required a strength and a depth of courage I'd never before been able to access.

  But, again, I didn't say those things to Lilah—I couldn't, not just yet.

  “Do you have any interesting souvenirs from your time there?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. I have a few suits of samurai armor and a number of weapons that I keep on display at my place. I've also had a Japanese garden, much like this one, constructed on the grounds near my home. I like to walk there when I can. When I have time, I'm learning to do sand art in the way the old man over there is doing. But, by far, my most prized memento of my time spent with Colonel Tanaka is a sword.”

  “A samurai sword?” she asked with a glint of curiosity.

  “Indeed. It had been in Colonel Tanaka's family for generations, and had been forged by a blade master 300 years ago, the steel folded and hammered a thousand times. According to Colonel Tanaka, the edge is still as razor sharp as it was three centuries ago. It's a true work of art. He gave it to me as a parting gift.”

  “I'd love to see it sometime.”

  Her statement took me by surprise. The last thing I was expecting was for her to suggest spending more time with me in any manner. Much less in a setting as private as my home. But I wasn’t about to turn down the chance to spend time with her.

  “You should. I have a lot of fascinating pieces and artifacts. I am definitely something of a collector.”

  “And I happen to have a great interest in history,” she remarked, but then, all of a sudden, a cold look entered her eyes. It seemed as if she regretted what she had just said for some reason. “Look at the time,” she noted as she pulled out her phone and checked it. “Our extended lunch break is almost up. We'd better be getting back.”

  “Yeah,” I said, somewhat wistfully. “I guess we should.”

  We walked back to the office in relative silence, but I couldn't stop stealing glances at Lilah.

  I also couldn't stop wondering what was going on in that beautiful head of hers.

  Chapter Eight

  Lilah

  “Come on, Lilah, you can do this. You can do this,” I repeated as I paced in front of my desk.

  As if Monday mornings weren’t dreaded enough, try adding a presentation to the docket that could make or break your career with a company. I was scheduled to give my presentation on my proposed revamp to the Harry Winston campaign in less than 30 minutes and there was a lot riding on it. With every breath, it felt as if thousands of butterflies were swarming around inside of my stomach. I inhaled deeply and made my way to my private bathroom.

  “You’ve got this, Lilah. Your ideas are good and they are going to work, they will—you just have to present them in a way that enables the senior team—and, of course, Asher himself—to see this,” I said to myself as I applied a few final touches to my makeup in the bathroom mirror.

  My cellphone alarm sounded, vibrating on my desk, signaling that it was time. I drew in a deep, calming breath, held it in my lungs for a while, and then exhaled slowly.

  “You’re ready. You can do this,” I encouraged myself one last time as I stared into the mirror.

  I strode out of the bathroom, exuding as much confidence as I could muster. While I may have felt nervous inside, it would not do to show it on the outside.

  Calm, collected, confident—this was the image I needed to pull off. I picked up the folders I needed from my desk and headed into the hallway.

  I strode into the conference room with a sense of purpose and an invisible strength as I held my head high and kept my posture ramrod straight. I went straight to my spot at the table, arranged my files neatly in front of me, and took a seat while those around the table carried on conversations.

  Moments later, Asher entered the room and the buzzing of banter that had been bouncing around the table fell silent. A sudden rush, an undeniable attraction to the sheer power he exuded, washed over me. It wasn't merely his strong physical presence or his rugged, strong-jawed good looks—it was the fact that this man, at the young age of 32, was able to silence a room of men and women who were, in some cases, twice his age, by merely entering the room. There was no resentment or jealousy simmering in that silence; there was only a deep, reverent respect for an immensely intelligent, talented, and driven individual who led from the front of the battle lines. To put it in simple terms: it was hot.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “thank you all for being here. I'm not going to waste any time beating around the bush. We have important matters to attend to. First and foremost among those is the Harry Winston campaign. The newest addition to our team, Ms. Lilah Maxwell, has prepared a presentation on how she believes we can turn this currently unsuccessful campaign around.”

  He looked straight at me, “Lilah, are you ready?”

  I nodded and stood up. “I am, Mr. Sinclair. Thank you.”

  “Excellent. Well, ladies and gents, without further ado, I give the meeting over to Ms. Maxwell.”

  There was a polite round of applause as I stepped around to the front of the table at the head of the room.

  “Thank you, everyone,” I said. “Before I begin, I'd like to thank Mr. Sinclair for giving me the opportunity to join this prestigious team. I hope that with the ideas contained in this campaign proposal that Mr. Sinclair's decision to appoint me will be validated.”

  I picked up the remote control and dimmed the lights in the room before I fired up the projector. I glanced at Asher. When our eyes met he gave me a warm, approving nod. With me heart in my throat, I began my presentation.

  It felt as if it had taken barely any time, but half an hour had passed when I brought up the final image and delivered my last line. I stopped speaking and, for a few tense moments, a heavy, almost tangible silence filled the room.

  And then it happened.

  One of the senior members of the team—a woman in her late forties—started to applaud. Soon everyone else followed suit. I looked across at Asher, and he too was applauding with a smile of approval. A heavy rush of adrenalin mixed with pride and satisfaction was rippling through my veins. The competitor in me wanted to jump up and down like I’d just scored the winning touchdown in a playoff game.

  Instead, I calmly closed my presentation on the projector, turned the lights up again, said a quiet thank you, and went back to my seat where I turned on my tablet so that I could take notes from the next speaker's presentation.

  Inside, however, I felt as if fireworks were exploding. I couldn't believe I had pulled it off so flawlessly; everything, and I mean everything, had gone exactly according to plan. It felt surreal, and I knew that I had to celebrate after work—even if it was a Monday.

  After the meeting was over, and everyone was gathering their things together and leaving the room, Asher approached me.

  “Absolutely outstanding,” he said. “Seriously. I think you blew everyone in the room away with that. You've gone above and way beyond what anyone expected of you. I have no doubt that these amazing ideas you have are going to turn the Harry Winston campaign entirely on its head.”

  I was ablaze with pride and excitement at his praise, which I sensed was absolutely genuine—even though it felt as if there was something beyond mere professional respect in the way Asher was looking at me when he said it.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Si—, I mean, Asher.”

  “I'm just telling the truth. I genuinely believe the ideas you presented today are some of the freshest ideas we've seen at Sinclair for, well, for years, to be honest. As a matter of fact, you kind of remind me of myself in my younger years.”

  I laughed. “Thanks, Asher. But there's no need for you to talk like you'r
e an old man or something. You're only 32, you know.”

  He chuckled. “Sometimes I feel twice that age, though. Remember, I've been doing this since I was 20. There are times I feel like I missed out on my twenties completely, started my thirties right out of college, and am now living in my forties!”

  “Come on now, you’re much too good looking to be in your forties,” I countered playfully.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he replied with a grin. “Look, I know it's a Monday, but how would you feel about a drink or two after work to celebrate? And, by that, I don't mean we're going to hammer away two bottles of wine again! Just a drink or two, seriously.”

  “You must have been reading my mind,” I exclaimed. “Is that a trick that samurai master taught you?”

  He grinned. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

  “As a matter of fact, I would,” I laughed again, feeling very at ease in his company. “Jokes aside though, how would you feel about a little extra company at this celebration? My brother Eddie told me if my presentation went well today he wanted to buy me a drink. I mean, he was kind of an idol of yours when you were a young lad, wasn't he?” I cocked an eyebrow and gave him a smirk.

  Asher grinned. “The lead guitarist of The Razor's Edge? Seriously? How could I not want to have a beer with him?”

  I almost said, “I've told him all about you already,” but I managed to bite my tongue.

  “Great,” I replied. “How does 8:00 at McGinty's Pub downtown sound?”

  “That sounds perfect. I'll see you there. Until then, more work to get through. There are still four working hours left in the day.”

  “Right. I'll see you later this evening.”

  ***

  “Remember, Eddie, don't tell him I've talked to you about him before all right?”

  Eddie grinned. “Don't worry, sis, I've got this.”

  I saw Asher enter the bar as I looked over Eddie’s shoulder. “Here he is now! Act normal!”

  “Uh, I am, Peanut. You on the other hand . . .”

  “Shh! Don’t call me that.”

  Asher approached our table with a smile. He was wearing jeans and a button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was the first time I'd seen him out of a business suit, and he almost looked like a different person—although the sense of effortless style was undeniably his.

  Eddie stood to greet him, offering him a hand, which Asher shook firmly.

  “Edward Maxwell,” Eddie said. “But my friends call me Eddie.”

  “Asher Sinclair,” said Asher. “My friends call me Ash. Pleased to meet you! I hope I don't sound too dorky when I say this, but I'm a huge fan of your music.”

  Eddie grinned.

  “Thanks, man! Never thought I'd have a CEO of a Fortune 100 company saying that to me!”

  Asher laughed. “I was a teenager once,” he said with a smile, “and I still have a soft spot for punk—although I don't know if that's what I'd call your latest offerings.”

  “Yeah, we've been playing around a lot with folk chords and melodies in recent years. Going for a more mature sound, I guess you could say.”

  “I think I speak for everyone when I say, we really appreciate it,” commented Asher. “It shows a deep musical understanding and . . . how you guys have evolved as a band over the years—I mean, the latest album has such a great, organic feel . . .”

  I stood which interrupted them. As nice as it was to see them hit it off so quickly, I didn't want to sit around all night listening to them jabbering on and on about music.

  “Guys, I hate to interrupt, but how about we get a few beers, huh?”

  Asher smiled. “Of course. We are here to celebrate, so let's get on with it. First round is on me. What are you two having?”

  “Guinness for me. Thanks, man,” replied Eddie.

  “Make that two,” I said.

  “Ah, Guinness drinkers, huh? Is there Irish blood in your family?” asked Asher.

  “A fair bit of it!” Eddie replied with a laugh.

  Asher went off to the bar to get the drinks, and I leaned over to Eddie.

  “So? What do you think of him?”

  “He seems like a good dude,” he remarked, “as far as first impressions go anyway. It's still hard to believe that a suit like him is a big fan of my band.”

  “Come on, Eddie. He's not your average suit, you know.”

  “I know, I know. You know what I mean, though—corporate types aren't exactly what make up the majority of the punk rock fan base. Still, seems like a nice guy so far.”

  Asher returned carrying three pints of Guinness, so Eddie and I paused our conversation.

  “Thanks,” Eddie said as he took a beer from Asher. “I'll get the next round.”

  Asher sat down and raised his pint.

  “Here's to Lilah,” he said, “and her amazing presentation today, which I firmly believe is not only going to salvage my firm's reputation with the Harry Winston Company, but will also make us a very decent profit in the process.”

  “To Lilah,” Eddie repeated as he clinked his glass against Asher's.

  “Aw, thanks, guys,” I replied as clinked my glass against theirs. “I appreciate that. Now, let's drink to a year of success ahead for all of us!”

  “I'll drink to that!” exclaimed Eddie, and we all laughed and raised our glasses together.

  ***

  After two more pints, I was starting to feel a little buzzed, so I decided to call it quits for the evening. Conversation had been flowing smoothly all night, especially between Asher and myself—a little too smoothly. Add in the heated eye contact that lasted a little longer than it should have each time, and I was determined not to allow a repeat of the poor decision I’d made with him the last time we’d been together in a public setting outside of work.

  As attractive as I found him, I didn't want a repeat of the last experience—especially not with my boss. I was on top of my game at work, and I didn't want to be put in a position where that could be compromised. I couldn't afford to let emotions get in the way of my career success—not at this stage of the game.

  “All right, guys, I think it's about time that I call it a night,” I announced.

  “Are you sure?” Eddie asked with a grin. “Hell, I was just getting started!”

  “I'm sure you were, Eddie,” I replied with a smile. “Some of us have normal jobs that start at eight in the morning as opposed to two in the afternoon.”

  “You squares and your routines,” he chuckled with a wink. “All right, all right.”

  “Can I give you a ride home?” Asher asked.

  “No, it's fine,” I replied. “Eddie's already said he's giving me a ride, right, Ed?”

  I kicked Eddie's leg subtly under the table.

  “Oh, yeah, yeah. Don't worry, man, I've got it. I’m just gonna finish up this beer and I’ll give her a ride home.”

  “All right,” Asher conceded with a smile that came across as a little disappointed. “Well, it has been fun. Again, well done on the presentation earlier, Lilah, you totally killed it. I'm really looking forward to seeing how your ideas perform in practice. I'm sure they're going to be a runaway success. And, Eddie, it was awesome to meet you. I think I'm going to listen to a bit of Razor's Edge on the drive home, actually.”

  “Right on, man!” Eddie said with a smile as he reached over to shake Asher’s hand.

  “Thanks, Ash,” I offered as he stood.

  He gave both of us a wave.

  “Enjoy the rest of your evening, you two,” he said. “And, Lilah, I'll see you at the office tomorrow.”

  With that, he left—and left me thinking about all sorts of possibilities.

  Chapter Nine

  Asher

  Rejected: not exactly an occurrence I was accustomed to. But that’s exactly what had happened.

  Despite how well we'd gotten along, how easily we'd conversed, not to mention the smoldering looks that had passed between us—at the end of the night,
she'd suddenly flipped the cold switch and that was that. I admit, I had hoped to get a chance to drive her home, but she'd declined—politely, but still, it had been a rejection. No point in sugarcoating it.

  And so, I drove home alone with my thoughts and my music. Thoughts that couldn’t find their way to anything other than Lilah Maxwell. What was it about her that had me so captivated?

  It wasn't that I'd wanted a repeat of our too much wine kiss to happen. All right, maybe part of me did, but it wasn’t just a physical connection I was craving with this woman. No. It was the conversation and energy between us that I wanted to keep going.

  It had been ages since I’d last felt connected so intensely with anyone, female or otherwise. The fact that she was a physically stunning, intelligent, and a sensual woman was merely icing on the cake—sweet, sultry icing.

  But the fact that I was physically attracted to her wasn't the sole reason I wanted to spend more time with her. I just enjoyed being around her.

  “I guess maybe it's a good thing,” I said aloud as I watched the lights of the city fade in my rearview mirror and started the ascent into the hills outside of the city limits. I tended to talk to myself more often than I cared to admit. Hazard of being a bit on the private side—I didn’t let too many people get close to me. That meant I didn’t have too many close friends. The few I had, I didn’t see as often as I once did. And so, I sometimes talked to myself. It’d help me work through the chaos in my head.

  “Maybe she doesn't want things to move too fast,” I considered. I guess I didn't, either. The difference, though, was that I wasn’t so sure she wanted things to move at all—while I certainly did. And that was rather disappointing. Almost made me wish I hadn’t even gone to McGinty’s.