Baby Fever Bride: A Billionaire Romance

by Nicole Snow

  The new developments zoned along the rail extension are going to be awesome money makers when they're done. It would be a natural extension of the hundred year old Shaw empire, if only that greedy fucking gold digger my father married wasn't getting in the way.

  Gavins clears his throat again and looks at me. “Rest assured, we won't do anything rash. I think a full review of financials is in order, as soon as your trust issue is wrapped up.”

  The old wolf stuffs the check in his breast pocket. He looks at his watch, scans across all of us gathered at the table, and nods.

  “If no one here has any further business...”

  Part of me would love to call him out for taking the money and running like a coward as soon as the going gets tough. There's no time for that when I've got more pressing business.

  I want my phone back, for one. I also really want another meeting with the potential stress relief I crashed into today.

  Hell, maybe I'll bring her a new pair of heels. She can wear them while they're digging into me, her long legs wrapped around my waist, sexy green eyes flashing like emerald as we try to break the nearest horizontal surface.

  Gavins' ceremonial gavel comes down. The board members start filing out. Once the room is almost clear, Peters, an older man who kept quiet, comes up and slaps me on the shoulder.

  “Don't worry, I've got your back. The courts are going to settle all this crap with your inheritance, and we'll be doing business again like old times before you know it. Sorry again about your old man, amazing guy.”

  “Yeah,” I say, squeezing his hand. “I'll be carrying on his legacy. Dad raised me right, and we'll have this back on track before Christmas. Go ahead and bet the whole check I just gave you on it.”

  Peters flashes me a sympathetic look, smiling through his bushy grey mustache. He's on my side, but he doesn't believe me.

  Whatever. I'm not asking for faith. I'm telling them the way it's going to be. That's what Shaw men have always done since my great grandfather ran his first apartments in the city's old Polish district.

  We're builders, makers, and we don't take shit from anyone. I'll settle with Kayla soon, right after I've gotten my phone back in my hand and my dick wet.

  When I get out, my car is waiting, sleek and black as obsidian. I gave my aide, Reed, the afternoon off to spend time with his granddaughter. Besides, taking the train was a nice touch considering the scope of the project, plus the side perk of meeting the woman who's got all my contacts in her palm.

  “Anything important come down during the meeting?” I ask, as soon as he puts our custom Tesla in drive.

  “Another message from your step-mom. She says she will – and I quote – 'feed you your own balls' if her lawyer doesn't hear from your guy by Friday. She wants a response to the latest letter, Master Hayden.”

  “My balls? Tell her she can choke on them,” I growl, pressing my fist into the leather seats. “Letter? What letter?”

  “I dropped it in your office mail this morning. Had her guy's watermark on the envelope. Real official looking. Must be the demands you said she squawked about last week.”

  Snorting, I turn my face to the glass, staring out while the traffic thickens around us.

  If only dear old dad had the wisdom to keep his balls away from this woman. Then we wouldn't be in this predicament.

  Too bad women always were his weakness. He wasn't thinking past Kayla's supermodel good looks, plastic tits, and the fact that she was only four years older than me before he suffered a massive heart attack.

  “Sir, what do I say if she calls again?” Reed looks back at me in the rear view mirror, the glass partition between us down. “I can't tell her to choke, and you know it. She'll stop communicating altogether if I send her what you had me email last month.” He pauses, the amused grin fading from his lips. “Then again...speaking very honestly, maybe silence would be a good thing in this situation. Let the lawyers handle it, you know?”

  “No. I want her backing the fuck off. She's after everything our family worked for. Amazes me everyday I can't make Luke and Grant give a shit.”

  “Yes, speaking of your brothers, I left them an update as well. Lucus called back. Said you weren't responding to his texts.” Reed takes us into an old fashioned Chicagoland traffic jam, heading back into the city. Good thing I'm not in any hurry.

  “Yeah, about that...” I catch his eyes in the rear view mirror again. “I lost my damned phone on the ride down here. I'm going to need you to get in touch with tech support so I can track it down.”

  Assuming I don't hear anything from Fuckable and Mysterious first, I think to myself. Reed has worked with me since I was in my teens. Dad dumped him on me for a younger, hotter female replacement, before he ditched her for Kayla.

  “That doesn't sound like you, Master Hayden, losing your phone, I mean. You're always on it, taking care of business. It's practically part of you.”

  I smile. He knows me too well, the side I let him see. Unlike my old man, I've given him enough leeway and distance in his part-time hours to keep him away from the part of my life he doesn't need to know about.

  He's the last direct connection I have left to my father. I don't want him thinking I'm heading down the same path, sleeping my way through every broad who's sexy, receptive, and worth the chase.

  With everything else up in the air, at least I've made one executive decision about that today.

  I'm confident the redhead on the train is worth it. I'll get my phone back, have my fun, and move the hell on like I always do. The notches in my bedpost are severely lacking in hourglass women with fiery hair like hers.

  If I can make another conquest, forgetting the family and business woes for a few hours, all the better.

  I'm home on the cheap burner phone I've borrowed from Reed, a glass of good scotch in my hand, when my phone finishes connecting to my younger brother.

  “Luke?” I wonder if he can hear me over the static in the background.

  “Hayds? Is that you? I'm on my way to Portland.”

  “No. It's the gremlin who's going to tear your wing apart and drive you crazy.” I pause just long enough to hear his breath over the plane's whir at thirty thousand feet. We both grew up watching the Twilight Zone, and he laughs at the reference. I've learned to dial the number he uses when he's airborne first, a line for better reception when he's on the go, as often as he is. “Listen, I've been trying to get in touch with you all week about the case.”

  “Hell, the legal talk again? I told you before, I don't care. That's what I've been trying to remind you all damned week. If she's not trying to repossess my jet or get me blacklisted with every agent in Hollywood, I could care less what happens.”

  “I do. There are billions on the line, Luke. Everything dad, grandpa, and I built up over the years. You used your portion to get started out there. Grant used his to make his first million, and then a lot more after that. Without our inheritance, you wouldn't be up there flying anywhere.”

  “Sounds like you need a drink,” he says, once again tapping into his magical ability to brush everything that matters off like dust. I grit my teeth and take another pull from my glass. “Seriously, Hayds, I think you should settle down. Let this go. Retire. You've done damn well for yourself, almost as much as Grant did on Wall Street, yeah? Maybe better. I don't care how ruthless she is, there's no way you walk away with less than half a billion if she liquidates those properties. We're lucky. We get to live like kings no matter how bad we fuck up.”

  “I can't walk away. I'm not giving up on a hundred years of history, everything our family built. Great Grandpa laid the first brick with his crew downtown using his own bare hands. I'm not like you. Can't be satisfied with time on the screen or up in the air or trying to start my own winery.” I pause, thinking I could list about a dozen other ridiculous projects my black sheep brother tried over the years. No, I'll let him keep his pride tonight. “I'm going to bury her, Luke. I wish you were with me, but I don't ca
re if you're not. This crazy bitch isn't going to gut our legacy.”

  “It's not like that,” he says quietly, engine humming in the background. “It's your endgame that confuses me, bro. You're going through all this effort to hang onto money and real estate we don't need, working yourself into an early grave, and for what? Just so you can take your dates up in a skyscraper and introduce them to your perfect ten?” He suppresses a snicker, using the perfect ten quote the trashy blogs like to throw around because I was dumb enough to tell them they could go fuck themselves with it once when their cameras were in my faces.

  “Why so quiet over there? Don't tell me you're still dicking the blonde one with the million dollar smile...what was her name again?”

  “Who's in my bed is none of your business.” I have to suppress a shudder when I think about my ex, Brie.

  Yes, like the cheese. Her stench over me lingers just as long, too. She's still passive-aggressively texting me every other week for a second chance.

  My blood runs hot. Nothing gets to me like hearing him spout the same bullshit the tabloids do. It's my own fault for sticking my dick in a few too many young, bright-eyed reporters over the years. The scorned ones are happier than anyone to latch onto the dirt, and make sure it sticks.

  I'm on my feet, turning away from my desk. The Chicago skyline glows outside the window, vast and brilliant, countless lights blazing they're like galaxies. My personal floor of the Shaw Glass Tower gives me one of the best views in this city. It's a constant reminder of everything I've fought for, built, and want to keep.

  “Suit yourself, bro. I don't have time to go chasing dollars like you and Grant. I'm living life. I enjoy the simple things.”

  “I'm not you. Clearly, there are differences between us we're never going to understand. If I have to go it alone, I will.”

  “I'm there in spirit, Hayds. Always have been, and always will be. I want the best for you, whatever makes you happy. As for me, I'm already there.”

  “Good. Stay there, too.” I end the call, slamming the cheap phone down on my desk.

  Time to top off my scotch. Glass refilled, I bring it to my lips and take a long fiery sip, looking out across the city my blood has worked like hell for our piece of.

  I called my brother for an update on where he stood, not to wind up on shakier ground than ever. His words haunt me as I take another pull from my drink, rolling uncomfortable questions over in my mind.

  I've told myself exactly why I get up, go out, and make more money every time the sun comes up. I know why I'm doing this.

  It's in the membership statement to my own company, and I drop it in every speech I make, hanging on the ears of politicians, investors, and managers.

  A better world now. That's the slogan. It's true enough, something I learned the first time dad sat me down and explained good business and happy people go hand-in-hand. Always.

  It's about them. Not me. I'm part of something greater, even if it pays me, very, very handsomely.

  I want to keep the faith. Sometimes, on nights like this, however, I wonder if it's all bullshit.

  Part of me dares to imagine there's more to life than these breathtaking views and insane obligations. More than imported scotch and supermodel pussy. More than another night by myself, fantasizing about my latest conquest in the making, and then thinking one step ahead to how I'm going to move on when I'm done.

  When I turn in, I dream about a family. Stability. I think about how hollow it feels to build all this if there's no one to leave it to, no greater purpose, the legacy I'm fighting tooth and nail over ending with my name etched in a few dozen half-forgotten plaques around the city.

  “Fuck.” My fist comes down, hits the desk, and sends pain into my brain like a lightning bolt.

  I set my glass down, looking past my impact point on the wood at the slim grey envelope with the gold letters in the corner. It's from Kayla's lawyer, the demands I ripped from my personal mailbox, and haven't bothered to look at because it's bound to make me put holes in the fucking wall with my fists.

  No, I can't back down. I need to get this over with.

  Clenching my jaw, I swipe the envelope off the desk and tear it open. It's thick cream paper with heavy type. Two paragraphs, and a huge signature from a vicious attorney that should put the fear of King Shit into me.

  “Mr. Shaw...my client's demands...cease and desist...” I'm mumbling to myself, dragging my finger down the page, ignoring the fluff. When I hit the demands section, I do a double take, and my heart brakes to a screeching halt.

  “No fucking way,” I whisper. I have to read the section above her list of piracy again just to make sure, but my eyes aren't the ones deceiving me.

  It's there, plain as the city skyline shimmering behind me, and a hundred times more outrageous.

  The trust specifies an open ended arrangement, to be reached in a court of law, with one notable exception. In the event of a third generation heir, or intent to create such shown in good faith, all holdings in this trust will default to the nearest direct descendant of sound mind and good legal standing.

  Intent and good faith, in this situation, defined by a legally wed spouse who has expressed a desire to raise a family with either of the Shaw male heirs.

  Stop. I have to, or else I'm going to pass right out from clenching my abs, forcing dark, thick laughter up my throat.

  Really, dad? This is what you came up with?

  I want to crumple up the thing and fling it in the nearest trash can like the joke it is. Only, it isn't, because the official header from Kayla's lawyer is staring right at me.

  Her asshole lawyer had to lay down the loophole. And she let him, just to twist the dagger deep, knowing there's no way in hell I'll get married and agree to have my non-existent wife pop out a kid before this is settled.

  It's old language. It has to be. Something he never bothered to amend when he revamped the trust, promising Kayla virtually everything about a year into their marriage.

  She had a way with my dad. I've forgotten how many dinners Luke, Grant, and I sat through, watching her pawing at his shoulder, raising his drink for him with her slim hand, whispering filthy things in his ear.

  The bitch would have fed him grapes like Caesar himself if it meant getting her name on more loot.

  I didn't know she'd succeeded until the day after we got home from the cemetery last July. We sat down as a 'family' with the lawyer he'd left as his executor, only to find out we were completely fucked the minute Kayla smiled.

  It's not enough to shred it, and throw the document in the trash. I want it gone. Out of sight.

  I want to pop the window, and hurl it down onto the windy Chicago streets about seventy stories down. Of course, knowing my luck, it'd fly into the hands of the nearest jackass looking to post it all over social media.

  I've been humiliated enough by a woman who never should've forced her way into dad's life in the first place. I'm not inviting the entire world to laugh over Facebook and Twitter, especially when their laughter will be a roar. I slipped up too many times with the ladies in my younger years. It's one area where my perfect looks haven't helped, inviting as much gossip as they have inroads with the right people.

  I let the letter drop, drift toward the floor, and crunch it with my shoe. That's it, then.

  It's over. The sinking pit in my stomach overwhelms the liquid fire from the scotch, and it tells me everything I need to know.

  My wicked step-mother just laid down the terms of my surrender. If I had any way to fight it, I would, but the only out my dad left intact is impossible.

  I've got ninety-nine problems, and every last one of them begins and ends with Kayla Shaw. I'm not going to find a wife and get her to agree to have a kid in the next thirty days, about the time the court deadlines are set to detonate in my face.

  Suddenly, slinking off into retirement like Luke suggested doesn't seem so miserable. Through all my rage, my sadness, my whole fucking future evaporating before my eyes,
it's what I'm going to have to learn to cope with if I want to survive.

  Worse, I'll have to forward the note to my lawyer in the morning. Kayla wants her response by Friday, two days from now, or else the wheels will start turning in the legal machine before I can think about throwing a wrench between the gears.

  I walk toward the nearest window, pressing my hand against the cool glass. This might be the first of the last days I'll be looking over this city from heights I own. That stabs me so deep, so hard, I forget about getting my dick wet in the pure sex I met on the train this evening.

  It's bad. Hell, it might just be the end of the world as I know it.

  When Hayden Shaw gets too pissed to let his cock lead the way to the only release from this hell, the situation isn't bad.

  It's a fucking cataclysm, and I think it's about to chew me up faster than the cold Chicago night.

  3

  When Opportunity Knocks (Penny)

  I'm on the train home the next day after work, and this time I'm armed with mace, plus a shiny new keychain with sharp points that doubles as a self-defense weapon when it's slipped on over my fingers.

  Lesson learned. I'm staying vigilant. Not just for more pervs who get way too close for comfort, but for my stranger, Hayden.

  I've fought the urge to look at his phone. It isn't my business to snoop – tempting as it is. I only check the screen every few hours, feeling my blood warm every time I pick it up. I'm waiting for a call, a voice mail, a text, anything that tells me its owner wants it back.

  He has something I need, too. I'm mortified he's got my diary, knowing he's probably reading and laughing over every word right now. Hell, it might be the reason I haven't heard a peep from him yet.

  No, I'm holding out hope. He can't be so rich he'd walk away and forfeit the phone with its case that costs more than a year of my rent...right? Mostly, I want to believe he isn't, because it minimizes the chances he'll walk away from me without picking up where we left off.