The Billionaire's Christmas Bundle Of Joy - A Secret Baby Romance

by Holly Rayner

  “It is Christmas, after all,” James said. “It’s the time of the year for sentimentality.”

  “And for sitting around with family members, talking politics, as you say,” Mia teased. She gripped his hand as she was thrust into another massive contraction. As she rolled with pain, the nurse examining her told her she would have the baby before midnight. Just before Christmas.

  Mia hardly remembered the birth; she remembered searing pain, great, internal chaos. She remembered James encouraging her, rubbing her arms, and she remembered sweat gushing from every pore. And then she remembered, without any great fanfare, that the world stopped spinning upon the release of her son.

  The nurse held her baby into the air and Mia felt her eyelids falter. Her heart scrunched in her chest with the realization. She’d done it: she’d brought their child into the world, and he was the most perfect gift she’d ever received.

  After cleaning him, the nurse brought the baby, wrapped in swaddling clothes, to Mia and James. Tears flicked from James’ cheeks as he accepted the baby from Mia. He was so tiny, he hardly stretched the length of James’ forearm.

  “I didn’t realize it would be like this,” James whispered. “I can imagine a lot of things. But I couldn’t imagine the depth of this.”

  Mia, dazed and far away, blinked toward the clock on the wall. It was just after midnight. Outside, Christmas snow whizzed past the window. In James’ arms, their baby scrunched his tiny, button-sized nose.

  “Merry Christmas, family,” Mia whispered then.

  James looked up toward the clock, careful not to move too quickly with the sleeping baby in his arms. “And so it is,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”

  Mia’s heart nearly burst at the view of them: her boyfriend and her son. “Do you think this might be the first Christmas that you truly enjoy?” she asked.

  “I have to say that no other day ever, before now or after, could ever beat this, Mia. I love you. I love our son.” He leaned toward her, lifting the baby back into the nook of her elbow. She clung to him with tired arms. James wrapped his own around the pair of them, holding them close. It was a family cocoon; it was unlimited warmth and comfort and love.

  “What should we call him?” Mia whispered. She couldn’t halt the waterfall tears from her eyes.

  James frowned contemplatively, breaking from their hug. “Looking at him now, thinking of all the names we talked about, he looks most like a Daniel to me. Don’t you think?”

  Mia looked down at the scrunched face, at the tiny life. She found herself nodding, knowing that each second with the pair of them was a complete gift, from here forward. “Baby Danny,” she whispered. “Welcome to the world. And Merry Christmas.”

  The End

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  And now, here is the entirety of my previous novel, The Sheikh’s Purchased Bride; a gift to you, my beloved reader!

  ONE

  It seemed like every Broadway actress had a ritual before her curtain call. Breathing exercises, mantras, stretches and impossible yoga poses; all perfectly acceptable rituals to ready the actress for her moment in the spotlight.

  This was hardly Broadway, however, and Amie Shaw’s pre-show ritual wasn’t nearly anything glamorous. Nor was she the lead. In fact, she was merely the understudy, and lately, her pre-theater routine mostly consisted of circling the want ads in the Chicago Tribune while sipping back copious amounts of free green room coffee.

  It’d already been two years since she’d ditched her life as a waitress in Indiana to pursue acting in Chicago. At the time, she’d had big dreams and just the right amount of naivety to believe she would make it big. The reality, however, was far from it. Since arriving in Illinois, she’d landed a couple of small acting gigs here and there, but nothing worth writing home about. She’d nearly fainted when she received the lead role in Carolina and the Bridge—that is, until she found out she’d been cast as the understudy. Thus far she hadn’t even stepped on stage once, and tonight was the last show.

  She’d chosen her starter apartment before she’d even left Indiana; catching an ad online and deciding that particular choice would be low-budget enough that she wouldn’t be limited to eating boatloads of ramen upon coming into the city. She’d been in her ‘starter’ for two years now and desperately needed an upgrade. Still, with mounting bills and no acting career in sight, she’d taken to mindlessly searching the want ads in the paper and obsessively checking her phone for acting gigs and waitressing jobs.

  Boy, would her parents be proud.

  Though divorced, Amie’s parents could always agree on one thing: her career, or lack thereof. So it came as no surprise to her when, on separate occasions, both her mom and dad expressed concern for her pursuit of acting, especially when she decided to move out of state. She’d loved acting ever since she was a child, and she knew she was good, she just needed more opportunities. If she could get to the big city, she’d foolishly thought, the roles would come pouring in. Lately, though, she’d been thinking more and more that her parents might have been right all along.

  Like most other nights, Amie had taken her place in the wings backstage at the local theater to watch another rendition of a fantastic play she had seemingly learned all the lines in vain for. She sat atop an old speaker near the stage, outfitted in sweatpants and a T-shirt; her long hazelnut hair scrunched up in a lazy bun.

  She absent-mindedly tapped her fingers against her coffee cup as her eyes skimmed through the paper. There was a sudden rustle backstage that might have signaled to her that the show was starting, but there was still over an hour to go before curtain call. Before she had a chance to swallow her coffee and ask a stagehand for the scoop, the director came rushing up to her.

  In standard dramatic fashion he grabbed her coffee cup and set it roughly on the speaker, causing it to spill slightly over the surface.

  “Thanks for that,” she said with a grin.

  “You’re honestly just sitting there?”

  Amie blinked emphatically. “I have become one with this speaker. She understands me and I, her.”

  “No time, no time!” he shouted.

  “For what?”

  “For that thing you do when you get sarcastic! Wardrobe!” he yelped across the green room while rubbing his temples in an over-exaggerated fashion. “This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening!”

  “Michael!” she said firmly, grabbing both his shoulders. She felt comfortable sassing her director; the two had formed a close friendship over the last few weeks—watching him throw up backstage on opening night had done a good job of breaking down the walls between them. “Words. Use them. Breathe, then speak.”

  “Sharon called in sick,” he said, referring to the lead actress. He placed his hand on his forehead and gave a woeful sigh. “It’s all up to you now, honey, so get into wardrobe immediately, if not sooner.”

  “She’s sick?” Amie repeated, her heart doing backflips.

  “Yes!” Michael said, finally taking on a normal tone. Oftentimes his theatrical nature would overwhelm even the most mundane conversation—he could make asking for a cup of coffee sound apocalyptic.

  “I blame you,” he said absent-mindedly. “You must have put a hex on her just to get on stage. Now come on, to wardrobe!”

  “Uh, yeah! Okay!” Amie said, ripping her ponytail from her hair and tossing the want ads to the green room floor. She quickly followed behind as Michael marched into hair and makeup, with a stylist at the ready to turn her into a perfect piece of stage art.

  “It’s so funny because I’m always telling Katie that it drives me crazy how I’m getting sick like every week, yet no one else ever gets sick around here. I even told her we should start cranking up the AC,” Amie laughed, but Michael merely continued forward. “You know, so people get cold and maybe—” />
  “—develop a debilitating illness?” he interrupted, dragging her by the arm into a makeup chair and instructing the stylists without a word. “I get the joke, Amie, it’s just a little morbid.”

  “Right…” she pursed her lips awkwardly. “I mean, I didn’t really do it, so…”

  “Just, be ready in 30! You do know the lines, yes?”

  “Yes, of course!” she said quickly, watching as he disappeared out of the dressing room. Her heart wouldn’t stop flipping as the women behind her fussed and fawned over her makeup and curls; deep down, beneath her sarcastic veneer, she was relishing every moment of her big debut and silently taking back every jealous thing she’d ever uttered about this play.

  She practiced her lines in a whisper for the next half hour, reminding herself that she’d spent the last eight weeks rehearsing these lines alongside the play as she watched from the wings, and that she had nothing to worry about.

  While Carolina and the Bridge wasn’t exactly critically acclaimed in the media, the play’s director was still renowned for throwing some of the biggest, wildest after-parties on the Chicago theater scene. It didn’t go beyond Amie’s notice when a stage hand swooped into her ear with an excited whisper announcing: “You’re so invited to the after-party.”

  Amie squeezed into her first costume and was quickly shuffled about from stagehand to stagehand. She could hear the assistant director ushering her to the curtain with a wild energy as all the actors took their places.

  Breathe Amie, just breathe. If she could just get out her first line, she’d be golden for the rest of the performance.

  She stepped onto the stage and quickly took her place at a faux-antique writing desk. She stared at the velvet red curtains and then down at the leather-bound book before her. She could see where Sharon had scribbled on the pages, either while pretending to write, or accidentally, out of nerves. She smiled at the penmanship and took it as an unspoken sign of Sharon’s blessing on her stepping into her shoes that evening.

  Suddenly, Amie realized the background music had faded and the billowing red curtains had been drawn; the bright stage lights blinding her vision of the vast audience before her.

  She stared wide-eyed at the hot lights above and then back down at the book in front of her.

  Say, your, line!

  “Endlessly, endless dull…” she said in her best Sharon impression, sweeping the papers off the table with an over-exaggerated swing of her hand. A chuckle ran through the audience at the gesture, which Amie could only take as sign of good things to come.

  ***

  Amie’s instinct was right. The next two hours went off without a hitch. In fact, she dared think that the audience seemed to react even better than they normally did. She took in every sensation and every tingle of nervous excitement she felt while on stage and could barely believe it when she found herself saying her last line of the night.

  Moments later, Amie found herself taking the stage alone to do her final bow. She couldn’t believe it when the audience rose to their feet and roared with thunderous applause. She took a brief look around the stage to make sure there was no one else accompanying her, to which the audience caught on and began to laugh. She felt a small sense of shock to discover that yes, they were clapping for her. Just her! A tall, well-dressed man stood in the front row, applauding slowly as he regarded her intently; the look on his face silently telling her he thought she was absolutely brilliant.

  Maybe she was just feeling a little full of herself. Still, she felt no small sense of pride as she heard a woman in the audience declare ‘She was amazing!’ to the woman she was sitting beside.

  Amie almost laughed. Did they really think she was the star of the play? Didn’t they realize she was just the understudy? The thought filled her stomach with butterflies.

  Her line of thinking was confirmed further as she headed backstage and was met by a barrage of co-stars, along with Michael, all congratulating her on a flawless performance.

  “You’re coming to the after party tonight, right?” Michael asked, grabbing both of her hands in his.

  “Um… Is that even a question?” she joked.

  Michael laughed. “You know the address. Take in every moment of it, Amie. This is your night!”

  Before Amie could respond, Michael suddenly seemed distracted, pointing behind her to a handsome man entering the greenroom. He had deep, tan skin and a fantastic gray suit that, she’d wager, probably cost more than the deposit on her apartment.

  As the man approached, Michael leaned into her ear, whispering with a hint of annoyance, “Probably a journalist or a critic.” He looked Amie up and down, rolling his eyes and sighing playfully. “Well, at least try and act refined.”

  “Thanks for that,” she responded dryly before turning to her Middle-Eastern hunk of a critic. “I don’t do autographs,” she joked before throwing her hands up in the air. “Oh, who am I kidding? Somebody get me a pen!”

  Michael stared on, looking horrified for a moment before taking his leave backstage—but not before pointing to his watch and mouthing “Five minutes!” at Amie, from behind the critic’s back.

  “That was a joke…” she awkwardly chirped out.

  The man smiled. “You know your joke’s not funny when…”

  “When you have to explain it?” she winced. “I’ve heard that before… Hey, you’re the man from the front row! Fancy suit, loud clapping, told me I was brilliant.”

  “I did, did I?”

  “Well, in my head you did,” she said with an easy smile. “I give it about, oh, two more minutes until you actually say it to my face.”

  “You were brilliant,” he relented jokingly before making a half-hearted bow.

  “Man, am I good.” Amie tried her best to act smooth but couldn’t help her face flushing red as he spoke to her; his slight accent peeking through his words. “So, you’re a journalist?”

  The man looked taken aback. “Here, I thought I was in real estate? Hmm…”

  “Oh, you’re not a journalist. My bad, sorry. I was told that when people come backstage it’s because they… Wait, if you’re not a journalist, what’re you doing back here?”

  “I’m actually a talent scout, of sorts.”

  “I thought you were in real estate?”

  “What can I say, I’m a man of many talents.”

  “If that’s true, then I am all ears,” she smiled.

  “Good, because I think you might be exactly what I’m looking for.” He looked her over and gave his first flirtatious smile of the evening. “Perhaps I could let you get out of costume and we’ll speak further?”

  Amie’s heart skipped a beat. Wow, this guy must’ve really liked her work if he was just waiting around to offer her a job right after the play. This was just the way she imagined landing her dream job; one fabulous night of acting followed by a wave of roles and opportunities coming her way. Alright, so this wasn’t exactly a wave, but it was something.

  Flabbergasted, all Amie could think to say was: “You don’t like my dress?”

  The man blinked and laughed. He stared down at her 1920s-style cocktail dress and the large feathered plume coming out of her flapper headband. Her eyebrows were accentuated into unthinkably long tails ending by her temples and she still held a long, ivory cigarette holder between her fingers. “I worry I’d come off as underdressed if we were to meet like this,” he laughed once more. “Meet me across the street for a drink?”

  She nodded and watched the man leave backstage as quickly as he entered. Eight weeks of attending this theater as an understudy and years more as a fan led her to know exactly where he was talking about: The Delphi—a small, classy bar situated in a nook across the street. The architecture was beautiful and intricate; the wood beams and interior craftsmanship showing the building’s historic character and elegance… And besides that, they made a mean sangria.

  TWO

  Amie had never changed so fast in her whole life. She frowned in the mir
ror, at the gross sweatpants and ridiculous sweatshirt she’d come to work in. Of all days, why couldn’t she have worn something a little more dignified?

  She told Michael she’d likely be late to the after party and raced across the street at lightning speed. Luckily, The Delphi was small enough that she easily spotted her mystery talent scout and made her way over to him.

  “Amie Shaw,” she said as she sat down, reaching across the table to shake the scout’s hand.

  He looked her outfit over and, though he never changed his expression, Amie could feel a definitive judgment about her less than stellar wardrobe.

  “I came to work straight from the gym,” she lied sheepishly.

  He squeezed her hand and released her from their overdue introduction, smiling charismatically as he said, “Please, call me Malik. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us some champagne, I hope that’s all right.”