His Baby: A Babycrazy Romance

by Cassandra Dee

“Yes, Mr. Pattinson is expecting you,” came her smooth reply. “Elevator all the way to the left, and then up to the top floor.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled wanly before striding through the marble lobby. And fortunately, the elevator was right there, the doors swooshing open in anticipation.

  But when I looked inside, another surprise greeted me. Because there was an actual attendant waiting inside, perched on a wooden stool and dressed in a natty bellhop suit. It seemed like a throwback to the sixties when every elevator had an operator, but who knew? At this point, there’d been so many unexpected events that I didn’t know what to think anymore.

  “Hello,” the young man greeted cheerfully. “Up to the top floor?”

  “Um, why yes,” I stammered, getting in. “How did you know?”

  “We only go to the top floor,” he said in a bright voice. “How’s your day going, ma’am?”

  I didn’t answer, merely looking at him curiously. Because why was there an attendant for an elevator that only served the penthouse? Why did the penthouse have its own elevator anyways? Did the owner not like to share?

  My mind was churning because clearly, my client had to be rich. The building he lived in was nothing to behold from the outside, but the lobby had been fancy with marble floors and modern chandeliers. And now, the elevator was pure luxury itself, what with the wood-paneled walls and personal service. What was going on? It seemed like the closer and closer you got to my mysterious customer, the more elaborate things became.

  But I took a deep breath. This is just a two-hour jaunt, the voice in my head came. You’re making your two thousand and then beating the hell outta Dodge, it said firmly. Don’t lose your head.

  So when the bell dinged, I nodded politely at the attendant before stepping outside into a long, carpeted hallway. Hmm, you could almost smell the luxury now, from the gold-scrolled carpet to the elegant damask wallpaper. I made my way down the hall to the one door at the end, which was huge and oaken with a lion’s head knocker. How weird. Who would have a lion’s head knocker on their apartment door? This was an apartment, wasn’t it? Not a house?

  But immediately, a low voice rang out.

  “Come,” it said. And somehow, I knew who would be in there before I actually saw him. It had to be the mysterious man from last week, the one who’d watched me dance while half-hidden in the shadows. A shiver ran down my spine as I stepped into the foyer.

  “Hi, it’s me, Susie,” I said. “Or Pearl,” was my quick stammer. Drat, why did I keep making that mistake? My heels clack-clacked on the marble floors, and I felt nervous yet excited at once. Because the man had been ruling my dreams for the past weeks, and it was frankly embarrassing how I’d been at work thinking about him non-stop. For example, just today at lunch, my friend Lizzie had noticed the dreamy look in my eyes.

  “Hello, hello,” she’d said, waving her hand in front of my eyes. “Geez Louise, Suse, what’s wrong with you?”

  But I could hardly reveal that I’d taken up moonlighting as an exotic dancer, so I merely smiled weakly.

  “Um nothing,” was my reply while biting into a portabella sandwich. “This is really good, mmm!”

  Fortunately, Lizzie was more interested in scrutinizing my eating habits than asking about my dating life.

  “You’re so lucky to have such a curvy shape,” she said, casting me an envious glance. “I eat and eat and eat, but look at me,” she frowned, staring at her hands. “My fingers are like twigs,” she bemoaned.

  It was true, and the perfect distraction.

  “No,” I protested. “You look great, Liz! Clothes always look amazing on you, while on me, everything’s too tight in every direction,” I said wryly. “That’s why I have to eat less, not more.”

  But somehow, my healthy appetite and resultant curves had gotten the attention of this mysterious customer, and I was curious to finally see his face. So slowly moving forwards into the suite, my body flushed with heat.

  “Hello?” I called off towards the sitting room where a light shone. “Should I take off my shoes or anything?”

  Immediately, I cursed myself. That was dumb. Of course I didn’t have to take off my shoes. This wasn’t some hippie-dippie dude who listened to Indian music while meditating in front of a fire. Everything so far pointed to a successful businessman, from the driver, to the fancy elevator, to the lavish apartment.

  “No, shoes on is okay,” rumbled that male voice again. “Come on in, Susie.”

  And tentatively, I made my way towards the voice. Again, I wasn’t sure what I was going to see, and was a little afraid, frankly. Because I hoped against hope that it was my mysterious patron, but then again, I’ve been wrong before. Maybe it was some disgusting old dude who was eighty years old with a giant potbelly. Totally possible, given that New York seems to be ruled by guys like that.

  But when I stepped into the living area, my mouth dropped open and my eyes grew wide. Because the man there was tall and handsome, with flashing blue eyes. But it wasn’t the perfectly cut suit, the broad shoulders, or the knowing grin that got me. It was everything about him … because in front of me sat the President of the United States himself, Thomas Burke.

  “Mr. President?” I gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  A white smile flashed, one that I’d seen so many times on various news programs.

  “I’m your customer,” he rumbled with a knowing smile. “Welcome to my home.”

  I merely stood there, astonished.

  “But isn’t the White House your home?” came my weak reply. “You know, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue?”

  He threw his head back and laughed, showing off a strong, tanned throat.

  “That’s true,” he acknowledged. “That’s where my mail goes, when USPS hasn’t lost it. But my real home is all over,” he said with another smile. “I’m hardly ever in any one place very long. In fact, Air Force One is probably my true residence, come to think of it.”

  I couldn’t handle it. My form dropped limply into the nearest chair, eyes still fixed on the handsome man.

  “B-but what are you doing here?” I asked, my voice tremulous. “This is crazy!”

  He merely shrugged.

  “Well, I saw you dancing last week and thought “Gee, she’s cute. I’d like to meet her.” So here I am,” he bantered playfully.

  I shook my head. Was this guy insane? Seriously. The man was the leader of the free world, and yet he patronized seedy strip clubs where they served beers for a dollar? Really, really?

  But Thomas merely nodded, shrugging those shoulders.

  “Hey, there are benefits to being me,” he said lightly. “And sometimes I don’t want to be noticed, thus the Pink Flamingo,” he added wryly. “So what can I say? Veni, vedi, veci. I wanted to meet you, and my staff set it up.”

  And suddenly, I realized what had just happened. The pieces of the puzzle all fit together with startling clarity, from the limo, to the driver, to the elevator attendant. In fact, all three of those guys probably had black belts in karate and a secret service badge beneath their uniform because they were the President’s security detail, cleverly disguised to protect our most important citizen.

  But still, it was hard to take in.

  “You must be joking,” I said, staring at him. “This can’t be happening.”

  Again, President Burke merely shrugged.

  “Believe it, pretty girl. And by the way, your credit check from last week came up with a real good score. You’ve been paying your bills on time. Very nice.”

  I gasped again.

  “Pink Flamingo ordered that credit check!” I sputtered. “They said they needed it for my employment records! And besides, isn’t that information private?”

  But President Burke merely shrugged.

  “I guess so,” he said in a conciliatory voice. “But honestly, everything’s on a spectrum. Citizens have a right to privacy, but that right can fall in the face of greater concerns, such as national security.”


  Suddenly, I remembered that the president had a law degree from some fancy university. I was probably no match for this guy on an intellectual level. But still, I had to try.

  “The national security in question being you,” I said slowly. “It was okay to look at my credit score because your staff had to ensure your safety and security.”

  “Pretty much,” the big man agreed with a lazy grin, leaning back in his chair. “But you’re not alone sweetheart. Everyone who meets me has to go jump through a couple hoops. By the way, can I get you a drink?” he interrupted, standing immediately. “I’ve been missing my manners. They have everything here, from top shelf liquor to PBR.”

  But I shook my head no. Alcohol wasn’t going to help me think straight in the midst of these startling circumstances. Actually, scratch that. I needed to relax, and a drink would be just the thing.

  “Sure,” I said, nodding quickly. “Just a bourbon straight, please.”

  He smiled, pouring the amber liquid with firm hands before passing the crystal lowball to me.

  “My lady,” he growled.

  And when our fingers touched, I felt it again. That spark. The electricity ran between our forms like a live wire, and I tipped my head up swiftly to be caught in those blue eyes.

  Thomas smiled knowingly.

  “That’s the girl I remember,” he rumbled. “So let’s get to know one another,” he said, sitting again and crossing his legs. “I realize this is a little strange, but trust me. Everything having to do with being president is a little bizarre.”

  I merely paused, unsure where to start. What in the world was going on? I’d been ready to fend off some gross eighty-year old married dude, and instead, I was having drinks with the leader of the free world? What kind of dream was I living in?

  Thomas could read my mind.

  “Shoot,” he said with another lazy smile. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Ask away.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Well, let’s start at the beginning then. What were you doing at the Pink Flamingo? Isn’t it kind of … um, downscale for a sitting American president? And shouldn’t you be in Washington?”

  This time, Thomas didn’t laugh it off. The handsome man merely nodded thoughtfully.

  “Well sure,” he said. “But like I said, I’m not in Washington most of the time. I travel like a motherfucker, what with the recent trade talks in Lausanne and meeting with constituents from Arizona to Maine. Serving the American people isn’t easy on any front. So I have to get out there and push our national agenda, all the while remaining accessible to citizens at home.”

  That made sense actually, if I stopped to think about it.

  “So you jet around all the time,” I said slowly, taking a sip of my drink, mind spinning furiously. “But even so, why were you at the Pink Flamingo? Aren’t there nicer places? I mean, I don’t mean to diss my employer but you know how the Flamingo is,” I said in a helpless voice. “It’s kind of … grungy.”

  Thomas threw his head back and laughed again, exposing the strong column of his throat. Wow, the guy was really handsome, even better in real-life than when he was on TV. That bronzed skin glowed with health, and his blue eyes were magnetic, drawing me in. Plus, I’d heard that people on TV are small in real life. But for President Burke, that didn’t hold true. He had to be at least six foot three, with broad shoulders and strong, tree-trunk thick legs.

  He winked at me.

  “Well, let’s just say that I enjoy a lot of different activities,” came that smooth voice. “From white tie events with the Queen of England present to your local dive bar with different beers on tap. I’m a man of diverse tastes,” he said lightly. “What can I say?”

  But still I was puzzled.

  “But you could have gone to Scores or Elevated,” was my puzzled question. “Why the Flamingo? It’s so low brow.”

  He merely shrugged again.

  “Why do I like McDonald’s, even though I have personal chefs cooking for me at the White House? Sometimes, a man’s character is formed long before he sets foot in 1600 Pennsylvania, sweetheart. And I grew up on Big Macs and hush puppies, so it’s too late for me to change.”

  Suddenly, I remembered how he was famed on the campaign trial for eating dozens of fries and burgers. In fact, the whole junk food thing had endeared him to voters as a “regular American” who was “just like them.”

  “So you weren’t pretending when you said McDonald’s apple pies are your favorite food?” I asked slowly. “That was real?”

  He grinned again before taking another sip of whiskey.

  “It was real,” he confirmed. “Besides, those things are really good. Have you had one before?”

  I blushed a little. In fact, I’d just grabbed a pie yesterday, devouring it while I walked home from work.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted shyly. “They’re real tasty.”

  “See?” he asked with a pleased smile. “Now what could be more American than a warm apple pie?”

  And I had to say that Thomas had a point. I know that McDonald’s isn’t good for you, and that their pies are loaded with sugar. But as a girl who likes to eat, sometimes the syrupy goodness paired with a flaky crust is exactly what you need. A sudden thought occurred to me. How in the world had we just bonded over Mickey D’s apple pies?

  It’s his charm, the voice in my head whispered. This man got fifty million people to vote for him last year. He knows exactly how to build rapport to garner votes. You’d vote him now, wouldn’t you?

  I flushed because it was true. This man was a master politician, and I was being played just like any of his constituents. But I had to keep my guard up because this wasn’t a political rally or a barn-raising event. This was business. So I took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. President? Am I here for something in particular?”

  He smiled again, although there was a gleam in those blue eyes now.

  “Well, what do you think you’re here for, sweetheart?”

  Hmm, very clever. Answering a question with a question. I took a deep breath.

  “To be honest, I don’t know,” was my honest response. “I know I was supposed to meet a client for maybe dinner or drinks. I figured he’d put the moves on me, but that’s where everything went off track. Because I never figured he’d be you,” was my slow reply.

  Thomas swirled his glass thoughtfully, the amber liquid forming graceful waves.

  “Well, why don’t you pretend that I’m just another guy?” he asked. “Someone who’s interested in getting to know you?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Honestly sir, I don’t know if I can do that. After all, how? You’re you, and I’m just me.”

  “That’s it exactly,” he said, his gaze suddenly direct. “You’re you and I’m me. Nothing’s different. You’re a very beautiful woman whom I’d like to get to know, and this shouldn’t be different from any other interaction. Within reason, of course.”

  I swallowed heavily because the truth was that I was insanely attracted to this man, but I had no idea how to behave. He was the leader of the free world for crying out loud! What was I supposed to do?

  But President Burke is used to fame and adulation and he knows how to make people comfortable around him. So the big man leaned back and smiled.

  “Sweetheart, why don’t you dance for me?” he suggested, that massive form relaxed. “I’d like to see more of what you have.”

  I gulped.

  “Um sure,” was my hesitant reply. “Should I set my drink down here?”

  He nodded silently, blue gaze already deepening to a cobalt.

  “Anywhere is fine,” came that slightly sibilant rasp. “Just get comfortable sweetheart. Do what you do best.”

  I took a deep breath because dancing isn’t what I do best. In fact, my ambition is to get a master’s in library science, and to maybe become a writer after that. Or an academic librarian. But this didn’t seem like the
right time to share my aspirations. After all, he only knew me as Pearl Evanescence from the Pink Flamingo. Oh wait. Maybe he knew everything about me already, given that they’d already done some type of stealth background check.

  Stop over-thinking things, the voice in my head warned. You’re driving yourself crazy with all this back and forth. Just get out there and dance. That’s what the client wants, and you need to deliver, especially because this is the President of the United States.

  So I took a deep breath and smiled once more, putting down my purse before standing.

  “Um, is there any music?” I asked. “Or I can dance to no music, it’s no problem.”

  In return, Thomas flicked a console by his side and the latest strains of a jazz piece came on. Perfect. Usually, I danced to pre-chosen songs during my sets, but this was fine. There was a workable beat, and the strains of the melody were classy and refined.

  So taking a deep breath, I began to sway my hips, front and back and then from side to side. My hands found the tie of my trench coat and making eye contact with the big man, I loosened the stays before slipping the canvas material off my narrow shoulders.

  “Atta girl,” the alpha breathed, letting his eyes roam all over my form. “You got it, sweetheart.”

  Because I knew what he was seeing. I’ve put on weight since moving to the city, but fortunately, it’s mostly gone to all the right parts. My boobs are huge Double Ds, swinging along in time the music, and I’ve got a giant ass that bumps when I walk. Plus, my thighs. They’re meaty but luscious, and more than one customer has tried to take a bite while I dance onstage.