by Lili Valente
The Rock Star’s Baby Bargain
Lili Valente
All Rights Reserved
Copyright The Rock Star’s Baby Bargain © 2020 Lili Valente
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. This erotic romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This e-book is licensed for your personal use only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy hot, sexy, emotional novels featuring hockey-playing alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work. Cover design by Lori Jackson. Cover image by Wander Aguiar. Editorial services provided by RCM.
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Contents
The Rock Star’s Baby Bargain
About the Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Sneak Peek
About the Author
Also by Lili Valente
The Rock Star’s Baby Bargain
By Lili Valente
To my Review Crew.
Thanks so much for being part of
my book nerd family!
About the Book
Two days after my boyfriend dumps me, my business goes belly up, and the sperm bank declines my credit card, a gorgeous rock star offers to whisk me away for two weeks of hot, steamy, all-expenses paid…therapy.
* * *
I should say no.
* * *
I’m not looking for a fling.
* * *
I want a man who’ll be a father to the baby I’m desperate to conceive. Or, at the very least, a guy willing to knock me up before we go our separate ways.
* * *
Zack isn’t that guy. He’s my best friend’s oldest pal, and in my social circle for the long haul. I could never ask him a favor like this.
* * *
That would be crazy.
* * *
The problem?
* * *
Turns out, I’m crazy.
* * *
And so is Zack…
Chapter One
Zackary Jenner Halloran
A man whose life is no longer going according to plan.
* * *
“I’m so sorry! Oh my God, you poor thing. She sounds awful!” The busty brunette’s jaw drops as she shakes her head slowly back and forth, sending her gold hoops swaying in her ears. She leans closer to the man’s barstool, laying a heavily ringed hand on his arm. “Thank God you got out, huh? Before you ended up having some stranger’s kid without even knowing it or something.” She gives a dramatic, boob-jiggling sigh. “Jesus…”
“Right? Completely out of her mind,” the man agrees. His lightly accented English makes my ears perk up.
I’ve only been half-listening to the conversation around me—I came to Chippy’s to throw a beer or two onto my own anxiety fire, not to get sucked into anyone else’s—but that voice….
It tickles my brain, making my synapses fire.
I know that voice.
I glance to my left, taking in the back of the man’s curly dark hair as he tosses back his drink, draining the golden liquid in the glass before setting it back on the scarred wood with a heavy thunk. He motions for Debbie, the owner and only bartender on duty this early on a Thursday evening, to bring another round, giving me a glimpse of his profile, which also looks familiar.
But from where?
“Another Jameson for me and a…” He glances at the woman. “What are you drinking, gorgeous?”
The brunette beams at the cheesy endearment and shoots him a simpering smile. “Dirty vodka martini. Three olives.”
“Dirty vodka martini, three olives,” the man relays to Debbie, though she no doubt heard the order already. She’s getting up there in years, but she’s as sharp as they come, a no-nonsense former biker chick who knows when to lend an ear and when to hold her tongue.
So I’m a little surprised when she points a finger at the brunette, and says, “Got it, but don’t believe everything you hear, doll. Remember, there’s always two sides to a story.”
The brunette blinks in surprise before letting out a high-pitched giggle. “Oh. Right. Totally.”
“But my side is the right side,” the man adds, raising his voice as Debbie turns to fetch the bottle of Jameson from the mirrored shelves behind her. “You don’t know what I’ve been through, Debbie. Colette has lost it. She’s crazy. I swear, if she came in for a glass of wine, you wouldn’t even recognize her.”
Debbie kicks the dishwasher closed beneath the bar, covering my soft grunt of surprise.
Colette. That’s how I know this guy. Colette is one of my friend Theodora’s best girlfriends. They met at summer camp when they were just kids. She’s also ridiculously beautiful and as sweet as they come.
And, until recently, she was dating this douchebag.
Felix? Frances? Fernando, maybe? I’m not great with names. Add in the fact that this guy rubbed me the wrong way from the moment I met him—at a mutual friend’s potluck, where he showed up late, brought nothing to share, and drank all the cider intended for the guy with the gluten allergy—and the chances of me remembering him weren’t great to start with.
But now I wished I’d paid better attention, just to know the backstory here.
Of course, I can probably guess. Almost every time I’ve heard a guy talk about how “crazy” his ex is, it’s one of two things. One—she decided she didn’t want to touch his dick anymore or two—she wanted him to act like a responsible grown-up, and he preferred to keep throwing his dirty boxers on the floor and expecting her to clean up his messes.
And she didn’t want to touch his dick anymore.
Are there women out there who aren’t dealing with a full deck? Of course, but Colette isn’t one of them. I don’t know her well, but every time we’ve run into each other, I’ve been impressed with how kind and classy she is.
And sexy as hell.
I’m not usually the type to notice unavailable women in that way, but with Colette, it’s almost impossible to avoid. She’s not just beautiful; she’s…sensual. The way she touches things, the way she moves, the way her lips caress a word as it leaves her mouth. Just watching her eat a sandwich at a picnic or pet my friend Kirby’s cats i
s a mildly erotic experience.
Of course, I never let the attraction show or even thought about acting on it. Colette was in a relationship, and she never gave any sign that she was interested in me as anything but a friend. That was all it took to ensure that each time the awareness light flickered on inside me, I immediately reached over and pulled the plug.
But now she’s single, a hopeful voice in my head whispers, but I shut it down, too.
I’m in no place to start dating anyone right now. I’ve just turned my entire life upside down and have no clue where I’m going from here. I have the next steps in place, sure, but who knows how all of that will play out. For the first time in over a decade of being a part of a touring band, I don’t know when, or if, I’ll be on the road next summer. I’m not even one hundred percent sure I’ll be able to keep working as a full-time musician, and Colette isn’t the kind of woman you casually have drinks with while you’re distracted by your uncertain future.
Colette is the kind of woman you swear fealty to, like the knights in the Middle Ages. She’s the kind of woman you thank whatever god you pray to for each night. The kind of woman who makes your god jealous because you spend so much time worshipping the ground she walks on.
Nope, I don’t have room to appreciate a woman like Colette right now, and she probably wouldn’t be interested anyway. She’s just been through a breakup, and if old Fernando is anything to judge by, she’s into assholes, which I am not.
Right. You’re not an asshole, I remind myself as Fernando launches into another bitch fest. Which means you should quit eavesdropping, pay for your beer, and get out of here.
Instead, I pull out my phone and pretend to read my book while I listen.
“I believe you,” the brunette coos, rubbing a hand up and down Fernando’s back as she leans her head closer to his. “Any woman who would try to go to a sperm bank without talking to her man about it first is not right in the head.”
“Well, she talked about it,” Fernando says. His words begin to slur as he adds, “She’s done nothing but talk about it. She even said she was saving up to use a sperm donor, just in case I refused to get on board the baby train. But I didn’t think she was serious.”
“Why would you?” The brunette nods, easily changing tacks, proving she’s willing to say whatever it takes to keep his attention. “What kind of person does that?”
Fernando snorts. “A nutjob.” He grabs the fresh glass of whiskey Debbie sets down in front of him without bothering to say thank you, his lip curling as he adds, “And a fucking whore.”
“Hey there, no talk like that in my bar,” Debbie says, setting the brunette’s martini down before knocking her knuckles on the wood in front of Fernando. “Curse all you want, but no name-calling. Especially with the ladies. Women have enough shit to deal with without name-calling on top of it.”
Fernando balls his hand into a fist beside his whiskey. “She was my girlfriend, and she went behind my back and fucked a test tube. She had another man’s cum inside her. What do you call a woman like that if she’s not a whore?”
Debbie rolls her eyes. “I call her a go-getter. She knew what she wanted, and she went after it. And last time I checked, a whore gets paid; she doesn’t shell out her own hard-earned money to try to have a baby because her boyfriend isn’t ready to commit.”
“I was ready! I asked her to marry me,” Fernando protests, his face going red beneath his olive skin. “She said no. Said she wanted to have a baby without getting married first and we could ‘see about that’ later. She’s the one who wanted to give birth to a bastard, and where I come from, that makes her a whore. Plain and simple.”
“Well, this isn’t where you come from. This is my bar,” Debbie says, her voice taking on a hard, no-nonsense edge. “And I’m not here to debate your personal business. I’m here to keep this bar a civil place to drink. So if you can’t share your beef without getting nasty, you can take it outside.”
“You’re on her side,” Fernando accuses, his jaw clenching as he grabs his drink, sloshing whiskey over the edge as he draws it sharply closer to his chest. “You’re all on her side. Even my mother.”
“I’m not on her side,” the brunette pipes up, bouncing on her stool, but Fernando doesn’t appear to hear her.
“You all think there’s something wrong with me,” he continues, drinking deeply from his glass before continuing in a rougher voice, “but I was doing my part. I was a good fucking boyfriend. I gave her everything she ever wanted. I cooked on Saturdays. I did housework if I stayed over more than a couple of nights a week. I even stopped smoking for her.” He slaps a hand to his chest with a grin, fumbling into the front pocket of his dress shirt. “But no more. Now that she’s out of my life, I’m finally fucking free again. I can smoke as much as I want.”
“Good for you,” Debbie says dryly. “But smoke ’em outside.” She shifts her attention to the brunette. “You need anything else, kid?”
The brunette shakes her head. “No, thanks. I’m good.” She flutters her lashes in Fernando’s direction. “I’ll come with you. I don’t smoke, but I don’t mind if you do.”
“Thanks, but I’ve gotta piss,” Fernando says. Sliding off his stool, he stumbles back a step before recovering his balance with a hand on the bar.
“Oh, okay.” The woman sits up straighter, thrusting her cleavage his way as he steers himself around her and heads for the back of the bar. “But you’ll probably need to go next door,” she calls after him. “I think the men’s room is closed.”
Fernando lifts a hand but doesn’t alter his course. The brunette turns back, catching my eye for the first time as she says, “It is, right? The men’s room? Closed?”
“I don’t know.” I set a twenty on the bar before tucking my wallet into the pocket of my jeans and easing off my stool. “I’ll check on my way out.” I lift a hand to Debbie. “See you later, Debs.”
“Later, Zack. Don’t be a stranger, sweetheart,” Debbie calls from down the bar where she’s filling two pint glasses from the taps. “We need more guys like you around here classing up the joint. Bring the rest of the boys in the band with you next time. I’ll treat you all to a round.”
I hesitate a beat but in the end just nod and step away from the bar, tailing Fernando past the pool tables toward the back.
Sooner or later, Debbie’s going to find out that I’m not in the band anymore. Once the press release drops later tonight, everyone will know, but I don’t feel up to talking about it in person just yet. I know it was the right decision—it’s time to give my personal music the time and attention I haven’t been able to spare while playing bass for Lips on Fire—but I also know a lot of people are going to be disappointed.
Including the bartender who’s been sneaking the “boys in the band” Cokes spiked with Jack since we were nineteen and busting in here with shitty fake IDs that never fooled Debs for a second. We’re legendary in Hidden Kill Bay, the small-town boys who made it big, who rose to the top and stayed there, album after album, proving we weren’t just another catchy flash in the pan.
Our music has evolved a lot over the years, but it’s evolved as a group effort, with our lead singer Colin taking point. And for a long time, I loved collaborating. But sometime in the past few years, that’s changed. I’ve started to feel…stuck, like I’m treading water artistically, staying afloat but not getting anywhere. And then Cutter, our rhythm guitarist, and the only band member I’ve ever clashed with, married Theodora.
My Theodora.
My best friend, the person I’ve always turned to for advice on girls and friendship and family and just about everything else.
We’ve been close since I started washing dishes at her family’s restaurant when she was a wise-beyond-her-years sixth grader and I was a tenth grader desperate to make enough money to afford a new amp. We started hanging out on my breaks, sharing the Kit Kats Gram tucked into my pocket before I left for work, and instantly hit it off. It didn’t matter that
she was younger or sheltered or had very little interest in the band; I knew Theo was a kindred spirit from the start. We just…click. We get each other. We have the same curious mind and the same sense of humor and the same values.
Or so I thought.
And then she’d started dating Cutter last spring and eloped with him to Vegas a few days ago. Eloped, after they’d barely been dating for three months and had spent most of that apart while the band was on tour in Europe.
Right now, she’s in Nevada on her impromptu honeymoon. Meanwhile, I had no idea things were that serious between her and my least-favorite bandmate until she called to invite me to the post-wedding party they’re having at her restaurant when they’re back in town next week.
She caught me completely by surprise. I’m sure my congratulations sounded as forced as they felt, and I did a shit job of hiding my relief that I had plans that would prevent me from joining the celebration.
I want to be happy for her, I do. I want to believe that Cutter is going to grow up and treat her the way she deserves to be treated, but I know the chances that a womanizing, me-first kind of guy like Cutter is going to change his ways are pretty fucking slim.
