Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby

by Julia Kent

  * * *

  Declan

  * * *

  “Your equipment doesn’t look broken to me,” Vince declares, flat on his stomach on a rubber mat at this crappy dive gym he and Gerald insist we use to work out. Narrowed eyes the color of dirty bathwater look up at me from between my legs. I’m below parallel in the squat cage, trying my damnedest to lift more than Andrew.

  So far, we’re tied.

  I stand, needing Gerald’s spotting to rack the bar. “Something wrong with the squat cage?”

  “No. It’s fine.”

  “Then what equipment?”

  “Yours. Andrew says you’ve decided to take the plunge. Asked me to make sure you’re okay,” Vince explains.

  “Okay? And you’re checking my equip–wait a minute. You’re looking at my junk?”

  “It’s how I know,” he says with a shrug.

  “Know what?”

  “Whether you’re shooting blanks.”

  “You can look at a guy’s crotch and tell that?”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “I’d call it a curse.”

  “That’s because you’re a pessimist.”

  “And what the hell are you? The Junk Whisperer?”

  “You make fun of an ancient practice. I am descended from five thousand years of shamans.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I never kid about my lineage. And you’re in luck.”

  “Luck?”

  “You have functioning equipment.”

  “I know it functions. Functions fine. Overfunctions, in fact. Maximum capacity and more.” Gerald takes this moment to walk away, grabbing boxing gloves as he escapes.

  Andrew makes an appearance at that moment, drinking oil straight out of a small container. “Vince says this stuff will boost my sperm count.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he tips the glass jar up high and sucks down the clear liquid.

  “Why do you need more sperm?” I bark at him.

  “You know.”

  “No, little bro, I don’t know. Tell me.”

  “Amanda, well... now that she sees you and Shannon trying, she’s begging me to have a baby, too.”

  I’ve known Andrew since he was born. He’s a slick liar. I’ll give him that.

  But I’m even better at spotting his bullshit.

  “Really?” I play along, knowing from Shannon that it’s the opposite. Andrew’s competitive streak has kicked in and he’s turned babymaking into yet another way to try to beat me. “You two haven’t been married for very long.”

  “You can’t measure readiness by that.”

  “No, this is true.” I take a different approach. “You’re drinking oil to get your swimmers boosted,” I say, studying him. “Vince suggested it?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  I look at Andrew’s junk. “Oh. No reason. Hey, Vince?”

  “What?”

  “Do I need to drink that?” I point to Andrew’s bottle.

  Shaking his head, Vince says exactly what I’m hoping to hear.

  “No. You’re fine.”

  Andrew pauses, mid-chug, face going tight.

  “Dec doesn’t need the oil? What do you mean he doesn’t need it?” Andrew challenges.

  “His junk has plenty of swimmers in it. Yours need a little help.”

  Have I mentioned how much I really like Vince?

  “I don’t–I don’t need this. I want it,” Andrew argues. “This is my optimization protocol for conception. When my sperm hit Amanda’s eggs, we’re going to have prime children.”

  “Children divisible by one and themselves?”

  “Screw you, Dec. You know what I mean.” He turns to Vince with a pissed-off look and says, “I’m done drinking this oil, Vince.”

  Vince looks at Andrew’s crotch. He closes his eyes. He opens them. He squints.

  “What are you doing?” I ask just as Gerald comes back over, covered in sweat from boxing.

  “Listening to Andrew’s future children.”

  “You can hear them all the way up here?”

  “If I concentrate really hard.”

  “Why not bend down and get your ear right up against his balls?” I ask.

  “Because I have standards,” Vince growls. “And besides, the sperm don’t like it when I get that close.”

  Years of working in business and navigating people and their emotions gives me a window into intent. Vince is lying.

  Andrew goes over to help Gerald and spot him as he bench presses what looks like the equivalent of the entire Kardashian clan in weight.

  Or, at least, their combined egos.

  “You aren’t listening for his sperm,” I say to Vince, low and firm. “You’re screwing with him.”

  “He wouldn’t drink the high-performance muscle oil until I told him it would boost his sperm count. I just had to comment on how you’re winning the baby race. Then he started chugging it like a dehydrated frat boy.”

  “You’re slick.”

  “Andrew’s about to outlift you because of that oil.”

  “Okay. Sure. But when it comes to producing sperm, I’m beating him.”

  “That didn’t come out right, Declan.”

  “What about you and Suzanne?” I call out to Gerald. Changing the subject is a time-honored tradition among men when they know they’re losing an argument. “Kids?”

  “We’re raising a geriatric dog just fine. No kids just yet,” Gerald responds with an arched eyebrow, his tone cagey, his expression making it clear he’s trying to read my intentions.

  “But you want them?” I press.

  Gerald is my former bodyguard and driver. Now he just drives our father around, working part-time for Anterdec and expanding his hours devoted to teaching at a local community center and sculpting. A year or so ago, he reconnected with an old love, Suzanne, who is an estates and trusts lawyer and who happens to administer my late mother’s family trust.

  “Eventually.” Gerald looks like a slab of concrete with eyes, a nose and a mouth. “You and Shannon trying?”

  I nod.

  “Good luck. You’ll make a great dad.”

  “I’ve had such a marvelous role model,” I reply, my voice more sour than intended.

  Andrew gives me a sharp look, opening his mouth to say something.

  Then shutting it abruptly.

  “Dad taught us the business. He didn’t teach us parenting,” I elaborate.

  “No one teaches you parenting,” Andrew says.

  “You can take parenting classes,” Gerald mentions. “We’ve hosted a few at the Westside Center. Mostly for teen moms and dads, but still.”

  “I’m not talking about the mechanics of parenting. I can change a diaper,” I point out.

  Gerald and Andrew burst into braying laughter.

  “Until a few months ago, you couldn’t even pump your own gas for your car, Declan,” Gerald says, his voice turning low and amused, with a touch of mocking only he could pull off. As my former chauffeur and bodyguard, but now my friend, he has a unique insight into my life.

  And that really sucks right now.

  “You’re comparing apples and oranges.”

  “Not really,” Andrew interjects. “Gas and baby poop both smell awful.”

  “How would you know what either smell like?”

  “Andrew! Get your ass in the squat cage,” Vince calls out. “You need to lift more than your brother.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Why do we always have to compete?”

  All motion in the room stops.

  “That’s like asking why you have to breathe,” Gerald says slowly, gaze bouncing between me and Andrew.

  “I didn’t say there was anything wrong with competing. Just asking why we have to.” Inspiration strikes me. “I wonder if this is how Dad did teach us parenting.”

  “Huh?” All three guys give me the same response.

  “His brand of parenting was to pit us against each other,” I tell Andrew, layers of meaning hitting me at onc
e.

  “No,” Andrew corrects, putting chalk on the pads of his hands to get ready to lift. “That was business.”

  “For Dad, teaching us the business was his parenting style.”

  Holding a finger up to Vince to get him to wait, Andrew turns to me, eyes serious. We’re not competitors, suddenly. Not high-powered business executives jockeying for position.

  We’re men.

  We’re brothers.

  “This conception stuff has you thinking. Philosophically, I mean,” Andrew notes, suddenly paying close attention to me.

  “Of course. It’s powerful.”

  “How? It’s just sex.”

  I snort. “I thought so, too. Until I had sex where I tried to get her pregnant on purpose.”

  Vince, Gerald, and Andrew all take a step closer to me.

  “Bareback,” Vince whispers, like the word itself is holy.

  Well, it is, but...

  “No, it wasn’t that. We’ve had that for years because she’s on the pill. This was different. It was...” I lean in. “Everything.”

  “Everything?” they ask in unison.

  “Did it feel different? Mechanically, I mean?” Andrew asks.

  “Mechanically?” Is he talking about sex toys?

  “When you’re shooting your sperm into her and you have a goal. Does it aim better? Do the sperm just know it’s a free-for-all and they’re going for it?” Calculation gleams in my brother’s eyes. He’s not asking because he gives a shit about my emotional state.

  He’s analyzing data for future victory.

  “How the hell would I know? It’s not like I strap a GoPro to my nuts and videotape it. It isn’t an episode of Ninja Sperm Warrior.”

  Murmurs between Vince and Andrew indicate they think that’s a cool possibility. I can practically hear them writing the pilot right now.

  Gerald, the only obvious grown-up in the room–aside from me–puts his hand on my shoulder. “You’re trying to make a human being. An eight-pound, helpless baby who needs twenty-four hour care and nurturing only you and Shannon can provide.”

  “Yes.” He gets it.

  “Between that and the bareback sex, make it last, man.” He shakes his head slowly.

  “Huh?”

  “Once you get her pregnant, all the fun will end,” Vince says, as if that is a fact.

  “No! That’s when the fun begins. The whole point of trying to conceive is the conception,” I protest.

  “I thought all the sex was the point,” Andrew teases. “And once she’s pregnant, the sex ends.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Think about it, Dec,” he persists. “She gets pregnant. Morning sickness kicks in. Then they get hormonal and crazy.” His eyes go unfocused. “Although their breasts do get huge. So there’s an upside. I wonder how big Amanda’s will get when she’s–”

  “What’s this ‘then they get’ shit? I know how to handle ‘hormonal and crazy.’ They’re already hormonal and crazy without being pregnant,” I point out.

  “Not pregnant hormonal and crazy. You think PMS is bad? Just wait,” Andrew says with a knowing sigh.

  “How would you know about any of this?” I turn on him. “You’ve never had a baby with anyone.”

  “No. But Amanda won’t shut up about it lately. She’s making me watch these stupid reality television shows about birth. Do you have any idea how many women are out there in America having babies when they didn’t know they were pregnant? They all seem to eat at Applebee’s and go into labor. They think it’s stomach pains or food poisoning and then BAM! Seven-pound baby.”

  Gerald laughs. Vince stays serious and says, “I love that show. And the other one, Naked and Afraid.”

  “Those shows have absolutely nothing in common,” Andrew scoffs.

  “Sure as hell do. I was there when my sister gave birth,” Vince says, his voice dropping into horror territory. “She was half naked and I was afraid.”

  “That’s it!” I shout, grabbing my lifting gloves and heading to the shower. “I’m done. See you guys on Wednesday.” The testosterone laugh track fades as I reach the locker room.

  I can’t let doubt creep in.

  I won’t.

  I’ve got Vince’s seal of approval for my nads. I’ve got a luscious wife at home who wants to have near-constant unprotected sex with me. I’ve got a new company to run, an exciting future, and all the room in the world to welcome a child.

  Those guys don’t know what they’re talking about.

  At all.

  * * *

  Shannon

  * * *

  Tap, tap. I lightly spank my belly. “Anyone in there?” We’re at the Grind It Fresh! headquarters, sitting in the lounge in the middle of our respective offices. We relocated the corporate HQ here after buying the company. Making the decision to rent the space above the Boston Grind It Fresh! store wasn’t hard. Good neighborhood, great lease terms, a financial plan for full ownership of the building in a few years–it all made sense. And working directly above a coffee shop means the air smells like freshly brewed java all the time.

  But.

  But... the office is constantly changing, physically and operationally. Of course, you’re thinking–lots of change comes with acquiring a new business, and yes, that’s true. I knew what Declan was like at Anterdec. However, what I saw was filtered entirely through his assistant and mother figure, Grace.

  What I never predicted was Declan’s all-consuming need for precision as CEO of his own large corporation.

  And by precision, I mean control.

  “Knock knock. Who’s there? We don’t know, that’s who,” I whisper to my belly button.

  “I don’t think he’s going to answer. Definitely doesn’t have vocal cords yet if he even exists.” Declan’s right. We can’t test yet. It’s too early. But hearing my husband talk like this sends an emerging emotion coursing through me, an exotic, heady sense of the possible.

  “He? Why do you assume the baby is a he?” I ask Dec, who is sitting with a tray of six tiny coffee cups in front of him, each sitting on a small card with scribbles as we test various blends.

  “All babies are he until you know otherwise. All cats are she, all dogs are–”

  “Chuckles is a he.”

  “Chuckles is the Antichrist.”

  “Who is predicted to be a man.”

  “You’ve got me there.”

  “How about I get you here.” I reach between his legs.

  His hand moves to my breast. “And I’ll get you here,” he replies, kissing my neck. His other hand fills with a generous amount of my ass. “And here.” Coffee breath surrounds me, the scent a mix of cherries, smokehouse, and aged oak.

  “It is day nineteen,” I say.

  Declan freezes. “Day nineteen?”

  “Yes. We need to have sex every other day between days ten and twenty, so... Okay. We can do it. Let’s go.”

  “There’s a schedule?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what if I want you on a day other than ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, or twenty?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry?” As he sits up, my hand slides off him, the cold snap of broken contact filling me with a strange discomfort. “You’re saying no? Sex is all about time management now?”

  “You need to build up your sperm. It’s not my choice. It’s basic biology.”

  “Shannon. Come on. You’re joking.”

  “Not joking. I’ve read all the books. We want to have a baby. This is how it works. Thirty-six to forty-eight hours between sex sessions is optimal for sperm count.”

  “I’ll bet you know exactly how many hours it’s been since I last let my sperm loose upon your unsuspecting eggs.”

  Damn it. He’s right. “Thirty-one and a half,” I admit.

  “This isn’t like building muscle, where you have leg days and arm days and worry about HIIT and optimization. This is sex,” Declan counters.

  “Sex for proc
reation,” I point out.

  “No, Shannon. It’s just sex. Sex I want. Sex I need. Your writhing, naked, creamy thighs closing out the rest of the world while I give you pleasure. The unbound relinquishing of our bodies with each other. The feeling of warm homecoming when you open your legs to me and I come in, knocking hard on the door to your body and heart. The way your chest flushes red between your breasts and collarbone, so luscious I have to stop and kiss it mid-thrust, even if it delays my own pleasure. That is sex.”

  “Yes,” I say with a gasp. “Yes, it is.” Boy, did it get hot in here or what?

  “I don’t care if it’s day nineteen or day two hundred, if I want you, I’ll tell you. And if you want me back, then we show each other what we need. I’m not going to sleep with you on a timetable more precise than a Swiss train schedule.”

  I move into his lap, straddling him, the fine grain of his suit pants tickling my bare legs as I rearrange my skirt, the thin cotton of my panties rubbing against his very obvious erection.

  “Is that an order?”

  His eyes light with an excitement that pushes my own up, up, up to the sky. “I am your boss, after all.”

  “Barely. You’re CEO. I’m COO.”

  “I like the way you coo.”

  “Is this a performance review?” As I touch him, he inhales sharply, head thrown back, eyes closed. His grip on my waist tightens, one hand sliding up for my breast, the rough way he cups me sending a shiver along my spine.

  In the distance, a phone rings. It’s mine or his. I jolt.

  “Ignore it,” he demands, his hands making it so easy.

  Another phone from the opposite direction.

  “Dec,” I insist, starting to pull back. “We should answer it. What’s your schedule like? Do you have an–”

  “I love working with you,” he whispers, his hand on the back of my neck, pulling me to him for a hot kiss. Our mouths continue the sentiment, the rough tweed of the sofa’s upholstery dragging against my bare knees, his heat making me not care. A wall of glass behind us lets the sun shine in, peeking down the long street that leads to the harbor at the edge of Boston. We’re in a corporate environment but might as well be back in bed at home, Declan’s hands making fast work of unbuttoning my top, the chill of being disrobed interwoven with his hot lips on my shoulder, my neck, palms burning to touch more of me.