Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby

by Julia Kent

  We can do this.

  We own the company. We own our time. We’re in charge, in control, with complete and utter freedom to do what we want, when we want, where we want.

  It’s so good to be the boss.

  I press into his lap, his erection riding along the softer, throbbing parts of me, and an ache–new and emergent–rises up into my heart.

  I want him in me.

  Here.

  I want his baby in me.

  Now.

  A fracas in some distant room stops our kiss, Declan’s warm skin pausing against mine.

  “I told you,” says a gruff voice. Is that Dave? Dave the barista from downstairs? “They’re working, but dude, you can’t just barge in here and demand–”

  As if he planned it in advance, Declan lifts me out of his lap, stands while I’m balanced in his arms, and pivots with an achingly perfect grace–

  –to throw me on the thickly carpeted spot right behind the couch, just as Dave appears in the doorway, frowning. He can’t see me.

  Buttoning up my shirt with hands so shaky, they might as well be frothing attachments, I catch bits and pieces of the exchange between Dec and Dave as I fume, ready to jump up and give my husband a piece of my mind.

  And not my piece of ass.

  “Look, man, I tried, but this guy insists he has an eleven o’clock with you,” Dave says as Dec takes deep breaths that I recognize are all about resuming control of his body.

  “Eleven?” Declan’s surprise shines through in the single word. “I don’t have an appoint...” Like a child’s wind-up toy losing energy, his voice spirals down until he mutters a curse word.

  “I told you!” I crow from my place on the carpet.

  “Shannon?” Dave starts to walk toward me, but I see his feet jerk in place.

  “Hi!” I chirp as I stand, my shirt still a mess but all the important parts covered. The vision before me is pretty intense. Declan’s grabbing Dave’s arm, Dave is staring at Declan’s intruding hand, and in the distance, out of focus, is a giant asshole.

  No, not a literal, puckered anus. But close. Is that Mr. I’m Important?

  “What is he doing here?” I hiss at Dave as I finger-comb my hair and hope no one can see my racing heart beating against the flushed skin of the breasts Declan was just playing with. My nipples tingle and oddly enough, it makes me wonder:

  Is that an early pregnancy sign?

  “Milk?” Declan asks suddenly, as if he’s reading my mind.

  “I don’t think so,” I reply, bewildered. “I mean, my nipples feel really weird, like electric zings are coming through the edges, but I doubt I’m making milk yet.”

  Dave and Declan both look at me like I’ve gone mad.

  “What?” I turn on Declan and get in his face, smelling coffee and sex. The sex part makes no sense, because we didn’t even get close, but it comes to me anyhow, like a cruel olfactory tease. “You asked about milk!”

  “Not breastmilk,” he says slowly, eyes drifting down to my chest. “Milk. For the coffee chain.”

  “This is why you need an assistant, Declan! You’re not making any sense.”

  Dave’s eyebrows go up, making him look like an alarmed bear. “I think I can piece together what’s going on. Either you two are into lacterotica re-enactments, or Declan’s lack of an assistant means he forgot about a scheduled eleven o’clock appointment with a dairy supplier.”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “That doesn’t clarify,” Dave answers, his words peevish. “Which one is it? Perverts or forgetful?”

  Dec ignores us and walks smoothly into his office, hand extended for a shake. “Declan McCormick. I take it you’re Paul Ormond, from LD International?”

  My hand pauses mid-comb, the strands of my messy hair like slamming on the brakes of a car as my fingers halt.

  I blink.

  That can’t be–

  I look.

  No way.

  It is. It is Mr. I’m Important. I was right.

  Charm radiates out as he smiles, tilting his head in a practiced way, matching Declan’s body language down to the squaring of shoulders. Mimics do this. They appropriate gestures and mannerisms from the people they’re trying hard to impress. Taking a piece of someone else and turning it into a seed you quickly fertilize and water to create your own sprouted plant, a clone, a copy, is a tried-and-true sales method.

  But this is more.

  Déjà vu hits me, the world turning into a vapor wave. Dave is at my side in an instant, his beard tickling my forehead as I lean against him and he guides me to the leather chair next to the sofa.

  “Shannon,” he murmurs. “What’s wrong?”

  Dave smells like sandalwood and cocoa butter, his maleness stark and weird. No man other than Declan gets close to me like this. Even quick hugs from my dad, my father-in-law, and brothers-in-law aren’t this intimate. But the look in Dave’s eyes gives me pause.

  He’s not crossing any boundaries. He’s just very worried.

  “I’m fine,” I say, waving him off. As I watch Paul and Declan do the business foreplay I’ve come to understand, the joking banter that gives each man the chance to assess the other before going deeper, I realize I’m dizzy for a reason.

  And not because I’m pregnant.

  “Asshole,” I say, the word a sigh.

  “He sure is,” Dave concurs, giving me more space. “Guy bullied his way up here.” From the way Dave mentions that right off the bat, it’s clear it took some arm twisting and intense assholery from Paul to accomplish that with Dave.

  “He’s the same man from a few weeks ago. Downstairs, right? The one with the brogrammers who cut in front of Shelby,” I point out, my question less about needing reinforcement and more out of surprise.

  Dave looks behind him at the guy, then at me. “Yep. Same guy. I knew I recognized him from somewhere, but couldn’t put my finger on it. Sounds like Declan forgot about the appointment.”

  “I guess? He doesn’t have an assistant, so...”

  “Plenty of executives function just fine without one,” Dave says with reproach.

  “Not Declan. CEO of an international coffee chain and all that.”

  “You don’t have an assistant.”

  “I don’t want one, yet. But Dec needs one.”

  “You make it sound like he’ll die without one.”

  I don’t reply.

  “Oh, c’mon. No one who gets to the level Declan McCormick is at can be so dependent on an assistant,” Dave scoffs.

  I stay silent.

  “Seriously?”

  This is killing me, but I just sigh.

  “Huh. Who knew?”

  “Look. Grace was great.”

  “Who’s Grace?”

  “His former assistant. She was his father’s assistant at Anterdec, and became Dec’s assistant when James retired. Now she’s retired, and the transition is a bit much.”

  “People change assistants all the time.”

  “Declan isn’t ‘people.’ And neither was Grace. She was special.”

  “How special?”

  “You ever hear the story of Greyfriars Bobby?”

  “What?”

  “Declan has this Scottish cousin who told us a famous legend the last time he was in town. Greyfriars Bobby was a Skye terrier whose master died. The poor little dog spent the rest of its life–fourteen years–sitting by his master’s grave, waiting for him to return. The dog died waiting.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “Right. Dec is basically that little dog, waiting for Grace to return.”

  “Grace died?”

  “No, no. Grace is in the Galapagos Islands right now, swimming with pink dolphins, having a blast with her rugby-playing wife.”

  “Declan can’t get over losing Grace, right? That’s your point.”

  “Yes.”

  “CEOs should be adaptable. It’s the number one trait someone in a leadership position needs to possess in the twenty-first c
entury. Flexibility is the new black.”

  “Why is everything the new black? Can’t black just be black? And Declan is plenty flexible.”

  “TMI,” Dave growls. I look at him and blink, over and over, because while the words are the same that my old colleague Josh might have used, back when we worked for Consolidated Evalu-Shop with Amanda and our boss Greg, Dave is about as different from Josh as I am from, well...

  Paul.

  “I wasn’t commenting on my sex life with my husband,” I scoff.

  “Good. Because I wasn’t asking. I’m simply pointing out that if my boss can’t live a life where he manages without an assistant, it doesn’t inspire confidence.”

  “Declan doesn’t need your confidence, Dave. The company needs your skills.”

  “You don’t get one without the other, Shannon. That’s not how business works.”

  “Don’t tell me how business works, buddy. I’m your boss, too. Declan and I own the company together.”

  “Of course,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning down, bringing his beard along for the ride. “We all recognize that you’re a team. Grind It Fresh! is a team, too. How bad is it?”

  “How bad is what?”

  “Declan’s schedule. His planning. An executive at his level, with no history of running his own calendar, is going to crash and burn if he doesn’t figure this out soon. I assume HR is working on hiring a replacement?”

  “HR has tried,” I say primly, eyes darting between Dec and Paul’s conversation and this increasingly byzantine conversation with Dave the anarchist. The man hand-grinds cocoa beans with a mortar and pestle made at a stone quarry in Nepal, imported by Buddhist nuns who compete in international chess tournaments.

  Why does he care about my husband’s calendar?

  A wave of nostalgia for my old job back with Greg, Amanda, and Josh comes out of nowhere, like an errant wave crashing a seawall, obscured by sea smoke during a cold snap. It leaves me gasping, breathless, revealed.

  “Is the guy that hard to work for?” Dave sounds intrigued. “He seems pretty cool.” Pretty cool, coming from Dave, is high praise.

  “No,” I say, my voice high and reedy. I sound like Twilight Sparkle in a particularly cheesy My Little Pony episode. “It’s just that Declan needs an old-fashioned assistant.”

  “Like, fetch him coffee and light his cigarettes for him? Make him highballs and find his slide rule?”

  “Ha ha. More like handle every logistical detail for him. Be ready to problem-solve with a single phone call or text. You know.”

  “Why doesn’t he just get an AI assistant?”

  “What kind of assistant?”

  “There are apps that can do what Declan needs.”

  “Apps? You think you can replace Grace with an app?”

  “I never met Grace, so don’t get all weird and accuse me of saying negative things about her. I’m just saying that I’ll bet ninety percent of what Declan needs are repetitive tasks that an artificial intelligence program could manage for him.”

  “You mean a robot?”

  “No, I mean code. Code is the new–”

  “Don’t you dare say black!”

  “–way to manage executive functioning,” he says, voice winding down slowly, giving me a look that has an edge so sharp, I’m pretty sure I’m bleeding.

  “An app cannot replace a person,” I protest.

  “Not replace. Augment.”

  “You think Declan could train an app to meet all his needs?”

  In an instant, Dave’s hands are in the air, palms out, mouth tight and face pulled back like a turtle’s, a universal expression of protest. “Whoa, whoa, I never said that!”

  “Dave, I didn’t mean all his needs.”

  “Sexbots have come far, but not that far,” he adds.

  “Now who’s offering up too much information?”

  A pause button is pressed between us. No one moves. A few breaths pass, and then I hear Declan say loudly, “Let me introduce you to my business partner, Shannon.”

  Dave shoots me a deeply sympathetic look. “That guy was a total prick at the store a few weeks ago.”

  “You left before the worst of it.”

  “It got worse?”

  Before I can answer, Declan’s next to me, his eyes appraising my appearance, making sure there’s no lingering evidence of our near-tryst from a few minutes ago. I, on the other hand, don’t care what I look like.

  I care how I’m being looked at.

  “Hello,” Paul says to me with a disinterested, tight smirk. “Here to take our coffee order?”

  When a piece of string is pulled tight, the tension creates a momentary vibration. It’s almost a hum. Depending on what the string is made of–hemp, plastic, metal, cotton–the hum has a different note, the ear able to distinguish between the raw materials used to make the end product.

  Declan is a flesh-and-blood humming string of nothing but vigilant disgust right now. A protective hand goes to the small of my back, his hip edging closer to me, body turning a few degrees to give me cover.

  “You’ve met.” Not quite a question, but definitely not friendly, Declan’s words make Paul jolt. For a split second, his facade ripples.

  “She’s the assistant manager downstairs. I told you my programming team came here with me to case the joint.” Wink. “I didn’t send you an email about the poor service she gave. And your milk sucks.”

  “Assistant manager,” Declan repeats, letting the words hang in the air, the taut string that is Declan splitting sound itself until he’s two parallel flat and sharp notes, the cacophony making me avoid eye contact. A sideways glance shows me one of Dec’s eyebrows is raised a few millimeters, the question clear. Except Declan’s question isn’t What the hell is this guy talking about?

  It’s This guy has been an asshole to you before, hasn’t he?

  And oh, the difference between those two questions. My answer is a nuclear missile button. All I have to do is nod.

  So I do.

  “Paul. Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Shannon,” Declan says, his hand moving from its position at the base of my spine to my hip, cupping it, making sure I know I’m safe with him as much as claiming my true identity.

  “Your wife?”

  Smirks are so underrated. Mine feels great as I step out of Declan’s demilitarized zone and straight into the trenches. My hand is stretched out, palm vertical, thumb up, ready for a handshake I really don’t want–because who wants to touch a jerk?–as I say, “Shannon McCormick. Co-owner of the company. Remember? I tried to tell you Declan had a co-owner, but you...” I bite my lower lip and give him a narrow look. “...knew better.”

  “What?” He ignores my hand, face pale and brow low with confusion. His mask slips. It always does for these guys. “You told me your name was–I don’t even remember. Something else. You lied to me.” He looks at Declan, anger taking over. “What kind of business are you running? Why would your wife...”

  Instinct kicks in. Paul stops himself, the mask re-positioning itself as if it’s made up of thousands of tiny worms, all assembling just so, making the whole. Being wrong is the ultimate sin for guys like this. They can’t be wrong, so anger floods them when the truth is in front of them. I know how Paul works. I lived with my ex for a long time. I also know how Declan works, and at the rate Paul is going, not only will his company not get a single penny in contracts from Grind It Fresh!, Declan will make sure that LD International is on Anterdec’s shit list, too.

  “Shannon,” Paul says, smoothly taking my offered hand, his palm soft and dry, like touching the shed husk of a snake’s cast-off skin, “we got off to a rather rocky start, didn’t we?”

  “Sounds like you did,” Declan says to him menacingly, eyes on our linked hands. Eyes are windows into the soul. When Paul looks back at Declan, whatever he sees makes him drop my hand immediately and take two steps backwards.

  I sigh. It’s a sound of recognition. It’s a sound of an ac
cumulation of past insults in the same category as this, because unfortunately, Paul isn’t original. It’s a sound that represents the freedom to have an emotional reaction in the moment. It’s a sound that predicts what Declan’s about to say.

  Mostly, though, I sigh because I’ve been holding my breath and didn’t know it.

  “Look, Shannon pretended to be the assistant manager downstairs a few weeks ago when your staff screwed up. I don’t know what kind of game this is, but I’ve apologized–”

  “No. You haven’t.” Declan’s words are venom.

  “–and I don’t even need to apologize,” Paul continues. “But it’s silly to let a misunderstanding get in the way of an eight-figure deal.”

  “Nine,” Declan says simply. “By 2020, we’re looking at nine figures annually for our dairy needs.”

  Paul’s Adam’s apple bobbles.

  Declan looks at a watch that isn’t there on his wrist, then gives Paul a polite smile that doesn’t have a hope of reaching his eyes. “We have another appointment, Paul. I’m sure you understand.”

  That’s Declanspeak for You screwed up, buddy.

  “Declan. Shannon,” Paul says, moving his hands so his palms press against his chest in a gesture of surprising submission. “I am a man of reason. A man of business. I can tell I’ve upset you.” His eyes are on Declan the whole time. A tingle rises up my back, from tailbone to between my shoulder blades, trickling up as if someone is pouring water backwards, gravity reversed.

  I know what he’s doing.

  Staring at Declan, he says, “Shannon, I regret our misunderstanding downstairs. You of all people understand that customer service is key in our business. I thought you were someone else. I was,” he chuckles, the sound a precise imitation of self-effacement, “thinking of your company’s best interests. Obviously, the case of mistaken identity didn’t go well.”

  Finally, Paul turns his attention to me. More charm radiates from him, like he’s got an infrared system aimed right at whatever part of me influences the decision to do business with his company. All power inside him is focused on getting me to come over to his side. In this moment, that’s his entire reality: creating whatever narrative inside his head and with his mouth that gets him to the goal line. It’s all about him.