by Elise Faber
And one of the suits was Jordan.
“Glad you could join us,” he said coldly, eyes surveying me from head to toe in one slow glare.
I lifted my chin, the blatant dismissal I found on Jordan’s face giving me the strength to ignore my uneasiness with the current situation taking place in my living room. “I wasn’t planning on ever seeing you again, so consider yourself lucky to be in my apartment. How’d you get in?”
“You should be more careful about who you let see the code.”
Perfect.
“Or maybe you should go fu—”
“Careful,” Jordan said.
I sighed and leaned back against the wall. “What happened to you?” I asked softly. “For a moment, I thought we might have some fun together, get to know one another. Since, you know, we apparently made a baby together.” I pointed to the room full of suits. Not one of them who’d deemed to take a seat on my couch.
They probably thought the used piece of furniture was beneath them.
I smirked, thinking that Jordan hadn’t seemed to mind it during our night together.
“Apparently is the key word,” he said.
Sighing, I pushed off the wall, feeling the rough abrasion of plaster against my fingertips before I strode into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. I took the prenatal vitamin the doctor had given me and chased it with a few crackers to prevent any nausea.
Less puking was a good thing.
The sound of a throat clearing didn’t draw my gaze.
Or, I didn’t let it. I was very aware of Jordan standing a few feet away in my kitchen, very aware that the suits were there for a display of strength and to intimidate me.
But I was the daughter of Bernie-freaking-Roberts. I didn’t get intimidated. Not by a couple of junior lawyers who were in my apartment for show.
“One partner, one business manager, two lawyers who barely passed the bar, and one egotistical asshole of a baby daddy,” I said, placing my glass carefully in the sink and turning to face Jordan.
“Did I forget anyone?”
He just stared at me.
I shrugged. “No? Okay then.” I walked out of the kitchen and into my bedroom.
“Where—?”
I closed the door, cutting off the rest of his question and picked up my cell, dialing a number I didn’t want to call, but one I knew I needed to.
“Bec? Can you come to my apartment?” I asked. “I’ve got an issue.”
Her voice was crystal clear in my ear, a sharp New England accent with a side of no bullshit allowed. “What is it?”
“Suits. A baby daddy trying to intimidate me.”
“Assholes. I’ll be there in fifteen.” Then, “You’re pregnant?”
“Just found out yesterday,” I assured her.
I could picture Bec’s red lips pursing. “Okay, fine. Was going to give you shit for not telling me, honey. You know I’m prime godmother material.”
I laughed, already feeling less on edge just knowing my friend, who also happened to be a hotshot lawyer, was on her way. “Godmother? Maybe minus the cursing.”
“That’s an important part of a child’s education.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so.” A pause, then beeping followed by the rumble of an engine. “I’m on the road. You just ignore those asswads and let me do my thing.”
“I can do that.”
“Good.”
She hung up and I sat on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to swap my fuzzy socks for a pair that matched my fancy outfit. Or at least a pair that didn’t clash so horribly.
Then I went into the bathroom and calmed my mop of hair down, wrestling it into containment.
Also known as a bun.
When I came out of the bathroom, Jordan was standing across the hallway, arms crossed.
“We need to talk.”
“Technically, I’d say we didn’t need to, but I think in this you’re right.”
“Good.” He pushed off the wall. “Come sit in the living room. I’ll break it down for you.”
There were way too many condescending factors in his statement for me to let any of them slide.
“You’ll break it down for me?” I lifted both brows. “Do tell? Oh and maybe if you’re going to invite me to sit down on my sofa, the least you could do was offer a girl some chocolate and a glass of water.”
“Didn’t know I was your slave.”
I rolled my eyes. “Didn’t know being inhospitable was a life goal of yours.”
“This isn’t my house,” he snapped.
“Case in point,” I snapped back. “So why. The fuck. Are you inside of it?”
“We need to talk.”
“That, I think, is overrated,” I said. “You’re trying to threaten me into agreeing to some shitty contract that lets you off the hook for all responsibility. But”—I gestured at him to lean in—“I don’t want anything from you, so you can take your shitty papers, your subpar lawyers, and fuck off.”
“Subpar?” one of the suits said. “We’re from Lincoln and Associates.”
“Like I said. Subpar. My attorney is Rebecca Darden.”
One of the suits went pale.
“Yeah,” I told him with a smile. “I know.”
Rebecca—Bec—was one of the most famous attorneys in the country. And, luckily for me, she also happened to be one of my closest friends.
I wrinkled my nose as I started to push past Jordan. He was wearing that disgusting deodorant again and the smell was enough to make me shudder.
Jerk was probably doing it on purpose.
I shot him a glare when he snagged my arm and halted my progress. “You smell like shit.”
He laughed coldly. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re a complete mindfuck! How did you go from nice and caring and sweet to . . . this?” I ripped my arm free. “When I say I don’t want anything from you—financially or emotionally or otherwise—I mean it. I don’t need you or your money or your suits. I am fine on my own.”
I plunked down into my cozy armchair, avoiding the couch and the possibility of Jordan sitting next to me.
One of the suits wrinkled his nose as he sat on the worn leather sofa and extended a thick folder toward me. “You’ll find our terms very favorable.”
I set the contract on the table. “Does this contain a document eliminating Mr . . . .uh . . . ” I trailed off, realizing that I literally had screwed a man, practically puked on him, certainly passed out on him, and still I didn’t know his last name.
This was why one-night stands never worked out.
“Does this contract eliminate Jordan’s paternal rights?” I nudged the folder with my fuzzy covered toe. “If not, it’s of no use to me.”
The suit looked at me for a moment before flicking his gaze over my head.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Jordan snapped. “We all know that she’s using this as a ploy to get more money. Just have her sign the agreement and let’s be done with this already.”
My vagina was seriously never allowed to pick another man in my entire life.
“She will do no such thing,” Bec announced, pushing her way through the front door.
“Is there anyone who doesn’t know the code to your apartment?” Jordan drawled.
“I guess not,” I snapped. “If you were able to get in.”
“Okay, children,” Bec said. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Jordan, here,” I said, “apparently has a fat wallet and is afraid that I’m trying to take a chunk of it.
Bec froze, eyes wide, then she bent at the waist and started laughing. I crossed my arms, not nearly as amused. The rest of the room was silent, listening to her wind down from roaring laughter to chuckles to the occasional giggle.
When she’d regained control of herself, Jordan pushed off the wall and came to stand between us.
“Care to share what’s so funny?” he gritted out.
“I’m sorry,” Bec
said, wiping a finger under one eye and picking up the folder on the coffee table. “It’s just that anyone thinking our Abby is a gold digger is laughable.”
Jordan frowned. “And why is that?”
“Because Abby is Abigail Roberts.”
His jaw dropped open. His eyes scoured the room as though looking for a billboard that declared in bright flashing lights:
Abigail Roberts—daughter of a billionaire!
Then he focused back on me, something like regret trailing across his face.
“Touché, motherfucka,” Bec announced, miming a mic drop.
“Language,” I reminded her as she sat on the arm of my chair and started reading.
“You and your language,” she murmured. “And the things we do for godchildren.” Bec started reading the document, ignoring the suits. “You’re dismissed. I’ll contact you with our response.”
Her eyes flicked back down as she rapidly devoured what looked to be gibberish to my eyes.
After a moment of the suits not moving, she snapped her fingers. “You’re dismissed.”
And somehow, that got the men moving. They filed out of the apartment in rapid time.
All except Jordan.
He paused in front of my chair and glared down at me. “This isn’t over.”
“And you sound like a shitty villain in a B-movie,” Bec said before I could reply. “I said we’d be in touch. Your”—her eyes drifted down, then up—“services are no longer needed.”
Jordan’s lips pressed tightly together, but he didn’t say anything further. Instead, he followed his team of suits out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
I gave the men a few minutes to clear the area then stood.
“Where are you going?” Bec asked.
“To change the freaking code.”
Chapter Ten
“Okay, girl,” Bec said when I came back inside the apartment. “You need to spill all the details.”
She’d slid down and taken over my chair, so I plunked onto the couch with a sigh.
“There’s not much to tell.”
A snort was my only response.
“Look, I’m—”
I was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Oh, come on universe,” I muttered, pushing to my feet and moving to answer it.
“It’s me.” Seraphina’s voice was muffled. “The code’s not working.”
I opened the door. “That’s because I changed it.”
She breezed into the apartment, bending to kiss my check. “Because of the suits?”
I turned, glared at Bec, who shrugged as if to say, “I called her, so what?” She was still reading the documents and didn’t bother to look up at us.
“Because of Jordan,” I said. “He memorized the code and decided to let himself in.”
Her brows pulled down, but she nodded. “So what’s the new one?”
I told her and she smiled. “That was a good date.”
“The best,” Bec agreed.
It was cheesy, but I’d chosen the night of our senior prom. We’d all gone to the same private school together and had blown off our jerks of dates to hang out together instead. We’d busted a few moves—and not very good ones at that—on the dance floor, only giving our aching, heel-wearing feet a break during the slow songs.
It had been goofy and fun and . . . one of the most enjoyable nights of my high school experience.
“Well,” I said. “I ran out of good number combos and that one always sticks with me.”
“Me too.” Seraphina grinned. “Especially since I almost flashed the entire senior class.”
“Strapless dresses aren’t the best option for you,” Bec agreed.
“Neither is dancing to Queen Bey’s anthems in said strapless dresses,” I said.
“That I learned the hard way,” Seraphina said, and we all broke into giggles. She’d caught the dress before she’d fully popped out, but unfortunately, her girls wouldn’t pop back in as easily as they’d come out.
We’d done some sort of crab walk, mad scramble to the bathroom, guarding her assets, and hadn’t been able to get everything back into proper alignment until she’d been unzipped, secured, and then rezipped.
I didn’t envy her breasts for anything.
“Plus, I can afford better bras nowadays,” she said with a laugh. “And I learned that strapless isn’t my best choice.”
“The boys were disappointed by that.” Bec smirked.
Seraphina snorted. “I’m sure they were.” Her eyes met mine. “Nice try to distract us from the real issue, Ms. Abby, but it’s time to dish. What’s going on?”
I tilted my head to Bec. “Why doesn’t the hotshot attorney tell me? I’m guessing it’s not great.”
“You’re right,” Bec said, putting the folder down. “He wants a paternity test—”
Well that wasn’t a big deal—
“—and if he’s proven to be the father, he wants full custody.”
“What the fuck?” Seraphina said, but I hardly heard her.
Blood pounded in my ears, and my fingers went numb. “No,” I said. “Hell, no.”
Bec laughed. “Damn right, that is definitely a hell no.” She went serious. “But you know what this means.”
I nodded. “Image is everything.”
“Yup.”
“I need a job.” I sighed. “And a nicer apartment.”
“You should call your dad,” Seraphina said, then raised her hands in surrender when I glared at her. “I know, I know. And I get it, but if this is about jockeying for position and image, wouldn’t it be better to have Bernie Roberts on your side?”
“Except he’s never on my side for anything,” I grumbled.
“There is that,” Bec said, leaning back in the armchair and tucking her feet up underneath her. “I propose this. I’ll put together a counter contract, and you’ll use your trust fund to find a nicer apartment. Or hell, buy a house. Bernie can’t rent control that.”
“Oh!” Seraphina clapped her hands together. “I like it.”
Bec rolled her eyes. “You’re a goof.” Then to me, she said, “In the meantime, keep the job hunt up and if you don’t find anything in the next two weeks to a month, then you talk to your father.”
“Fine,” I said, “be perfectly reasonable, why don’t you?”
I didn’t like the idea of opening up the can of worms that was my trust fund—it was my father’s money, after all—but if I was going to use it for anything, I figured that it should be for my child.
“Being perfectly reasonable is my job,” Bec said.
Seraphina and I both laughed. Bec waved us off.
“Okay, enough of that. Let’s order takeout and watch a Hallmark movie.”
“I’ll make popcorn,” Seraphina said and headed into the kitchen.
“Are you sure you have time for this?” I asked Bec. She was months away from making partner at her law firm and I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize her chances.
She rubbed her hands together. “Are you kidding? You know I live for this sort of thing. Mr. Jordan O’Keith is going to be drowning in paperwork.”
“O’Keith?” I said, stomach dropping to my feet. “Please tell me that isn’t his real name.”
She opened the file again and studied it closely. “I can’t do that.” A pause as she glanced up. “Who is Jordan O’Keith?” Her eyes widened. “Oh. Oh. No. Abby, you didn’t!”
“I didn’t know!” I scrambled to my feet, running for the bedroom and my laptop. “Maybe it’s a different one? That’s a common name, right?” I pleaded, coming back into the living room, computer in hand.
Seraphina popped her head out of the kitchen. “What is it?”
I opened the browser, typed in “George O’Keith + Son” into the search bar.
“Oh, fuck,” Bec said when the page loaded. “Your dad is going to kill you.”
“He is so going to kill me,” I agreed.
On the screen was a line o
f photographs of my father’s mortal enemy.
In some of them, he was hugging Jordan, and seeing the two men side by side brought out their similar features.
Same eyes. Same hair color. Same build. Same smarmy personality.
Fuck my life.
Chapter Eleven
Two weeks passed without another word from Jordan or his company of suits. Bec kept me posted on which paperwork she and the other lawyers were exchanging, but because she might as well have been speaking another language, I was unable to say more than, “That sounds great!”
In the meantime, I was house hunting and job searching, the latter of which I’d finally had some success in.
I was heading to a second interview for a tech company that morning. It specialized in research and development of robotics, and they needed someone to oversee their merchandising design.
I was excited. I’d met with the HR representative and the COO the week before to show them my portfolio and we’d clicked. The job seemed to have a lot of moving parts—management of a few junior designers, long-term project planning, and even an opportunity to stick with my roots and undertake some assignments myself.
It was everything I’d been searching for, and I really hoped they liked me as much as I did them.
Why did I suddenly have the image of a little girl standing on the sidelines waving her hands and shouting “Pick me! Pick me!”
Which was not a helpful thought going into a very important interview.
“Abigail.” The HR representative, Jessica, walked past the reception desk and greeted me with an outstretched hand. “Lovely to see you again. Heather and Rich are ready for you in the conference room.”
I stood, shook her hand, and followed her. “How was your week?”
Jessica rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Insanity! But that seems to be the M.O. these days. We were bought out about three months ago, and while most things have settled, there are still weeks where everything seems to fall apart.”
“This was one of them?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah.” She stopped at the entrance to the conference room and smiled. “Good luck. I hope to see you around the office in the future.”
