The President's Secret Baby: A Second Chance Romance

by Gage Grayson

  After an hour or so of speculation from the media, Hope appears on the screen. She’s reciting a carefully crafted statement about the birth, which no doubt she’d planned for weeks ahead of time.

  But after that, Beatrice wants the television off. She’s never been a fan of the media spectacle around our lives and I’d have been incredibly surprised if she had changed her mind now.

  Nurses come in and out of the room, and eventually Beatrice is given the epidural.

  I’m so proud of her; I can’t imagine what it must feel like. But all I can do is be there for her and support her right up until the birth.The labor was surprisingly short. Either that or the time just seemed to fly. One moment Bea and I were surrounded by doctors, and the tension in the air was thick as she was told to push.

  “It’s a boy!”

  One moment Bea and I were surrounded by doctors, and the tension in the air was thick as she was told to push.

  The next moment, a tiny cry cut through all the noise and a red, wriggling baby boy is born into the world. I watch with wide eyes as the doctors cut the umbilical cord and begin to clean him.

  “Don’t get too comfortable, Beatrice, the second one will be along soon.”

  I hear Beatrice sigh in the bed and I turn to look at her; she’s covered in a sheen of sweat, and her hair is coming loose from it’s bun.

  She’s beautiful.

  I dab at her forehead with a cool towel.

  “You can do this, Bea, I’m so proud of you. You can do this.”

  She doesn’t have time to form a coherent reply as another cry of pain tears from her lips. The second baby is coming, and it’s waiting for no one.

  Beatrice pushes, her labored breaths adding to the cacophony of life in the room. I squeeze her hand and place one arm around her shoulder, holding her close to me and coaching her through it.

  Almost quicker than the last, the second child is a little girl, with a thick head of hair. Like her brother, she too begins to wail and alert the world with her presence. The doctors begin to wash and swaddle her in the towels.

  Beatrice collapses back into the bed, and I push the hair out of her face.

  “You did it. You did it, Bea. We’re parents now.”

  The doctors tidy up the room around us, and then they bring over a pair of carefully swaddled babies, who—for now—are sleeping peacefully.

  I let Beatrice take the little boy, and I hold my little girl in my arms, staring down into the beautiful face of my daughter.

  Beatrice bounces the little boy in her arms, holding him against her chest. I look at her and smile, and she looks up at me too with a tired grin.

  “God, they’re perfect.”

  This morning, I thought my life was perfect and couldn’t get any better.

  I was so wrong.

  Broken Engagement

  By Gage Grayson & Carter Blake

  Copyright 2018 by Third Base Press

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.

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  Macy

  For once, my mind’s going miraculously and blissfully blank as my eyes feast on the turquoise expanse below me. Minutes before I noticed the amazing view of the sea, I was wondering when this flight would be over.

  But now, I’m almost disappointed by the announcement that we’re about to land.

  Part of me wants to ding for a flight attendant and ask them to relay a request to the captain to take us for a few more spins before landing. Unfortunately, since I don’t think that would go over well with anyone, I simply sit with my nose pressed to the window.

  Even on the plain blue canvas of the water below, I can imagine a range of different cinematic possibilities springing from this amazing view. If it weren’t for the fact I don’t want to miss the stunning scene below me, I would now close my eyes and let my imagination take off.

  It always starts that way, with visual inspiration. Soon afterwards, ideas for different shots take form, followed by snippets of story ideas.

  The calm, rolling sea beneath us is majestic, almost romantic.

  Fuck. Thanks to Hollywood, I have to keep remembering to use the ‘R’ word to describe anything.

  Even getting into my mid-20s, with years of grueling film study and student production work behind me, I still get a thrill thinking about the limitless possibilities of filmmaking.

  But, there remains some limits I impose on any creative idea I have, and ‘no love stories’ is near the top of the list.

  Seriously—fuck that shit. There’s much better territory to explore with the medium.

  “Crew, prepare for landing.”

  Speaking of which, that announcement sounds like a hacky Hollywood romcom. Prepare for Landing.

  The clichés surrounding those movies are one thing, but it’s their stark contrast with real life that really gets to me.

  Take my friend Cara, for instance.

  One minute she thought she’d found her happily ever after and was preparing the wedding of the century. The next, seemingly out of nowhere, the whole thing had gone up in smoke.

  Puff.

  No rising from the ashes from a broken heart, no perfect prince to come rescue her from despair. Just...puff.

  The end. Now, life begins.

  Real life, and it’s not easy. But if you keep trying to escape it into some fantasy, it’ll make things impossible.

  More movies reflecting that idea wouldn’t be a bad thing. One of the beauties of storytelling is that everything has its place—happy endings, unhappy realism…

  But real doesn’t have to be unhappy, does it? That sounds like it could be part of a thesis, an ending that just is.

  Yeah—that still sounds unhappy. I’ll have to think more about this story and come back to that idea later. It would be a drama, obviously, about a brilliant young film student who comes to St. Maarten to scout locations for her thesis project.

  No, not for spring break—you didn’t think this story was about me, did you?

  Anyway, our plucky and effortlessly beautiful heroine lands at Princess Juliana Airport and sets off to make history.

  On her own.

  Yes, I’m warming to the idea. And no, she’s not going to find someone to make her complete or some other nonsense. I don’t know what that would be, yet, but that doesn’t mean I need to do the same thing that’s been done a million fucking times before.

  In movies, or in life.

  By the time I notice that the sea has suddenly vanished from my view, we’re already touching down on the runway. It’s like we went through some sort of portal—the runway must be on the shore, practically.

  I take a deep breath and vow not to wait too long before hitting the beach. Although right now, what I’m most looking forward to is getting to my room—suite, actually—and taking a long shower and maybe a nap.

  Once the plane comes to a stop, I wait in my seat until everyone else has cleared the aisle. I never understood the mad rush to get off the damn plane—there’s one exit, and everybody pushing through the cabin isn’t going to get anyone out any quicker.

  After most of the passengers have disembarked, I stand up, casually grab my luggage from the overhead bin and stroll easily down the open aisle.

  Not rushing can work. Ten minutes later, I’ve already breezed through customs, and I’m ready to catch the bus to the resort.

  And to my luxury resort suite. Which I’ll have to myself.

  It’s not something I would’ve chosen for myself, but the opportunity was there, and I’m giving it a try. I’ve backpacked through Europe, sleeping in hostel rooms with ten other people. At
this point, I’m okay with leaving that part of my life behind.

  Outside the terminal, a thoroughly tan man is holding up a sign that says ‘Belmont Resort’ with one hand while directing guests to a small, white jitney bus with the other.

  Looks like I’m right on time. A handful of other people and I pile in and we take off.

  It doesn’t feel that luxurious, but the scenery is nice, and the air conditioning works, and the ride is fast.

  Less than ten minutes later, I walk into the grand entrance of the Belmont Resort. I gasp as I stare at the opulence oozing from the place. Gold-trimmed and oversized glass front doors, amazing tall palm trees, and surreally handsome doormen greet me just a few steps from the tiny bus.

  Everyone seems so friendly, and it doesn’t feel fake.

  I seriously fucking owe Cara. I’m not used to this whole luxury vacation thing, but this one came just in time.

  My schedule at grad school has gone from rigorous to insane, to perpetual and unending. Not to mention taking PA gigs on any indie production in the city that’ll have me, as well as helping to carry lighting kits and buy coffee for all my friends’ student projects.

  Living the fucking dream, right? Speaking of dreaminess, I’m able to float right up to the front desk and the pretty, smiling desk clerk behind it.

  “I’m checking into the Honeymoon Suite,” I say without prompting.

  Did I mention I’m staying by myself in the fucking Honeymoon Suite?

  “You must be Ms. Evans. I’m sorry to say the Honeymoon Suite isn’t quite ready yet.”

  It all feels so surreal. I just stare vacantly and smile back.

  “Okay,” I mumble, not quite sure what to do.

  “We can send a text to your mobile when the suite is ready.”

  I nod—what choice do I have?

  “I can recommend our bar with water views for you, Madam. Enjoy a drink and your suite will be ready in no time.”

  “Thank you.”

  It’s a bit early, but I’m on vacation. I’m not an undergrad anymore, but I suppose I’m on spring fucking break.

  That’s how it feels like as I walk out into the bright sun and securing a seat at the lively outdoor bar.

  “So, what can I get a beautiful young lady such as yourself, at this our island paradise?”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  The bartender holds up his hands in pretend shock.

  “Oh no, only to those who are truly beautiful. Everyone gets their first drink on the house, though.”

  “What do you recommend?” I tilt my head to the side and look at him.

  He studies me for a moment, as if he’s studying a painting.

  “I think you’re a woman who knows what she wants and goes after it.”

  How did he know?

  “Therefore, I think you might enjoy a Bold Greek.”

  Okay, then.

  “I’m game,” I reply and watch the preparation of this mysterious cocktail.

  This bartender intrigues me, but most people always do, to some extent.

  In almost a quarter century on this blue-ass marble, I’ve learned that everyone has a story to tell. You almost never have to dig too deep to find it, either.

  “Voila.”

  John, as his gold nametag says, places a Hurricane glass on the bar in front of me. The drink is inky black, with a couple ice cubes floating towards the surface.

  Carefully lifting the glass, I detect a familiar scent that I can’t quite place.

  “Any hints?” I ask.

  “You try and tell me.”

  John watches me gingerly take a sip.

  Holy shit.

  I close my eyes and revel in the wondrous taste.

  “Coffee, and...pure magic, is it? Or licorice?” I put the glass back down.

  “You like it?”

  “I love it.”

  “Ouzo, fennel syrup, coffee syrup, and voila, you have your Bold Greek.”

  “I’ll have what she’s having.”

  My head turns to my left. I hadn’t noticed someone joining me at the bar.

  Let me rephrase this, I hadn’t noticed an exceptionally, almost ridiculously gorgeous man sits down next me at the bar.

  “Hey,” he smiles. “Can I buy you another?”

  Arrogant prick.

  Why do men assume they have to buy a woman a drink? Do we all have helpless tattooed on our forehead or something?

  “I’m fine with this one, thank you.”

  Part of me wants to pick up my drink and leave now, but the other is actually getting a kick out of ogling this newcomer, even with his smug expression.

  He knows he’s eye candy, he probably benefits from his stupid good looks, and there’s nothing wrong with enjoying the candy for a moment.

  John quickly prepares the drink and disappears.

  “Here’s to beautiful women.”

  The eye candy dude picks up his glass and holds it out for a toast.

  “Why? Because only women you think are beautiful are worth toasting?”

  I can’t help it.

  “Okay, let me try again.” He’s not put off easily. “Here’s to the female species. Beautiful creatures, all of them.”

  “Which men like you only want to fuck,” I deadpan, leaving my glass where it is.

  There’s a kind of suppressed snicker from behind the bar, and I can see John’s shoulders heave a little.

  “Nothing wrong with a little carnal pleasure is there?”

  Eye candy dude’s thick black eyebrows furrow a little. His chocolate eyes tease me.

  Boy, this one is something else.

  “I guess not if you’re after that sort of thing,” I reply nonchalantly and take another sip from my drink. “Are you assuming I would be? With you?”

  He laughs and sips his Bold Greek.

  “Sounds like you’re the one making assumptions. Are you after that sort of thing? With me?”

  “Why would I be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, I could blow your mind and show you what real pleasure is all about.”

  I shake my head.

  “So how about it,” he persists. “Should we meet up later for...”

  “A quickie?” I finish for him and roll my eyes. “I’m not sure if I can squeeze it in. You know, I’ve got quite a full schedule. It’s not like you’re the only man or woman on the resort you know.”

  Maybe that rebuke is strong enough.

  “Well, why don’t you check your schedule and get back to me?”

  Part of me wants to slap him in the face and the other wants to laugh. Did he seriously think I’d just go and have a quick fuck and be done with it?

  I’m spared a further reply when my awaited text arrives from the resort.

  “Thanks for the cocktail,” I call to John and get up from my seat, taking my drink with me. I may as well enjoy the rest of it in the comfort of my own room.

  Honeymoon Suite, I mean.

  “You’ll get back to me then?” the stranger calls after me as I walk away.

  I don’t bother to turn around or reply—with any luck I won’t see him again for the rest of my stay, or ever.

  Aaron

  How fucking lucky am I?

  Not only do I not have to be best man at the wedding, I benefit from the whole debacle with time away in this luxurious resort in the fucking Caribbean.

  Wherever I look, I see possibilities.

  And, right now, this week is looking very promising.

  Nothing beats a good holiday fling.

  Let’s face it—anyone who goes away to a luxury resort on their own isn’t looking for a permanent relationship. On the contrary, they’re looking for something quick, without strings attached. And I’m going to be just their man.

  At the end of the day, relationships, commitment, and all that crap is highly overrated to put it fucking mildly. Give me a good fling any day.

  The luxury resort, so far, is living up to its reputatio
n. I stride through the massive front doors and scan the area.

  From what I can see, there’s no one worthy of being picked up in the hotel lobby. It’s probably still a bit early for check in, and possibly too late for check-outs.

  With a sigh, I head for the bar.

  There’s bound to be at least one, if not more, hot chicks waiting for me at the bar. Where else do you got to pick up in a luxury resort? The bar or the bar.

  Even if I’m out of luck there, I may as well grab a drink before I check in.

  I don’t like to check in before I’ve checked out the lay of the land. And what better place to check out the lay of the land than at the bar?

  As far as I’m concerned, and speaking from experience, the bar is the hub of any resort or hotel.

  If there’s some lonely woman looking for a bit of holiday action, I bet I’ll find her at the bar. She may even be there right now, this very second.

  I feel a renewed vigor pulse through me as I stride to the bar with ocean views. Briefly, I hover at the entrance.

  It does, indeed, have those promised ocean views. White sand and a range of blues can be seen even from where I’m standing. The beach and ocean is literally a skip, hop and jump away.

  I guess if I can’t find anyone at the bar I might head down to the beach.

  Who knows? Maybe there’s some bikini clad model down there, sunbathing and waiting for someone to come along and help rub some sunscreen into those hard to reach spots.

  No point heading down to the beach without a drink.

  Slowly, I meander to the bar. I can hear voices, laughter—a woman’s laughter.

  After a few more steps, I see her.

  She’s absolutely fucking gorgeous. Quickly, I look around. So far so good. She seems to be here on her own. No husband or boyfriend to be seen anywhere.

  I straighten up and stride toward her, confidence oozing from me. The woman who can resist my charm simply hasn’t been born yet.

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  She knocks me back.

  Ouch.

  How could this be? How can she resist my charm and good looks? Did I mention I’ve got incredible good looks? I mean, Adonis, eat your heart out.