The Billionaires Surprise Baby: A MFM Billionaire Menage Romance

by West, Harper

  “So what happened?”

  “She got pregnant,” I say.

  Dr. Saunders’ eyebrows hit the ceiling. “You broke up with her because she got pregnant? I really thought more of you than that.”

  “We didn’t break up with her because she was pregnant,” I clarify, “Though the real truth isn’t much better. Ivy asked us to lunch where she was about to tell us that we were going to be parents. She was so excited. But before she got the news out, Tyler and I were talking about his sister who was pregnant yet again and how we never wanted to be responsible for children. She disappeared that day and didn’t resurface until recently when she turned up at my company in desperate need of a job.”

  “She had the baby and didn’t tell you?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, “But I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t have told me either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ivy was right,” I confess, “I didn’t want to be a parent.”

  “Do you want to be one now?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really have much of a choice now,” I say, “But it’s not that I hate kids or anything like that. I just… I don’t want to give a child the same upbringing that I had. I’m afraid of turning into my parents.”

  “Logan, I know the basics about your parents, and I honestly don’t think that’s going to be an issue,” she says, looking at me incredulously.

  I smirk. "Not like that. I can provide for our son financially, and I'll ensure that he goes to school with his peers. But my parents acted as though I was an inconvenience and basically lived their lives as though they didn't have a child. I don't want to be that for my son."

  Dr. Saunders nods.

  “So that’s why I’m here,” I conclude, “Well, that and that Tyler asked Ivy what it would take to get the three of us back together again and she said that if Tyler and I worked through our hang-ups and accepted Oliver fully into our lives, that she’d consider taking us back. So it’d for her too.”

  Dr. Saunders thinks about it and seems to accept my story. “Well, Logan, I think that we need to focus on the first part of that. As much as you love this Ivy woman and want her back, it’s important to remember that this process is for you. You don’t get better for someone else. Especially not simply for the promise of someone else. Do you understand?”

  I do, and I let her know so.

  “Good,” she says resolutely.

  We spend the next ninety minutes discussing my biological parents, my foster homes, my education, and my career successes. We talk about my need to constantly be proving myself. We talk about my abandonment issues and how I fear that I’ll be emotionally distant to my child.

  And we talk about the goal. What I hope to achieve in all this.

  It’s simple. I want Ivy, Tyler and me to be together again. This time, with Oliver.

  The time flies by quickly and, before I know it, we’ve reached the end of our session.

  “Dr. Saunders?" I ask, hoping my voice doesn't crack. I feel strange right now. Definitely lighter, like I've set down a heavyweight. Unpacked a ton of emotional baggage. But I feel oddly vulnerable too in a way I don't quite like. Being unreachable and stoic certainly had its advantages.

  “Yes?”

  “How long until I can see my son?”

  “Is Ivy not letting you see Oliver?” she asks, confused.

  “No, she’ll let me visit,” I explain, “But I keep chickening out. How long until I’ll… you know, want to see him.”

  Dr. Saunders makes a noise low in her throat as she thinks of an answer. “I don’t know,” she says, “Everyone’s journey is different.”

  “I figured you’d say something like that,” I say.

  “But I can see that you want this to work, Logan,” she says, her tone more optimistic, “And you’re willing to do anything to make it happen.”

  “True.”

  “You’re a good man, Logan,” she says, “You’ll get there.

  I decide to go home instead of heading to the office after my appointment. Also, instead of heading straight up to my place, I decide to stop off at Ivy’s floor.

  My finger hovers over the doorbell, but I don’t press it. I have no idea what to say to her or how to start apologizing.

  I pace around in front of her door, trying not to trip on her welcome mat.

  “I’m trying, Ivy,” I mutter to myself, “I want to be a family.”

  Suddenly, the door opens. It’s not Ivy.

  “Who are you?” I ask the woman, in a far more accusatory tone than I should have, considering that I’m creeping around her hallway.

  “Who are you?” the young woman asks. I recognize her from somewhere.

  The night at the hospital. This is Patty, the babysitter.

  Ivy’s not home. Duh. Ivy’s at work.

  I shake my head, in disbelief of how stupid I’ve just been.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Miss,” I tell her, “I’m a friend of Ivy’s.”

  “I recognize you from the hospital that night,” Patty says, “I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

  “Please don’t,” I beg her, “I don’t know what I want to say to her yet.”

  Patty nods and wishes me well before closing the door.

  I take the elevator back up to the top floor and text Tyler, letting him know that I’ll be working from home today before changing into jeans and a tee shirt. As I dig through my dresser, I’m struck by how infrequently I wear casual clothes. Even when I go out, I mostly stick to dress clothes. Or sweats, but those are for the gym or for sleeping.

  The jeans fit well. I look at myself in the mirror.

  I look like a guy who could throw on jeans on a Saturday morning and take his kid to the park. Maybe even push him on the swings.

  Until my kid starts crying because I’ve upset him. And then it all goes to hell. I sigh. I have to stop thinking like that.

  Barefoot, I pad out into the living room where Tyler’s gaming equipment is strewn across the couch and the floor in front of the television. I shove some of it out of the way before flopping down on the couch.

  From this angle, I have a perfect view into the third bedroom. I notice something odd.

  Packages. There are several shopping bags from a home improvement store piled up on the floor. And several paint cans. I check the color swatch on the lid. Clear Blue Sky.

  I pull out my phone again to text Tyler.

  Logan: What’s with the paint cans and shit in the third bedroom?

  He replies right away.

  Tyler: What’s it look like?

  Logan: Looks like you’re making that room into a nursery.

  Tyler: No shit, Sherlock.

  Logan: Were you gonna run it by me first?

  Tyler: I want Ivy back. I know you do too. This is part of it.

  Damn, he’s right.

  Tyler: Are you mad?

  I start unpacking the supplies from the bags. I find the paint tray and assemble the rollers. I spread out the drop cloths. I notice that I’ll have to find a ladder to reach all the way to the ceiling, but that can be something done tomorrow.

  Logan: No.

  By the time Tyler gets home, the bedroom is almost completely painted Clear Blue Sky. I am drenched in sweat and his jeans and tee shirt and covered in light blue paint.

  Tyler looks at me like he doesn’t know which part of this equation startles him the most.

  “We’ll need a ladder to do the rest,” I tell him after he’s stared at me for several minutes without saying anything.

  “Okay,” he answers slowly, “I’ll get one tomorrow.”

  I nod. “I’m going to shower.”

  I change into my track pants and a Yankees tee shirt before settling on the couch with a beer and my laptop. I decided to check my work email one more time before disconnecting from the office for the night. There’s one new message. From the League of Women Business Owners.

  I skim the note. It’s quick and to the point, praising Rutledge Ent
erprises for its business mentorship program and how it has shaped the lives of several young women who have since launched their own companies. As a result, I’ve been asked to speak at a summit for women in business.

  At the bottom of the email, it says that my company was nominated by Daisy Ramirez, the co-owner and founder of Blue Bubbles, a luxury bath product line, and one of our current mentees.

  And Tyler’s and my botched one night stand. Good to know that she doesn’t hold it against us.

  “What’re you reading?” Tyler asks, looking over my shoulder. He’s showered as well and smells like cinnamon body wash and shampoo.

  “That girl Daisy nominated me to speak at a women in business thing,” I tell him.

  Tyler scoffs. “You’re not a woman.”

  “Just noticing that now, asshole?” I ask.

  Tyler shakes his head, laughing. “You going to do it?”

  I shrug. “I’m glad to know that Daisy is doing well, but I don’t feel right speaking about how to nurture women in the business field when my strategy is literally, ‘treat all my mentees exactly the same.’”

  “True.”

  “Plus, I don’t know what it’s like to be a woman in business,” I say, “I’ve never dealt with that. I don’t know what I’d say to them.”

  Tyler smirks. “But you know who does?”

  I blink. He's right. If we do decide to do this, Ivy would be the perfect person to address these women. She's run her own company. She's dealt with sexism in this industry, and she'd made it to the top. And yes, even though she's struggling now, there's no doubt in my mind that she'll be back on top someday.

  “Should I call her?” Tyler asks.

  “I’ll do it,” I tell him, “I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

  Chapter 17

  Ivy

  I'm almost ready to take my lunch break when Mrs. O'Dell tells me that Logan wants to see me. I groan a little. It's been a long day, and it's only noon. I've been taking messages, directing traffic and fielding calls all morning and all I want to do is treat myself to a gourmet grilled cheese sandwich at the cafe across the street.

  But that’s not in the cards today. I take the elevator up to Logan’s office and knock.

  “Come in, Ivy,” Tyler calls from behind the closed door.

  When I let myself in, Logan is seated at his desk, and Tyler is across from him with his feet up on the heavy wood surface. There is another chair next to Tyler that I assume is for me.

  “What is all this about?” I ask them, warily. Tyler seems like he’s in a good mood, but, as usual, Logan is completely expressionless. “Is there something wrong? I sent out all the information for the…”

  “This isn’t about work, Ivy,” Logan says, cutting me off, “Well, not about this job, anyway.”

  “Okay, then,” I say, waiting for him to elaborate.

  “Last night, I got an email from the League of Women Business Owners,” he starts.

  My eyes go wide. I used to be an active member of LWBO before my company went bankrupt. I looked forward to that summit every year. It was a weekend of speakers, workshops, and seminars. And not just idiotic ‘how to dress for success’ drivel, but real exercises that promoted women’s empowerment and encouraged us to support one another.

  But that wave of nostalgia is short lived. I can’t go back there. Not after failing as spectacularly as I have.

  “I’ve been invited to speak,” Logan says.

  “Really?” I ask, “But you’re…”

  “Not a woman,” Tyler helpfully adds, “He knows.”

  “I was nominated by a woman in the company’s mentorship program,” Logan explains, “Apparently, I’ve helped several young women get a head start in the field.”

  “That’s good,” I say, wondering where he’s going with this.

  “But I don’t feel right speaking at this summit,” he says, “I’m planning to attend, but I feel that the speech should be delivered by an actual woman in business.”

  “I agree.” Okay, still confused.

  “He’s asking you to do it, Ivy,” Tyler says gently.

  “No way in hell,” I say quickly, “I mean. I’m irrelevant. I’m not in business anymore. I’m a receptionist.”

  “You ran a company,” Logan says, “You made your first million before you turned thirty.”

  “And now I'm a thirty-something single mother who had to beg her exes for an entry-level job," I lament. I get up. I can't sit here and fathom speaking to all those hopeful, eager young women. "No woman should look up to me. I'm a failure."

  “You’re not a failure,” Tyler reassures me.

  “I’m not?” I ask, sarcastically, “You mean, I didn’t run a multi-million-dollar company into the ground?”

  “No, you didn’t,” Logan says, “There were circumstances beyond your control.”

  “Yeah,” Tyler adds, “Life happened.”

  “I have no doubt that there will be women in that crowd who can relate to your story.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” I tell them, finding my way to the door, “Maybe someday when I can look in the mirror and see the old me, the successful version of myself that disappeared the second my pregnancy became difficult. I don’t know.”

  I let myself out and take the elevator back down to my desk. When I get down to the first floor, there’s a young woman standing at my desk, crying. Well, she’s clearly trying not to cry, but doing a terrible job at maintaining her composure.

  “Excuse me?” I ask her, “Can I help you?”

  She wipes her eyes frantically. “Yes, I’m so sorry. This is completely unprofessional of me.”

  “Don’t apologize for having emotions, Miss,” I tell her. I reach behind my computer for the box of tissues and hand her several. She thanks me. “Are you looking for anyone in particular?”

  She nods. “I’m looking for Ms. O’Dell.”

  “She’s at lunch,” I tell her, “I’m Ivy Lawrence. Can I help you?”

  She pushed a few papers at me. “I’m resigning from the mentorship program. Effective immediately.”

  I look at her, shocked. “Why would you want to do that, Miss…”

  “Ramirez,” she answers.

  “Ms. Ramirez," I start, "That program is a great opportunity and a perfect starting point for launching your own business. I'm going to urge you to rethink this decision. Your spot will be given to someone else, and you will not be able to get back in."

  “I know,” she says. She’s sniffling.

  “What happened?”

  “My partner and I… Business partner and I, I mean… We had a huge falling out,” she explains, “We run a bath product company. All fair trade. Vegan. Organic. But she wants to use a manufacturer that is cheaper but has a reputation for testing on animals. They assured us that they don’t anymore, but I don’t believe them. I can’t explain it. It’s just the vibe I get from the guy. She says that’s a stupid reason not to take a good deal. I found a different manufacturer recommended to me by other vegans, but they’re pricier.”

  “But you trust your guy?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Well, think about it,” I tell her, “Saving money is great. Especially when you’re starting out. But, consider how terrible it would be if your customers found out about the animal testing. Your reputation would be ruined before you’re even a year old.”

  “True.”

  “You have to explain to your business partner that you’re not just spending recklessly,” I tell her, “You’re setting your brand’s standard.”

  “Setting the brand’s standard,” she repeats slowly, “I like that.”

  “Explain that to her, and if you need, I'll be there for you when you do," I assure her.

  Ms. Ramirez nods. "I'll do that. Thank you, Ms. Lawrence."

  She and I say our goodbyes to each other and she thanks me.

  I sigh out, feeling completely different than I had just a few seconds ago. After leaving Logan’s of
fice, I felt like a failure. I felt eons away from the business world that I once called home. I really felt the weight of my failure. But after speaking to that young woman and encouraging her to trust her intuition, stand up to her partner, and to stay in the game even after a big setback, I feel invigorated.

  I decided to treat myself to that grilled cheese sandwich in the swanky cafe after all. It seems that my appetite has returned.

  I cross the street to enter the small restaurant and order at the counter, then take a seat at a table with my number displayed in front of me. Two women take the table next to mine, and they’re talking pretty loudly. I can help but overhear.

  “Six more weeks,” one woman says happily, patting her belly. She’s about my age, with sleek black hair and a round face. She’s clearly pregnant and very happy about it. I envy that. I never felt like I had that glow that pregnant women seem to get. She has it.

  “I just can’t believe you up and quit your job, though,” the other woman tells her, crossing her arms over her chest. “You had it made there, you know. Salary. Great benefits. You probably could’ve been promoted this year.”

  The pregnant woman shrugs.

  “I just feel like you threw it all away,” her friend says.

  This seems to piss off the pregnant one, who looks like she's about to burst out into tears. "I can't believe you," she says, "I thought, of all people, you'd understand. I've always wanted to be a mom, and I want to give everything I have to my child. I want to be at home while she's growing up. My mother worked, and I always wanted her home more."

  “But don’t you think you’d be setting a better example for your daughter if you were to show her that she can have a career and a family? That she doesn’t have to give up everything she’s worked for just because she got pregnant.” The second woman, the one who’s not pregnant, looks rather proud of herself for saying that. She looks to me like she wants my approval.

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping,” I assure them, “Just waiting on my sandwich.”

  “I’m sure you heard all that,” the pregnant woman says. “And let me guess, you agree with her, don’t you? You seem like a career gal type. You probably think I’m a bad feminist too because I wanted to get married and have babies and be a stay at home mother.”