Baby for the Bosshole Read online

  “Ubers aren’t allowed to come to the main door. You’ll have to make a long walk through the garden to the main gate,” Emma says, clearly reading my reluctance.

  I don’t want to make that walk, just get the hell out of here before Emmett and his dad come back. I don’t have the emotional energy for that sort of encounter right now. If Emma wants to chat during the ride…

  Well, I can just deflect or say something vague, although I have a feeling she’s too perceptive and compassionate to probe very hard. “Okay. Thank you.”

  She nods and takes me back into the house. I put the sundress back on, and she just ties the sash around her kimono more tightly before we go to her Escalade and head out.

  The sound system plays soothing strains of classical music. It doesn’t do much for my current state of mind.

  “I’m sorry you were forced to endure Ted’s party,” Emma says. “It’s no easy feat, even if you aren’t pregnant.”

  “I thought it would be a good chance to meet his family.” Her sympathy makes it easier for me to open up, despite my earlier resolve. I place a hand over my belly, which is churning ominously—like a warning to stay away from the madness I just witnessed.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Emmett. I suggested a more private setting, but he thought the party would be better.”

  Emma frowns, then sighs. “You probably won’t believe this, but he’s right. It isn’t easy to be at the receiving end of Ted’s nearly undivided attention. He can be very charming when he wants, but generally he’s…difficult.”

  “Do you think it’s true? About what he said about telling Emmett he wants a grandbaby?”

  Please, God, let this be a simple misunderstanding. I don’t want this baby to be something Emmett wants just to make his dad happy. What if Ted decides he doesn’t care for the baby after all? Will Emmett lose interest, too? The notion sends a shudder through me. I want our future to be based on something more than Ted’s wish list.

  “Probably. Isabella—Grant’s mother—said Ted asked for a grandbaby for his birthday this year. Of course, he asked so late there’s no way a baby could be born in time.” Emma rolls her eyes.

  “Like how late?” The question is more than painful—it gnaws at me. But I have to know in case the timing doesn’t make sense. I want proof that Emmett didn’t say or do all those sweet things just to make his dad happy.

  “He asked a few weeks ago.”

  The answer knocks the breath out of me. The timing works out with our affair. But I cling to the fact that I’m the one who proposed the no-sex fling to Emmett after our massage at the spa.

  “But his sons could just ignore him, right?” I ask, shaky but hopeful. They seem successful and wealthy. Do they really need Ted Lasker’s money or approval?

  “Probably, but he apparently contacted some of the mothers to put pressure on the boys. Isabella was a bit distraught.”

  Emma doesn’t seem distraught. Actually, more like the opposite: totally Zen. Maybe Emmett already told her he was on it. He gets along with his dad, which probably means he wants to give him the grandbaby the old man desires. And I understand the impulse—I’ve always wanted to give my dad grandchildren, too. He loves kids, and beyond that, I want to show him he did an awesome job raising me to be a well-adjusted, happy woman without Mom around.

  “I don’t suppose Emmett told you all this,” Emma says gently.

  “No.” And I’m furious he didn’t, leaving me to be ambushed like this.

  She sighs a little, the sound full of pity. She doesn’t mean to make me feel awful, obviously, but that doesn’t lessen my humiliation. A lot of what Emmett did makes no sense to me. He didn’t want to announce the pregnancy to his family—maybe he only wanted to let his father know for some weird reason—and he didn’t want to meet my dad—which is understandable if he isn’t serious about us. But the nursery? The way he made sure to have it reflect what I want more than what he wants?

  Maybe he’s just really inconsistent—hot and cold, hot and cold. Don’t forget how he drove you crazy ever since you joined the firm. You aren’t the only one who thinks he’s brilliant but impossible, and personality doesn’t compartmentalize. Assholes are assholes in all aspects of their lives.

  “How much does his dad want a grandbaby?” I want to confirm how far Emmett would go for his dad.

  “At the moment? It’s his sole desire in life.” Emma chooses her words with care. “Ted is rich, powerful and isn’t used to being made to wait. And if you didn’t notice, he’s not exactly shy about what he wants. We all know he wants one.”

  I don’t know exactly who she means by “we,” but I can guess it includes Mellie and Sunshine, because they were there when I turned down the alcohol and then little George announced I was pregnant. They must have told Ted, which is why he dropped by the way he did.

  He also said he wants a smart child, so it makes sense Emmett would settle on me. I might not be a financial genius like him, but I do have two degrees from Ivy League schools.

  Maybe he didn’t want me around his family for a reason. I don’t fit in with the crowd, and I don’t—

  Wait…

  I blink, swallowing a gasp as a sudden realization strikes me. Ted’s party was eerily like Mom’s parties, if hers had the luster and slickness money can provide. Worse, actually, because a child was there and people seemed okay with it. Would Emmett’s family insist on having my baby there? It might be normal for a Hollywood infant to grow up watching something like that, but it isn’t normal in my world. I want my baby to keep its innocence as long as possible.

  Clearly, I was premature in offering joint custody or considering Emmett’s marriage proposal seriously. The best course of action now is taking my baby as far away from that environment as possible, before Emmett realizes he can’t have fun at parties like that with a kid around. I’m not putting myself or my baby through the heartache of being tossed aside like a piece of old Styrofoam.

  Emma stops the car in front of my apartment building.

  “Sorry the party turned out to be such a disappointment,” she says softly.

  “Don’t be. It was enlightening.” I force a smile. “Thanks for the ride.”

  I hop out of the car, not looking back. Once I’m back in my apartment, I shower, then draft an email to Emmett.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Emmett

  The pool area is a heaving mass of humanity, and I can’t spot Amy in the milling, drunken crowd. They’re still playing the ridiculous spooge game, and their loud cheers and yells grate on my nerves. If I were in charge, I’d end the party now and throw everyone out.

  I text her, but she doesn’t answer. Probably can’t hear the notification in this noise.

  Okay, I need to get her out of this mess. I run into Huxley, who’s chatting with a redhead who is clinging to him like a silicone-enhanced octopus. “Have you seen Amy anywhere?”

  He frowns, doing his best to pull away from the woman. “She’s around here somewhere. I saw her with your mom not too long ago.”

  That brings my anxiety down a notch. Mom has undoubtedly explained to her that all the idiocy at this party is Dad’s idea. She’s good at smoothing ruffled feathers.

  I pull out my phone and text Mom.

  –Me: Is Amy with you?

  There’s no immediate response. Either she can’t hear the notification or she’s too busy talking to Amy. I hope it’s the latter. Mom has a calm style of communication, which is exactly what Amy needs at the moment.

  Trying to settle my anger and nerves, I finish a beer. My phone vibrates in my hand.

  –Mom: I just dropped her off at her place.

  Shit. She left without telling me? Then again, it might be for the best that Amy is away from this clusterfuck.

  –Me: Did you talk to her?

  –Mom: A little.

  –Me: How did she take it?

  –Mom: Hard to tell. She didn’t say much.

  I shove my fingers into my hair and clench it. The prickling pain helps me gather my thoughts.

  Amy is probably stewing. She’s smart as hell and has good instincts, but beyond that, she’s careful. She likes to take time to make plans that are most likely to lead to success and then stick to them. Most importantly, she doesn’t like taking risks in her personal life.

  Engaging in a “sex-only fling” with me was probably a huge gamble for her. I don’t want anything to happen that will make her regret that choice.

  I start toward my car. I’m done with this damned party. Dad can prance around and have fun, but I’m going to Amy’s place to make sure she’s okay.

  Just as I climb inside my Lamborghini, another text arrives. I check the phone immediately, hoping it’s Amy. But nope.

  –Mom: I think she needs some time to herself to process what happened. I don’t suppose you warned her?

  –Me: No.

  –Mom: You should have.

  –Me: Yeah. But I didn’t know how to talk about Dad with her.

  Regret, annoyance and self-recrimination wage a battle in my mind. He’s one topic I avoid discussing with people. My brothers don’t count because they already know what kind of human being he is. But I don’t talk about him to my dates, to reporters, to anybody lured by the glamour of the movie business who is curious enough to ask. When I have to make conversation about him, I keep it superficial and vague, hiding all the dirty laundry. It’s just too humiliating to talk about his behavior.

  My gut says I should go see Amy right now. But Mom’s text is holding me back. Perhaps giving Amy a day to think about what happened might be a good idea. And I can use the time to come up with a good in-person apology.

  –Me: Amy, I heard Mom gave you a ride home. I’m sorry about the party, and I’ll talk with you on Monday.

  I grimace as I stare at the text. “Sorry” seems so anemic. But I can’t think of anything better, so I hit send and pray I can find a way to make it up to her.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Emmett

  On Monday, I arrive at the office earlier than usual. I want to get some stuff out of the way before Amy shows up, so I can smooth things out with her. But I’m feeling optimistic. After turning things over in my head for several hours, I know exactly how to approach the situation.

  The floor is empty except for a few folks who stayed and pulled all-nighters through the weekend. While my laptop boots, I grab myself a coffee and stop at Amy’s desk on my way back. It’s neatly arranged, with a calendar and a few manila folders with papers inside. Although the firm’s going paperless, a lot of associates, including Amy, still like to go over some items holding something in their hands.

  Still not here. I run a finger along the top of her calendar, then go park myself at my desk with the door open so I can see when she comes in.

  But until she does, it’s time to work. I double-click on Outlook, and the server vomits hundreds of emails into my inbox. I shake my head as I skim the subjects—almost seventy percent are either irrelevant or FYI only. People need to quit looping me in when I don’t need to be involved. I’m not reading their emails just because they land in my inbox.

  But then there’s an email from Amy.

  The subject says Notice. Nothing to indicate which portfolio company it’s about, which is generally how Amy labels all her emails. My heart thuds, pumping something acrid through me. I gulp down half the coffee. She must’ve been really pissed off about what happened yesterday to write an email and send it to me at one fifty-six a.m. She’s never sent me a personal email before. Knowing her, I can imagine her drafting multiple versions before settling on this one.

  Come on. You know you deserve it. Man up, read it and make your apology even better.

  Girding my loins, I click it open.

  From: Amy Sand

  To: Emmett Lasker

  Subject: Notice

  Sent: Today 1:56 a.m.

  Dear Emmett,

  Please accept this letter as formal notification that I am resigning from my position as Associate with GrantEm Capital. My last day will be two weeks from now.

  Thank you so much for the opportunity to work in this position and grow in the past two years. I’ve greatly enjoyed being a part of bringing GrantEm’s revolutionary services and offerings to life.

  I’ll be wrapping up all my duties and transferring them to another associate for transition.

  I wish GrantEm Capital all future success.

  Sincerely,

  Amy Sand

  Huh?

  Formal notification? Last day? Transition?

  Resigning?

  This is one of the most generic resignation letters I’ve ever read. Hell, she didn’t even add the usual “Love to stay in touch.”

  I finish the remaining coffee in my mug and read the notice again, in case I was hallucinating. But nope. Amy is still quitting the firm. And by quitting the firm, she’s also quitting me.

  Fuck! She isn’t going to give me a chance to explain?

  The hair on the back of my neck bristles, and I look up to see Amy walking out of the elevator. I jump to my feet and signal her.

  “In my office.” Despite my best attempt to appear calm and collected, my voice sounds brittle.

  “Sure.”

  Her eyes stay cool, her mouth unsmiling, as she places her purse and laptop bag on her desk and comes over. She shuts the door and takes a seat, crossing her legs.

  “I understand that you’re mad, but don’t you think it’s a bit dramatic to quit your job?” I say, not caring about preliminaries. The two-week notice changed everything.

  “No. I’ve given it a lot of thought.”

  “It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.” She thought about it for a few days before deciding to have a fling with me. She should at least devote that much time to her resignation!

  “They’ve been quality hours,” she says thinly.

  “How are you going to take care of the baby without a job? And pay for all those doctor’s visits?” I cast about for more expenses. “Your student loans. You know you can’t get rid of those.”

  “Thanks, but you don’t have to worry about any of that. I’ve already accepted another offer.”

  “Another…” When did she interview for another job? Before or after she decided to start dating me? “Where?”

  “At the Blaire Group.”

  “You gotta be shitting me!”

  “Nope. So you don’t have to worry about my financial situation. They offered the most benefits and money.” She says the words like she’s reading cooking instructions.

  The skin under my eye starts twitching. “Let me guess. It was Marion Blaire who offered, right? In person?”

  She nods. “He seems like a reasonable guy.”

  “When did he approach you?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  It’s a vague answer, but it means she had this fucking offer at least by the time we went to La Jolla…

  “Jesus, I’ve been a dumbass,” I mutter.

  Her impassive façade cracks. “What?”

  “You acted like you didn’t really know Marion at the restaurant in La Jolla. But you’d already had your interview with him.”

  Guilt flickers in her gaze.

  Her betrayal sucker-punches me, and I clench my teeth. “He probably decided to offer for sure after that incident, if he hadn’t already.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  Too late for explanation. If she didn’t feel comfortable in La Jolla, she could’ve mentioned the offer later when I brought up the Blaire Group snapping up Webber.

  “If you wanted to stay with me—were serious about joint custody or even getting married—you would’ve told me about Marion’s offer. Hell, even if there was no baby, you should’ve tried to leverage it to get more money out of GrantEm.” The fact that she stayed quiet means she was plotting to dump the firm—and me—and jet off to Virginia as soon as she hit the two-year mark with GrantEm so she wouldn’t have to pay back her signing bonus. I’d wager my Lamborghini the last day specified in her notice is her seven hundred and thirtieth day at the firm.

  She looks away briefly.

  Confirmation!

  It guts me. And the fact that I’m hurting makes me hate myself. Why did I let anybody have this much power over me? “You know what? Forget the two weeks. No need to come in. Pack your stuff and get out now. I don’t let traitors work at the firm.”

  She stares at me like she’s the injured party. Somehow that makes me want to go hold her, which is bullshit. She’s the one who brought this on herself and me.

  “Emmett—”

  “My lawyer will be in touch about the baby,” I spit out through the bitter lump lodged in my throat. I don’t want to hear what she has to say. She’s forcing me to turn into my father—a father who won’t be married to his baby’s mother or do any of the things a father should do except provide money.

  She clicks her mouth shut. Exhaling a barely audible sigh, she turns around and walks out, closing the door firmly, leaving me behind.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Amy

  “Hey, girl, were you out sick?” Sasha calls out as she walks in at ten p.m. Since she’s been busy for weeks, coming home later than me or not at all, Grant must’ve told her to leave early and catch up on some sleep, like he did before.

  “No,” I say from the kitchen. The microwave dings, and I pull a mug of hot chocolate out. “You want some?”

  She looks me up and down, taking in my T-shirt and shorts. “What happened?”

  “That.” I gesture at the box I left on the table. It’s open, my stuff from the office clearly visible inside.

  She stares at it, her jaw going slack, then swings back to face me. “Did Emmett fire you?”

  “No. It’s complicated.” I want to cry, but also don’t want to. My life is already a mess; no need to make my face match.