Baby for the Bosshole Read online

  He puffs out a breath, his eyes going impossibly dark. “That’s playing dirty.”

  “What are you going to do? Spank me?” I lick my red-tinted lips slowly.

  For once, my husband is at a loss for words. Yes.

  “Like I said—just one time. If it doesn’t work, I won’t ask again.” But I’m pretty sure it’s going to work. I’ve been tracking my cycle very closely over the last three months.

  “And, uh, if I say no…”

  “Then I guess I’ll just have go put on some other outfit. Something boring and with much more material.” I sigh. “And we’ll go swimming.” I give him a pouty look. That would be such a shame.

  His Adam’s apple bobs once. His eyes look feverish, probably from desire, but also from trying to calculate the possibility of me getting pregnant from just one time. But the deciding body part is none too well hidden by the towel.

  “Okay,” he says finally.

  I smile triumphantly. “Perfect.”

  I jump on him. His mouth crushes mine as he lifts me and carries me backward to our bed. Gotta make this count.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Amy

  –Dad: How are you doing, sweetie pie?

  I smile as I wait for the elevator in the GrantEm lobby at two. He hasn’t changed, not even a little, even though he’s retired in style. He moved into the place Emmett bought for him in Malibu, so we see each other more often. But he always acts like it’s been ages.

  –Me: I’m doing fabulous! Here.

  I take a quick selfie and send it to him. And because he’s awesome, I also attach a photo of Monique and Emmett playing from this morning.

  –Dad: Look at all of you! You look great together!

  –Me: Thanks! You’re coming over this Saturday, right?

  –Dad: Yup. Can’t wait.

  –Me: Me either. Love you.

  –Dad: Back atcha. Have a great day!

  I smile and start to put the phone away. The elevator doors open, and I step inside.

  My phone buzzes.

  –Emmett: Yes or no?

  I almost laugh at how blunt he is. He’s probably dying right now. For some reason, the two pregnancy tests I bought gave opposite results. I told him we should buy more, in case the ones we bought were defective, but he insisted on consulting a doctor to be sure.

  –Me: I’ll tell you in person.

  –Emmett: You’re killing me.

  I smother a laugh.

  –Me: Relax, I’m already in the elevator.

  The elevator doors open with a ping. I put on a serious expression and start toward his office. Emmett, of course, is outside the door. Mr. Impatient.

  I bite my lip so I don’t start laughing.

  He walks over and puts his hand at the small of my back. “So what did the doctor say?”

  “Let’s talk inside your office.” Don’t want him to collapse in front of the staff. Or scream.

  Lines of concern appear between his eyes. “That bad?”

  I finally laugh as we step inside his office and close the door behind us. “No. It’s just… You’re funny with your reaction.”

  “It is kind of a life-or-death situation, you know.”

  “No, it’s not.” I kiss him, holding his warm, strong hands. “Congratulations, Mr. Lasker. We are most definitely pregnant.”

  “Oh my God,” he says shakily. “It was just that one time.”

  “Yeah, but you know… That’s all it takes.” I grin. He should know. It only took that one time for me to get pregnant with Monique. “Besides, we’re super lucky.”

  “How come?”

  “Because we’re having twins!” I wrap my arms around him.

  “Twins? Holy… God help us all.”

  I laugh. “Pretty sure He already did.” I look up at Emmett with all the love I have in my heart. “He gave us each other.”

  Holding me tight, Emmett kisses me.

  And all is perfect in my world.

  ——

  Thank you for reading Baby for the Bosshole! I hope you enjoyed Emmett and Amy’s story.

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  If you want more fun billionaire rom com, check out Marrying My Billionaire Boss [US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia]. Nobody told Evie that saving her boss from his mink fur bikini-wearing ex-girlfriend/stalker would involve a bachelor auction, a Vegas wedding they don’t remember and a baby they don’t recall making.

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  Turn the page for an excerpt from Marrying My Billionaire Boss.

  Marrying My Billionaire Boss

  About the story

  A bachelor auction, a wedding we don’t remember, and a baby we don’t recall making. FML.

  I had a plan: move to LA, get a job, find the love of my life. Live happily ever after.

  I was on track for this when being assistant to gorgeous billionaire philanthropist Nate Sterling suddenly gets a whole lot more complicated. It’s a dream job…until he asks me to save him from a fur-bikini-wearing, totally psycho ex-girlfriend who is determined to win him at a charity bachelor auction.

  All I have to do is outbid her at the auction. Easy, right? But nobody told me Nate and I had to go on an extravagant Las Vegas date afterward. Everything goes off as planned…until Nate and I wake up the next day, hung-over, wearing identical golden wedding bands and with no memory of what happened the night before.

  Cue major hyperventilation.

  But it’s okay. Nothing that a quick marriage dissolution can’t solve… Until the pregnancy test stick comes back with two pink lines.

  Marrying My Billionaire Boss is a standalone romantic comedy with a sexy billionaire, his sassy assistant, a bachelor auction, a Vegas wedding and a surprise baby. Oh, and the most hilarious and sweet proposal scene ever. No cheating, no cliffhanger. Just lots of heat, heart and humor. Grab it today!

  Excerpt

  Nate

  I hear the cuckoo clock in the living room go off seven times, and my whole body starts to tighten, like a dog that just knows it’s playtime.

  The security monitor beeps on my phone, causing my heart to skip a beat. That’ll be Evie, walking into my Malibu home. Since she started as my assistant nine months ago, she’s never missed a day of work or been late even once. I exit the bathroom, nothing but a towel around my hips as she comes into my bedroom.

  She’s tied her wavy golden hair loosely today, and I love the reddish color of her lipstick because her mouth looks so delectably delicious in that shade. Her pink dress flatters the soft swell of her breasts and the beautiful lines of her waist and hips. There isn’t even a hint of anything inappropriate or flirty about the outfit—alas. I’m parading around practically naked in front of her, but her gorgeous cornflower-blue eyes never stray below my chin.

  A lesser man would be crushed.

  But I’m Nate Fucking Sterling. And dammit, I know I look good. Women fawn over me. They think they’re so subtle, but they always cop a feel. Or at least a look.

  Not Evie though. She’s immune. Don’t know why. She’s not blind, or a lesbian. I haven’t done anything to repulse her as far as I can tell. I’ve been working my ass off in the gym to gain more muscle around my biceps and chest and put more definition on my abs. But even with everything on full display, I don’t think she’s noticed.

  “Good morning,” she says, walking into my gigantic closet.

  “Morning.” I sit down at the edge of my bed to watch. Just because she doesn’t check me out doesn’t mean I can’t check her out. Her ass looks amazing in that dress. Actually, her ass looks amazing in anything. It would look amazing in a potato sack four sizes too large.

  “You have a visit at the Sterling Medical Center this morning on your way to the office, so how about something conservative?” She picks out a charcoal bespoke suit and a slim silver-blue tie, along with a pair of polished loafers.

  “Yes, that’ll do nicely.” She has great taste. I wouldn’t let her pick my outfits otherwise, no matter how hot she was.

  “Glad you approve, Mr. Sterling.”

  Mr. Sterling. We’ve been working together closely for the best part of a year, and she still refuses to call me Nate. So I started to call her Ms. Parker, just to show her how silly it is to be so formal. Which turned out to be a huge tactical error, because she seems to actually enjoy being called Ms. Parker.

  Okay, so she’s from the Midwest. It’s probably more traditional than here in L.A., but people there must call each other by their first names. Why else would you give them to your kids?

  And she calls other people by their first names, even around the office. It’s just me who gets the Mister treatment. Do I look like I have a giant pole up my ass? I know I was born to money, but I try not to be a stuck-up douchewad. And based on how people treat me, I thought I was doing pretty well…until now.

  But it’s too late to ask for an explanation without sounding weird. I’ve gone through a hundred different scenarios I could use to broach the topic, and they all sound stupid.

  “I’ll get your breakfast started while you get dressed,” she says, walking out.

  My bedroom feels empty and sort of sad without her in it. But apparently prepping my breakfast is also her job, even though I didn’t ask her to do it.

  Honestly, I don’t need this much help in the morning. None of my assistants ever did this before. But when I first interviewed Evie, she acted like she’d do anything to work for me, and I decided to test her. Mainly because I’d had a string of shitty assistants who acted like they’d do anything required for the job, but then couldn’t even locate a paper bag to find their way out of.

  So now her job includes coordinating my outfits in the morning and getting me breakfast.

  When I’m done putting on the clothes she picked out, I go downstairs. The open floor plan gives it an airy feel, with glass walls facing the Pacific and its waves. And there’s one of those contemporary waterfalls in the sunken living room. But the most spectacular thing is Evie, standing in my ultra-modern kitchen, bright light around her like an angel’s halo. I even hear a faint strain of heavenly chorus.

  She looks at me over her shoulder, a small smile on her lips. Air sticks hard in my throat, and my brain goes blank, mesmerized by her mere presence.

  “I made you your favorite—a kale and protein smoothie with fresh berries.”

  The moment’s shattered as she offers up a tall glass of frosted purple-green concoction from hell. But I’m a gentleman, so I give her a grateful smile as I take the vile shit. “Mmm, berries!”

  I’d rather die in my eighties with carcinogenically grilled dead cow floating in my veins than live to be a robust hundred with this antioxidant goo keeping me young and wrinkle-free. But she honestly believes I love this crap—it’s a long story—so I down it with a huge grin that hurts my face even as the shake violates my palate like Atilla the Hun violated Europe. This should show her my appreciation—and ensure she returns to my place every morning.

  And if I walk around topless long enough, maybe she’ll notice I’m not just her boss, but a man, too.

  Maybe you should accidentally drop your towel tomorrow morning. She’ll definitely notice that.

  Oh, please. That’s so clichéd. I don’t do clichés.

  Because parading around in a towel isn’t a cliché.

  Doesn’t count. That was an accident. I got up late one morning, and she came into the room just as I stepped out of bathroom. Maybe I should buy a transparent towel. Surely something like that is available somewhere on this vast planet.

  While I’m guzzling down the supposedly life-recharging breakfast of champion rabbits, Evie rattles the day’s agenda off her tablet. A meeting to be rearranged at the other party’s request.

  “Some people have no respect for my time or schedule,” I say, mildly annoyed because it’s the second time they’ve asked to reschedule.

  “Or maybe they know you can afford to be flexible.”

  “Still kind of presumptuous. You didn’t say yes, did you?”

  “Not yet.”

  That’s my girl. Always clear on where to draw the line. “Good. I hate it when people act like I enjoy being flexible or changing my mind. Once I make up my mind, I don’t change.”

  “Of course not, Mr. Sterling.”

  When I’m finished with the veggie desecration, she hands me my coffee. Finally. I take as big of a gulp as possible to erase the lingering taste of kale. I should convince my brother Justin to buy up every kale farm on the planet, burn the shit to the ground and salt the soil.

  Carrying the travel mug, I start to go out to the car that’ll be waiting.

  “Other way,” Evie says.

  “What?”

  “Miguel’s not here today,”

  “He’s not?”

  “You gave him the week off.”

  Oh, that’s right. His wife’s about to pop their second baby out any day now, and I gave him a paid week off. Pregnant women apparently become needier and/or crazier around this time, according to Justin, who has a kid and should know. Plus Miguel is a great guy, and he deserves time off.

  “Okay. Thanks for the reminder.”

  I turn and head to the garage, Evie following closely, her heels clacking quietly. As soon as I open the door, the lights come on. I step inside and peruse my collection. It’s hard to decide what to drive out of the ten cars I have. I steal a glance at Evie. Instead of admiring the various examples of world-class mechanical engineering, she’s staring at something on her tablet.

  Well then. I choose the Bugatti. This gleaming black-and-red babe is a beaut. Very impressive, too. It better be, for a cool nineteen million. I’ve only taken it out for a spin twice, and not with anybody else. Evie should be flattered.

  I open the door for her. “Get in, Ms. Parker.”

  She blinks as though startled. “Thank you, Mr. Sterling, but I’m afraid I spaced out a bit.”

  “You did?” This is very unusual.

  Red stains her cheeks. It’s really cute. “Yeah, I brought my car here.”

  Right, because Miguel didn’t drive her. But she followed me into the garage because our routine is sharing a ride to the office. So. Disrupted morning routines can fluster even the unflappable Ms. Parker, huh?

  And this explains why she didn’t care what car I’m taking, because she thought she wasn’t going to be in it. Well, she’s about to be surprised. “Get in anyway. I’ll have that taken care of.”

  She considers for a second, then nods. “All right. Thank you.”

  I smile with satisfaction. Who can resist a ride in this stunning marvel of European manufacturing? No one, that’s who. The Bugatti was an inspired pick.

  She moves past me and slides in. I inhale the lingering scent of her citrus shampoo and lavender lotion, then walk around, climb in behind the wheel and start the car. The engine roars impressively. I steal another glance, but she’s tapping on her tablet, her eyes glued to the screen. Meanwhile, all I can smell is her in the car. The pulse in her neck is fluttering—and maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear I can feel it more viscerally than the vibration of the engine, as though her throat’s pressed against mine.

  I shift, wondering why my pants feel so tight. Maybe I’ve been squatting too much.

  We hit the road. It’s not as satisfying in the morning because of traffic. But still, the Bugatti’s damn nice, although from Evie’s lack of reaction, we could be in one of those Ubers that Court likes so much. Just what the hell is on that tablet? The winning number to the next Powerball jackpot? We’re in a damn Bugatti, not the boring Bentley that Miguel brings to pick us up in the morning. She should look up. Maybe check me out discreetly.

  “So how was your date last night?” I ask casually, although I’m certain it sucked, based on the fact that she looks so fresh. No signs of fatigue or tiredness, which wouldn’t be the case if I had a date with her. We would positively wreck the bed. And the kitchen. And the bathroo—

  “It was all right.” She’s still tapping away. “The food was nice, and it ended on an interesting note.”

  Interesting good or interesting bad? Hard to tell from her neutral tone. And with a woman, it could mean anything. “Planning a second date on your tablet there?”

  She gives me a frown like I asked her if she’s on her period. “No. I’m going over your agenda for the week and making some adjustments. I also told Elizabeth you’d be more than happy to be auctioned off to raise some money for her new project.”

  “Okay.” Good. If she’s not planning a second date, the dude was probably lame. And I do want to help Elizabeth out. She’s a good friend and very big on helping people less fortunate than her, which means practically everyone on the planet. And this project to financially support families of children going through chemo is a big deal and something I believe in.

  “Also there’s an email from the Ethel Sterling Children’s Memorial Hospital. They want to know if you can fund-raise for the preventative medicine department’s latest initiative.”

  “Again? How did they spend the money we raised last time?” I ask.

  There was a problem with some creative accounting at the hospital. My great-uncle Barron went apoplectic and told me to fix it. So I did. Five people were terminated and charged with embezzlement. And since then I’ve had everything audited bimonthly. The hospital bears Barron’s late wife’s name. No scandal there is too small to overlook, and nobody—absolutely nobody—steals from the children the hospital was built to serve and gets away with it. If Barron had had it his way, those five would’ve been drawn and quartered in a public square.