Chapter One
JORDAN
“All of those women who say pregnancy is easy can go suck on an egg that’s been brined in vinegar for a hundred years and then topped with spicy kimchi,” I wailed, sprawled across the toilet seat with my head resting on my arm.
Thank Hera for small favors—like private en suite bathrooms. At the moment, it was the only pro to being the CEO of Bailey Publishing. That, and having the authority to cancel my morning meeting because the contents of my stomach decided to expel from whence they came—rather violently and with no consideration that I’d very much like to keep the plain rye toast with avocado exactly where it was.
I groaned, wiping my hand across my mouth before laying my head back down, remembering exactly how I’d gotten into this very preventable predicament. My eyes closed as I thought back to the conversation I’d had with my brother, where he all but demanded that I temporarily hire his best friend—like he could fathom that I’d end up pregnant after a very satisfying one-night stand—not that I’d stopped blaming that stupid man since I peed on that blasted test strip.
Idiots. All of them .
Who exactly I was thinking about was unknown, even to me, and did little to undo the panic-inducing state I’d been in since my doctor confirmed the unavoidable truth.
The last thing I needed was this drama because I hadn’t thought about him in fifteen years—not until my brother called me, pleading for a favor. I should have said no, but instead, my mind conjured sweet nostalgic images of said-unnamed-baby-daddy and the promises we’d once made to each other.
“Oh, sweetie. I know you’re miserable,” Morgan said, rubbing slow circles on my back with one hand and keeping my hair away from my face with the other while I waited for the nausea to pass. “But this trimester is almost over, right? Things will get better.”
“It’s like my body’s revolting against me,” I whispered, as a dull throb began behind my left eye and radiated toward the back of my skull.
It would be all too easy to blame the father for my predicament. However, no one forced us to jump in the sack fifteen minutes after his interview concluded. In fact, if memory serves, I practically leaped across my desk and into his lap, demanding his touch.
I’d gotten much more than I bargained for, hadn’t I?
Thank goodness Morgan hadn’t asked me for his name—that was another conversation I wasn’t prepared for. Probably because the father went to grad school with Morgan’s husband and my brother—who definitely deserved 95 percent of the blame.
“Just once, I’d like to fully digest my breakfast rather than it immediately exiting via my nose. Plus, no sushi and hotdogs, which is the stupidest thing ever.”
“That is one wonky combination, babe. And I’m so sorry the toast revolted. Can I make you some ginger mint tea?” she asked, continuing the soothing strokes on my back as I moaned, relishing how good it felt to be taken care of.
“Yes, please. I need to get my life together before Avery storms in, because once again, I’m off schedule.”
“Oh, that man can go suck on that vinegar and kimchi egg. Remember, he’s your assistant, not the other way around. I’ll be right back.”
Morgan pulled herself off the floor, brushing off her jeans before leaving my en suite. I opened my eyes, wiped a hand across my brow, and then groaned when it came away sticky with the remnants of my concealer.
I’d spent these last months weighing the pros and cons of single-parent child-rearing versus co-parenting with the father—who still was blissfully unaware that the commingling of our genetic material was brewing in my womb—forgetting one tiny detail.
The pregnancy.
Well, two tiny details if you counted me hiring the father to be my assistant, but I tried not to dwell on that one.
It wasn’t the first time I’d listed the pros and cons of my current situation—it was one of the dozens I’d made, knowing soon I’d have to navigate a very awkward conversation with a highly irksome man. But to my immense frustration, no matter how many times I made a list, checked it twice, and cross-referenced the annotated notes with the color-coded Post-its, the result remained the same.
Last Monday I’d started sleeping with a list underneath my pillow, hoping some sort of subconscious osmosis would decide for me—but nope.
The results remained unchanged and absolutely equal.
That was fine—or would be fine if it wasn’t for the fact that it was getting harder and harder to hide my protruding belly from anyone who came within a ten-foot radius of me.
I hadn’t exactly been proactive about the situation when I missed my period and my boobs hurt with the slightest breeze. But after consuming more water than any human should ever have to, nineteen trips to the bathroom, and that same amount of pregnancy tests, I’d resolved with panic-inducing fear creeping up my throat—that I was pregnant. Potentially.
Since then, there had been nothing but panicked emotions mixed with weird-ass cravings, bouts of unintentional crying, and swollen ankles.
So here I was, with my knees tucked under my legs and my belly uncomfortably empty, dealing with my latest symptoms. How could I handle being pregnant and telling the father on the same day? It wasn’t right! My sanity was on the line, and my mother always stressed that self-care should be a priority.
Just this week, there were three board meetings, four manuscripts requiring a review, and an investor conference. I had to relax and focus on the continued success of my business. There was no way I could tell him without concrete, evidentiary proof from a licensed professional, but then, when my first doctor’s visit confirmed the validity of the tests—there was never a right time to have the conversation.
How could I even explain that we let our wayward libidos take over our common sense? And then, there was the minuscule part of my brain that was ecstatic with the turn of events. I’d yet to figure out what to do with that information, and perhaps that was something that needed to be a priority before I dropped a bombshell that would most definitely change his life.
There was no way I could tell him when he casually asked me to dinner the following week, and I rebuffed his advances.
And it definitely wasn’t the time when he switched my Grande white chocolate mocha for a decaf herbal mint tea because he noticed I’d stopped drinking my favorite caffeinated heavenly drink.
The time still wasn’t right when Morgan and Royce invited the two of us over to their house for a casual brunch because Morgan had this weird sixth sense and knew I was holding out on her.
There was never a good time, and now, I’d spent the last several days doing some weird crabwalk sidestep out of meetings with file folders in front of my stomach so people wouldn’t get a glimpse of my rapidly expanding profile.
My colleagues’ confused looks followed me, but being the CEO, owner, and any other acronyms you wanted to throw into the mix, they didn’t raise their hands, demanding an explanation for my strange behavior. It was a good indication of their respect—or fear that I’d completely lost my marbles.
I chose to think they respected me enough to let it go—and was 73 percent sure I was right.
The longer things went on like they were, and I stayed in this weird limbo of being pregnant but not having a freaking clue what to do about it, the more I realized my carefully crafted, evenly matched list meant absolutely nothing.
Zilch. Nada. Zip.
The consequences of our lust-filled night of passion and debauchery would make his or her grand debut in late July. No amount of charts, graphs, highlighters, and lists would change that.
Keeping the knowledge of a man’s offspring from him when the opportunity hadn’t arisen to broach the subject was, at best, morally gray and, at worst, nefarious.
I had a general timeframe of when he needed to know, and that window was shrinking rapidly the longer I waited. I considered extending my goal until the child’s first birthday, but perhaps pushing it to the start of elementary school would give me the best chance of being fully prepared.
Right now, my brain was nothing more than rabid squirrels hopped up on psychedelic mushrooms, sugar cubes, and diet orange Fanta.
Thankfully, the aforementioned unaware father didn’t have any discernible features that would be distinguishable at birth—though researching if you could dye a newborn baby’s hair was bound to be a red flag for the FBI guy who spent his days searching the internet for villainous activity. Even using the guise of researching due to owning a small publishing house wouldn’t throw them off the scent.
My knees shook as I stood, regretting the heels I assured myself this morning wouldn’t pinch my toes. After washing my hands and admitting that wearing mascara was a mistake, I made it to my desk, sitting down with a sigh and toeing off the ridiculous shoes. That would be something else I’d have to adjust as the weeks continued and I got bigger, so I hovered my mouse over my calendar to add researching sensible, high-fashion flats after lunch.
An angry, red, flashing item got my attention as Morgan returned with a large cup of tea and sat across from me. I tore my eyes away from the blinking monitor and smiled, grateful I had a friend who’d listen to my dramatics without judgment.
“Sip this slowly and see if it helps settle your stomach. Should we try for lunch today? Maybe some soup with crusty bread?” she asked, wrapping her hands around her coffee mug.
“Thank you for this. What would I do without you?”
I leaned across my desk and rested my hand over hers. My eyes went glassy, and I blinked rapidly to dispel the onslaught of tears that threatened to spill from my eyes. Morgan flipped her hand and intertwined our fingers, giving my hand a not-so-gentle squeeze.
“You’ve been too hard on yourself lately,” she said, releasing my hand and crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s not healthy.”
I knew she was right, but it didn’t stop my mind from conjuring a hundred different scenarios that all revolved around rejection, anger, and resentment.
“I’ll do better,” I murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear before turning back to my un-editable calendar. What was the point of being the boss if I couldn’t find a measly half hour to aimlessly search the internet for shoes?
“You’re amazing, Jordan,” she added, taking another sip of coffee before setting the mug on the corner of my desk. “These last weeks, you’ve been so focused on surviving, you’ve forgotten that it’s just as important to thrive. Don’t forget that.”
My head dropped to my chest, and I pulled my hand away from the mouse, letting her words wash over me. She was right. Damn it all to Hades. I’d been so focused on making it through each day that I’d forgotten my decisions were no longer just about me. My hand went to my stomach, rubbing the protruding bump with love. This— this little jellybean mattered most, and it was time to remember that.
First, though, I had to fix this damned issue with my calendar.
I tilted my head and smiled at Morgan, who nodded before I looked back at my computer monitor, not understanding why I couldn’t save my essential appointment of shoe shopping. I clicked and clicked again before wiggling the mouse and pulling my bottom lip between my teeth.
Ah. What was this? That pompous, handsome, infuriating idiot!
The father, my assistant—Avery Freaking Tibbs—had blocked off my entire afternoon. He had access to my schedule—hell, he managed it, ensuring I kept the business running efficiently.
I was sorry, most days, that I only hired him as a favor to my brother, and his position was just an internship while he figured out a career path. I hadn’t been half as productive before he came onboard, and I winced, knowing he’d quit in a tirade of fire and brimstone once he knew what I’d withheld from him.
Supposedly graduating with a master’s degree in English, a double minor in political science and psychology, on top of having a family name so well-known, literally, every door he wanted would magically open for him wasn’t enough. Avery insisted he needed to know the inner workings of a small publishing company before he could make an educated choice about what he intended to do with his life.
“Anyway,” Morgan said, drawing me away from my drama and unchangeable calendar. She stared at my now lukewarm tea until I lifted the cup and took a sip, closing my eyes and letting the soothing blend take effect. “Back to the important question. Lunch? Yes? Maybe? We don’t have to get soup, you know? There’s always the option of a big, juicy burger or skipping straight to pastries, brownies, and cupcakes.”
“Hmm?” I said, looking back to my computer and taking a steadying breath. “I’m sorry, Morgan. My schedule is full today. It looks like I don’t even get a proper lunch break.”
“Well, that’s just stupid. You’re the big boss.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, giggling as I took another drink of the decaffeinated liquid, feeling it trickle to my stomach to ease the persistent sourness churning. “Don’t worry. I’ll make time somehow.”
“I’m going to hold you to that. So, lunch later this week?”
“You got it,” I said, pushing away from my desk and arching my back to work out the ever-present kinks. “I’m glad you came by. Thanks again for bringing me breakfast.”
Morgan stood from the chair across from me, walked around my desk, and leaned down for a hug to save me from the trouble of standing. I hated that I couldn’t eat more than two bites of the avocado toast she’d brought. It smelled delicious, but it was better to stick with the stupid dirt water until I knew it was safe to consume solid food.
“See you soon, babe.”
She waved, slipping out the door and closing it with a soft click while my glaring calendar reminder blinked, telling me I had five more minutes to get my life together before Avery would come barreling through the door, complaining about some minor inconvenience like I was the head honcho of a multimillion corporation and the only one capable of solving the issue.
This was the last thing I needed after expelling the contents of my stomach—more uninterrupted time in proximity with my oblivious baby daddy. I noticed he at least had the decency to pencil in ten whole minutes for lunch, but the tiny purple script hardly made up for whatever clusterfuck was about to drop on my desk.
And it always was a clusterfuck.
An author wanting higher royalties or needing to extend a deadline.
A graphic designer who didn’t like a particular aesthetic.
A supply issue where I’d have to explain that there was, in fact, a tremendous difference between number fifty cream offset paper and number sixty classic white.
This was definitely not the right time to tell Avery about his impending fatherhood. If he’d taken control of my calendar and marked off the entire afternoon for some unknown problem, telling him was absolutely not in my best interest.
By the time I reapplied my mascara and liberally dabbed concealer under my eyes because I couldn’t go longer than fifteen minutes without peeing, I knew I’d made the right decision to wait—especially when he stormed into my office, all fire, boneheadedness, and infuriating hotness.
My, I’m perfectly capable of raising a child by myself and don’t need a man, speech was only on its fifteenth draft, and studies had shown that the best time to deliver bad news was at the end of the day. People needed proper hydration and a full stomach before hearing life-altering news. It was not something that needed to be shared in the hours between breakfast and lunch.
Plus, like the angry, red, flashing calendar reminder, my mind remained on a continuous loop of our conversation the summer all those years ago, before he moved away. The ridiculous vow we’d made to each other, promising to get married if we were both still single in fifteen years. That was the same promise we’d blissfully ignored since he started working here, even though the fifteen-year deadline passed three months ago.
Not that I wanted him to acknowledge that idiotic pact. There were too many other, more important things left unsaid, that I was perfectly fine with him not remembering the dumb musing of two teenagers with unrequited crushes.
But on nights that my feet ached, or the bed was too cold, I thought about what it would be like if we ever followed through with that silliness—however, once my sanity returned, I knew we were too different to make things work outside of steamy naked time.
I propped my elbows on my desk, and rested my head in my hands, refusing to let myself spiral any more than I already had.
My head jerked up from where I’d been focusing on a deep scratch on my desk when Avery closed my door with a defining click. He let go of the handle at the precise moment to make the loudest noise, giving away his tell that whatever bullshit was about to happen had irritated him.
I moved one arm to my lap and let the other drift to the bouquet of daisies in the yellow vase on my desk, holding on to the happiness I felt when he’d sauntered in earlier this week with my favorite flowers in one hand, chocolate croissants in the other, and a smirk I wanted to kiss off his handsome, irksome face.
“Avery,” I said, pulling the ever-present notebook from the corner of my desk closer and scribbling absolute nonsense onto the page as I motioned him forward, not raising my eyes from the page. Maybe I could redirect his irritation by showing him that my time was so precious I could barely lift my eyes from my work to give him a proper greeting.
“Please have a seat and explain your issue. I seem to only have ten minutes for lunch today, and plan to use it all.”
He didn’t bother hiding the dramatic sigh that spilled from his lips as he made himself comfortable in the high-back leather chair across from me, and through my lashes, I saw he wore the gray pinstripe pants I loved, especially the way they hugged his ass just right.
When I returned the sigh, dropping the pen and meeting his eyes, he’d steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on my desk, leaning close enough for me to smell notes of mint and espresso.
Damn him and his ability to drink caffeine.
There was a steely determination in his eyes, something reserved for when he’d already had a solution and just needed me to sign off on it. Not that I’d ever disagree with him—on things that had to do with my business. He was a marketing genius, and I was the lucky one who reaped the benefits while he managed my day-to-day schedule with the ease of someone with a Type A personality and an oversize ego.
“How can I help you, Avery? I don’t have all day to deal with your theatrics.” Never one to back down, I stared at him, desperately trying not to blink under his intense gaze.
I adored that gaze.
It was the same take-charge, no-bullshit one he used that had other publishing houses cowering in the corner.
And the same dominant one he used to land three different authors who’d made the New York Times best seller list with their first published work.
It was also the gaze used the night we succumbed to our baser instincts, fucking against my front door after barely making it inside the house.