One
JORDAN
“All of those women who say pregnancy is easy can go suck on an egg,” I wailed, sprawled across the toilet seat with my head resting on my arm.
Thank fuck for small favors—like private en suite bathrooms. Right now, it was the only pro to being the CEO of Bailey Publishing.
That, and being able to cancel a morning meeting because my stomach contents decided to expel whence they came—rather violently.
It’s just a favor for your brother, they said.
It would be fun, they said.
It most definitely would not result in a one-night stand and subsequent pregnancy, they said.
Idiots. All of them—but who exactly I was talking about was unknown, even to me, and did little to undo the panic-inducing state I’d been in these last weeks.
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 him and the promises we once made to each other.
“I know, sweetie.” Morgan rubbed slow circles on my back with one hand and kept my hair away from my face with the other as I waited for the nausea to pass.
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 the interview concluded.
Thank goodness Morgan hadn’t asked me who he was—that was another conversation I wasn’t prepared for.
The father went to grad school with Morgan’s husband and my brother—who definitely deserved 10 percent of the blame—went to grad school together.
“Just once, I’d like to fully digest my breakfast rather than it immediately exiting via my nose. Plus, no sushi and hotdogs.”
“That is one wonky combination, babe. And I’m so sorry my frittata 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 I’m off schedule.”
“Oh, that man can go suck on an 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 as I closed my eyes and wiped a hand across my brow, groaning.
When I weighed the pros and cons of single-parent child-rearing versus co-parenting with the father—who still was blissfully unaware that the comingling of our genetic material was brewing in my womb—I’d forgotten one tiny detail.
The pregnancy.
Well, two tiny details if you counted that I hired 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—it was one of the dozens I’d made in the last several months, 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, the result was the same.
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.
After consuming more water than any human should ever have to possibly consume, 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. Possibly.
Enter warring, panicked emotions mixed with weird-ass cravings, bouts of unintentional crying, and swollen ankles.
There was no way I could 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 taking care of yourself had to take priority.
There were three board meetings, four manuscripts requiring a review, and an investor conference within the next week.
I just needed to relax and prepare for what made my business successful.
I couldn’t tell him without concrete, evidentiary proof from a licensed professional—not boxes bought en masse at a pharmacy.
After that—and my first doctor’s visit confirming the validity of the pregnancy tests—there was never a right time to have the conversation.
When he casually asked me to dinner the following week, and I rebuffed his advances? Nope.
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? Nope.
When Morgan and Royce invited the two of us over to their house for a casual brunch because Morgan has this weird sixth sense and knew I was holding out on her? Nope.
There was never a good time, and now, I’d spent the last week doing some weird crab-walk sidestep out of meetings with file folders in front of my stomach so people wouldn’t get a glimpse of my profile.
My colleagues’ confused looks followed me, but being the CEO, 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 99 percent sure I was right.
The longer things went on, 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 list meant absolutely nothing.
Zilch. Nada. Zip.
The consequences of my lust-filled night of passion and debauchery would make his or her grand debut in late July. No amount of charting, graphs, 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 slowly getting smaller the longer I waited.
Perhaps my goal should be by the child’s first birthday, but maybe pushing it to when they started elementary school would give me the best chance at having all my ducks in a row.
Right now, the best I could hope for was rabid squirrels hopped up on psychedelic mushrooms and sugar cubes.
Thankfully, the aforementioned father didn’t have any discernible features that would have to be disguised 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 my profession wouldn’t throw them off the scent.
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 my heels.
I supposed that would be something else I’d have to adjust as the weeks went by, and I should add “research sensible, high-fashion flats” to my calendar for after lunch.
An angry, red, flashing item got my attention as Morgan returned with a mug of tea and sat across from me.
“Want to try for lunch today? Maybe some soup with crusty bread?” she asked, sipping her coffee.
I tilted my head, glancing at her, then back at my computer monitor, not understanding why I couldn’t save my essential appointment of shoe shopping to my calendar.
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 this was just an internship while he figured out a career path.
Supposedly graduating with a master’s degree in English, a double minor in political science and psychology, and having a family name so well-known, literally, every door he wanted would magically open for him wasn’t enough career options.
He needed to know the inner workings of a small publishing company to ensure he could make an educated choice when his parents asked what he intended to do with his life.
“Lunch? Yes? Maybe? We don’t have to get soup, you know? There’s always the option of a big, juicy burger or jumping headfirst into dessert.”
“What?” I said, looking away from the computer to see Morgan staring. “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 a sip of the warm liquid, feeling it trickle to my stomach to ease the persistent sourness churning there. “Don’t worry. I’ll make time.”
“Sounds good. Lunch later this week?”
“You got it.”
She stood, walked around my desk, and leaned down for a hug to save me the trouble of standing. I hated I couldn’t eat her frittata. It smelled delicious, but it was better to stick with the stupid, decaffeinated dirt water until I knew it was safe to consume solid food.
The 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 something like I was the head honcho for 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.