The Boss and the Adoption Mess (The Millionaire and Gentlemen’s Club #2)

Prologue

A loud clattering noise wakes me up. I frown and look around to see what's causing this noise but it's already so bright that I immediately pull the blanket back over my head. I'm still completely drowsy and would rather turn over again and endure the annoying clattering. It'll stop eventually.

Guess again: there's clacking, tinkling, and a crunching sound too. That can only be Countess Purrington - my best friend's cat that I occasionally take in when she has guys visit.

"You'll get food when I get up..." I mumble, lying under the blanket.

The fine snow-white furred lady loves to protest by pawing at her empty food bowl until it's filled with exquisite fare. Then she shows me her plush behind and wants nothing more to do with me. However, there’s also this crunching sound, which would actually mean she's at least found some treats.

No, wait a minute. Hold up. I suddenly go wide awake and my memory returns. This isn't my apartment at all, so that’s no cat either.

I slowly pull the blanket from my face and blink at a bare stone wall with high windows and a plant that's climbed up next to it thanks to trellises.

Carefully, I turn over on the enormous mattress, feel the rumpled sheets beneath me, and look to the other side.

The open-plan bedroom, bathed in bright daylight, is actually just a niche in the apartment.

The otherwise open living space invites you to explore almost the whole space at a glance.

And from here, I can also see the kitchen and the counter, which could serve as a divider between the bedroom and the living room.

A little girl is sitting on one of the bar stools.

Her hair is slightly disheveled and she's holding a gigantic bowl of cereal in front of her.

Quite relaxed, she fishes out a spoonful of cereal, also way too large, and tries to eat it.

She fixes me with a neutral gaze, continuing to chew and clatter the spoon against the cereal bowl.

I blink at her, confused, and at the same time, I realize I'm not wearing much. It's a good thing the thin cover hides my body from the neck down.

"Good morning?" I ask, puzzled.

Where on earth did this little girl come from?

The fact that I ended up in the apartment of this handsome man who actually managed to pick me up last night is creeping back into my mind with increasing force. But there was certainly no mention of a child—four or five years old at the most!

"Hello," she says curtly and continues eating without paying much attention to me. She glances over at me every now and then, but refilling her cereal is now her top priority.

I muster up my last bit of strength and carefully sit up. I'm still wearing my underwear and pantyhose. I can feel my skirt too, but my blouse is lying in front of the bed. "Um, where's your dad?" I ask gently.

"He's not here."

Yes, I can see that.

"And... your mom?"

Please, don't let him be married!

"Working."

This can't be real. Did I sleep with a married man?

No, hold up a minute. I'm still wearing everything.

No, it didn't get that far. We were both absolutely tired, and as far as I can remember, he offered to let me stay overnight.

Okay. Dodged a bullet.

Phew, I have such a hangover. I had one or two too many last night.

I brush back my naturally red, flowing hair and try to get more information out of the girl.

"Are you here all alone?" He can't just disappear from the apartment and leave me here alone with his daughter. How irresponsible is he?

"No."

No?

I listen and shortly afterward, I hear a noise. It sounds like someone is taking a shower.

What was his name again? Oh yeah. Right. Gabriel. I get it, she means he's not here, but in the bathroom.

"Let's just wait until your dad gets back and then I'll go, okay?" She doesn't give me the impression that she's afraid of me, but I feel responsible towards her. Someone has to look after her. "What are you eating?"

I stay wrapped in the covers and hope to fill the time with a little chat.

"Prismabella's Honey Drops," she answers.

Never heard of it.

"And you made breakfast all by yourself?"

“Yes.” She continues eating, still seemingly unbothered by the fact that a complete stranger is in her dad’s apartment.

"I could make you something to eat. What do you think?" A few eggs or a sandwich?” I offer.

Maybe he even has fruits in the house, then I could offer her a healthier alternative than that sugary stuff.

“Nope.”

Yeah, this isn’t going to be easy.

“How old are you then? “I ask her.

“Four.”

“So, you still go to daycare?”

“Yeah.”

Such a communicative child. But she’s still eating, so she’ll want to keep it short.

"What's your name, by the way? I'm Kimberley, but my friends just call me Kim."

"Rosie. But it doesn't really matter. We won't see each other again anyway."

The little girl seems relatively unfazed, but her statement still shocks me. It’s not exactly good that she knows what her father is up to at such a young age.

“No offense but there are always other women here.”

Fantastic.

“I see.”

I fish for my blouse and pull it under the covers so I can put it on. Rosie refills her cereal.

"I think I’ll go then," I announce, and actually manage to get dressed.

Embarrassed, I put the blanket aside, grab my bag, and then look at the small clock on the bedside table.

I freeze. 10:27!

I gasp in shock. I have my interview at 11:30, and I haven’t showered, I’m wrinkly, and—as far as I remember—in the middle of London.

"Dammit!"

"Now you have to put something in the cuss jar." Rosie raises her eyebrows.

"Excuse me?" She pulls me out of my thoughts while I’m trying to stuff everything important into my bag. My lipstick and perfume, for example, which are lying on the soft carpet in front of the bed.

"Well, if you cuss, you have to put some money in the cuss jar. Because you’re not allowed to say that," she explains.

"Oh. Of course. You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry."

I kneel down by the bed and fish out my heels—however they got there. Frantically, I search for my wallet and pull out a bill. "Is this enough?" I ask her as I walk past.

"Hmm. Yes. I think so." She takes the bill and simply stuffs it in her jeans pocket.

"But this isn’t a swear jar," I say, surprised.

"It is at our house."

Well then.

I’m not entirely sure that’s true, but she’s not wrong about cussing. Maybe I've made a small contribution toward her becoming a real lady someday, one who won't let herself be picked up by a man who has a wife and child at home.

This kind of thing could only happen to me. On a Monday. So predictable.

Rosie goes to pour some more cereal into her bowl. This kid really has a big appetite.

"Do you always have so much sugar in the morning?" I ask, a little worried.

I can spare that much time.

Rosie shakes her head, shoves a large spoonful of the colorful treats into her mouth, and looks at me with her big, round eyes, as if that would help her eat in peace.

"I’m not actually allowed to eat this," she confesses.

"Why is it here then?" I ask, puzzled, and slide my heels on my feet.

I still had a hair clip in my bag. Where was it again?

I set the bag on the counter where Rosie is sitting so I can rummage through its seemingly bottomless contents more easily.

"Well, because Gabriel likes to eat them," she says matter-of-factly.

Well, how am I supposed to know that? Besides, she calls her dad by his first name? Very weird.

"But he always says I can only have a little bit because of my blood sugar."

I perk up.

“That’s a very grown-up thing to know.”

She nods proudly, and I start to feel a bit uneasy. "Do you... have diabetes?"

Rosie looks at me, eats some more, and nods.

How can she possibly admit she has diabetes and at the same time devour a spoonful of sugary cereal?

"Oh, sweetheart... then you really shouldn't be eating that." I can’t show her that I'm panicking now.

"Yes, I know. That's why I'm eating it while Gabriel is in the bathroom." Of course. This kid is pretty clever. But she's also putting herself in danger.

"Do you happen to have one of those little meters?" I take out mine, which I use to measure my blood sugar. Her eyes immediately light up.

"You have that too?" She seems thrilled.

You shouldn’t be happy about having type 1 diabetes, but the little girl probably doesn’t often meet other children or adults like her.

Rosie hops off the barstool and runs to her pink unicorn bag. She pulls out a small, bright pink meter.

"That’s cool," I say, and ask, "Can I take a look?"

Rosie hands it to me. One glance is enough: It’s a similar model to mine. Same company. "So, do you also have a glucose sensor on your arm?"

"The sugar button? Yep."

She pushes up her sleeve a bit, and I see it.

"Ah, great." I check the meter.

Her sugar level is already rising dramatically, going into the red zone. And what does she do? She climbs back onto the barstool and grabs the spoon.

This obviously can't continue: I take the bowl away from her.

"Hey!" she protests desperately.

"Look, please. You're already in the red zone. Do you have something with you? A shot?"

Rosie is angry. She looks at me with a furious gaze and crosses her arms over her chest.

"This is important. I don't want you to have to go to the hospital."

"You're just as bad as Gabriel. He's always complaining too."

"Your dad’s just worried about you because he loves you very much."

"My dad isn't here."

"Yeah, I know. Well, he'll be here any moment and then..."

Speak of the devil. Exactly one second later, Gabriel opens the bathroom door and comes out. He's wearing only a white, tight-fitting towel wrapped around his hips while drying his hair with another towel at the same time. Rosie and I look at him while he stares at us both with surprise.

"What... what are you doing here?" he asks Rosie first, then looks at me. "And you? You're still here? I told you to leave so I could shower."

Oops! That's right. Now that he mentions it, I remember.