A Baby For Christmas Read online

  A Baby For Christmas

  Layla Valentine

  Holly Rayner

  Contents

  1. Shayla

  2. Shayla

  3. Colton

  4. Colton

  5. Shayla

  6. Colton

  7. Shayla

  8. Shayla

  9. Shayla

  10. Shayla

  11. Shayla

  12. Shayla

  13. Colton

  14. Shayla

  15. Shayla

  16. Shayla

  17. Shayla

  18. Shayla

  19. Shayla

  20. Shayla

  21. Shayla

  22. Colton

  23. Colton

  24. Shayla

  25. Colton

  26. Shayla

  27. Shayla

  28. Shayla

  29. Shayla

  30. Colton

  31. Colton

  32. Shayla

  33. Colton

  Epilogue

  Also by Layla Valentine

  Copyright 2018 by Layla Valentine and Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Shayla

  “Damn, I just love the holidays. Don’t you?” my boss said from the driver’s seat.

  It took all the restraint I had not to grumble. Seated in the passenger’s seat of my boss’s car as we made our way through Brooklyn, I tried not to let the sight of the Christmas decorations festooned all over the brownstone apartments we passed put me in a sour mood. It was a dreary, overcast day, and the sky looked heavy with sleet.

  No, I didn’t love the holidays. Not even a little. But Richie Garland, my boss, sure as hell did. So, shrewd navigator of business relationships that I was, I kept my true opinions to myself.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Don’t you get a little annoyed with the way they seem to be putting up decorations earlier and earlier every year? It seems like the second Thanksgiving is over the autumn-colored stuff comes down and the red-and-white stuff goes up.”

  The smile didn’t leave Richie’s face. Clearly, he didn’t feel the same way.

  “Nope,” he said cheerily. “Not even a little bit. They call it the Christmas creep, but I love it. The holidays are a time for family and giving and good feelings, so why put it all off? The sooner, the better, I say.”

  I kept my mouth into a tight line, not wanting to say anything that might keep Richie going on about the subject. But I knew Richie well enough by now to know that the odds of him dropping the subject were very, very low.

  True to form, he went on, oblivious.

  “You know,” he continued, “there are actually people who don’t like Christmas? Can you even believe that?”

  I didn’t say anything. When Richie asked a question like that, he wasn’t looking for an answer.

  “Real-life grinches, that’s what those people seem like to me. Christmas is just magical, don’t you agree?”

  Again, I said nothing, and as always he just went right on talking.

  “I like to think of Christmas as the reward for getting through another year. What better way to put all of the stress of the last few months behind us than relaxing with friends and family and sharing presents and all that good stuff.”

  My eyes locked onto a small team of men in front of a large, glass-fronted department store as they hoisted a dark green pine tree upright.

  “Some people might feel that the holidays are more stress than they’re worth,” I said, immediately chastising myself for offering an opinion.

  “Then those people are crazy. If you’re getting stressed out by the holidays, then you’re not doing them right. Let me tell you a story about a Christmas about, oh, ten years ago, back before I came to New York and started the company. It was in Boston, and probably about the worst winter I’d seen in my life. My parents were desperate to get me to Philadelphia, but the roads were closed, and…”

  Off he went. Richie Garland, the founder of Liminal Graphics—the company where I’d worked as a designer for the last few years since moving to the city—had a tendency to ramble like that. Once he had a subject in his head that he wanted to discuss, that was it. You either got swept up in his enthusiasm or found the best way to politely smile and nod while letting your mind drift somewhere else.

  That’s what I’d normally do, at least. But the subject of the holidays was one that I had a hard time ignoring.

  Every year when the Christmas décor went up, it did little more than remind me of a childhood of being bounced from foster home to foster home. Not much to celebrate when you’re a six-year-old who doesn’t know if she’s going to be spending the next year being cared for by would-be adoptive parents or in a group foster home.

  But Richie didn’t need to know any of that. And it didn’t help that he was oblivious as always, not noticing just how uncomfortable the subject made me.

  “…and then, at the last minute, my mother found a cheap bus ticket from Boston to Philly. Wasn’t going to be the most pleasant trip in the world, but I’d make it. And sure enough, it ended up being one of the nicest Christmases we’d ever had.”

  “Sounds great,” I said offering commentary on a story that I’d missed most of the details of. “So, tell me again about this company we’re checking out?”

  Richie’s expression lit up at the subject. If there was one way to get him off whatever subject he was fixated on, it was to bring up work.

  “CooperWare,” he said, taking a slow right turn through an intersection. “One of the top up-and-coming software firms in the city. Came out of nowhere a couple of years ago to totally dominate the market.”

  He went on. Relief washed over me as I realized he’d gotten off his holiday kick. For now, at least.

  “And the CEO, geez, he’s something else. Pretty much a kid. How old are you?”

  I had to chuckle at Richie’s total lack of tact.

  “I’m twenty-nine. Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to ask a woman her age?” I asked with a smile.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “But the point I’m making is that this guy, Colton Cooper’s his name, is only a little older than you. And this company of his is poised to grow even more over the next year or two. If we can land them as a client, it’d be quite the coup.”

  “Thanks for bringing me along, by the way,” I said.

  “No problem,” said Richie, his eyes fixed forward. “It was your portfolio that got their attention. If we manage to get the okay to start work with them, then I’m going to want you to take the helm.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. My tone was calm and composed, but deep down my stomach quaked with anxiety. I’d worked on some pretty big projects during my time at Liminal, but CooperWare would be the most high-profile so far.

  “Ah!” said Richie, coming to a stop. “Here we are.”

  CooperWare headquarters was a stunning building. A three-story brownstone situated on a corner, it was a gorgeous, historic building of dark red brick with ornate concrete adornments above the doors and windows. It was imposing and majestic all at once.

  “Hell of a place, huh?” asked Richie. “Sure as hell beats our offi
ces in Bushwick, right?”

  He was right about that.

  A suited man hurried over to the driver’s side of the car. Richie rolled the window down.

  “Park your car, sir?” he asked.

  “How about that?” said Richie, glancing over to me. “Valet service!”

  Richie and I got out, and the valet slid into the car and drove it off. I tightened the belt of my coat against the bracing wind that cut through the air.

  “At least, I hope that was valet service,” said Richie as he watched the white luxury car disappear around the corner. “Ah, and look at that!” he said, pointing up and around us at the lights and tinsel over the windows. “Good to see that they’re in the Christmas spirit.”

  He opened the front door for me and the two of us stepped inside.

  The interior of the building was done up in the exact sort of old-fashioned style that one would expect from how the outside of the place looked. The floors were a glossy wood, the walls were rich brick, and a large, oak desk dominated the lobby, “CooperWare” written above it in black, bold lettering. Men and women dressed in sharp, business-casual dress entered and exited. The place seemed to be the precise opposite of the small shop that Richie ran.

  The two of us approached the desk, a pretty blonde secretary turning her attention to us right away.

  “Welcome to CooperWare,” she asked in a chipper voice. “How can I help you?”

  “Morning!” said Richie, leaning his tall, well-built frame on the desk, his red tie draping over the surface. “I’m Richie Garland and this is Shayla Zielinski. We’re with Liminal Graphics, and we have an appointment to meet with someone from your company to discuss a potential project.”

  She nodded, turning her attention to the sleek computer in front of her. As she did, I turned around and took in more of the gorgeous interior of the building.

  “This place is beautiful,” I said.

  “Isn’t it?” asked the receptionist, her eyes still on the computer. “When Mr. Cooper bought this building, he was adamant about keeping the original features intact. Most of the designers wanted to gut the entire building and deck it out all modern, but he wouldn’t budge.”

  A small smile spread across my face as my eyes flicked from detail to detail.

  “Okay,” said the receptionist, snapping me out of my dreamy state. “Please have a seat and someone will be right out to see you.”

  She gestured to one of the rows of antique, wooden chairs lined up in the lobby. Richie thanked her, and we took our seats.

  “You nervous?” he asked once we were seated. Then a look of realization crossed his face. “Oh, I shouldn’t ask that,” he said. “Asking someone if they’re nervous only makes them more nervous, right?”

  “It can,” I said. “But I’m not nervous. More excited than anything.”

  “Here’s the thing, though,” said Richie, leaning in. “I know it’s your work that they were the most impressed with, but let me do all the talking. I’m the owner of Liminal, and it’ll look bad if both of us are talking over one another, you know?”

  Normally, I would’ve protested. But Richie wanting to be the big boss man in charge of everything was something I was used to by now.

  “Sure,” I said. “You can take the lead.”

  “I mean, if they ask you a question directly or anything like that, then sure, speak up.”

  “Thanks,” I said with a smile.

  I noticed a slight sheen of sweat on Richie’s forehead, which he quickly wiped away with a handkerchief that he stuffed hurriedly back in the front pocket of his suit.

  Then, before either of us could say anything else, a clear, confident voice spoke out.

  “Good morning!”

  My eyes flicked away from the interior detail that I’d been fixated on and toward a man who stood in front of us.

  An impossibly gorgeous man, at that.

  He was tall, that was the first thing I noticed. His hair was dark, thick and slicked back behind his ears. His eyes were a sparkling mint green that shone with intelligence and energy. His lips caught my eye next, red and full and perfectly shaped, the right side tugged up into a warm smile. His jaw was wide and strong, reminding me of a military sergeant or the captain of a football team.

  And his suit was impeccable, a light grey outfit with a deep red tie made clearly for his body alone—a body I could tell at a glance was built and strong. I had to use all the restraint I had not to drool at the sight of him.

  “Taking a look at the molding?” he asked.

  “Um, yes,” I said, surprised he knew right away the particular detail of the interior that I was fixed on. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Hand-carved from the eighteenth century,” he said, his hands on his hips as he cast a glance in the direction of the gorgeous molding that outlined the doorframes. “Just one of the reasons I love this place.”

  Richie shot up to his feet and stuck out his hand. I rose too, though more slowly than he did.

  “Richie Garland,” he said, swooping his curly, graying hair away from his forehead with his free hand. “And this is Shayla Zielinski, one of my designers.”

  “Ah, yes,” the man said, shaking Richie’s hand before taking my own. “Shayla…you’re the one with the killer portfolio.”

  A slight tinge of blush warmed my cheeks both at the feel of my hand in his and the compliment.

  “I don’t know if I’d call it ‘killer,’” I said. “But I hear it’s what got CooperWare’s attention.”

  “That it most certainly did,” he said, flashing me a charming smile as he let go of my hand.

  “Her designs were all under my supervision,” added Richie. “Samples we put together for a company we didn’t end up working with.”

  “Noted,” said the man, his eyes flicking to mine one more time in a way that sent a tingling thrill up my spine.

  “So!” said Richie. “I assume you’re the representative that we’re going to be meeting with?”

  The man chuckled warmly. “I suppose you could say that. But let me introduce myself—I’m Colton Cooper.”

  My jaw dropped.

  Chapter 2

  Shayla

  “Wait, you’re Colton Cooper?” asked Richie, his tone one of total disbelief.

  A mildly bemused expression formed on Colton’s face, as if he wasn’t sure if he needed to repeat himself. I raised my hand to my mouth and let out a secret chuckle.

  “That’s me,” he confirmed.

  “Wow,” said Richie, unable to hide how starstruck he was. “The man himself.”

  “Normally I’d have one of my representatives meet companies we’re looking to work with,” said Colton. “But after reviewing the portfolios that Liminal sent in, I decided I had to meet with you both in person.”

  “Wow,” repeated Richie. “Well, we’re eager to show you what we can do for you.”

  “Perfect,” said Colton. “Please, come with me.”

  Colton turned, his eyes locking with mine one more time before he began walking.

  “I’m glad to see you were admiring the interior of the place,” he said over his shoulder as Richie and I formed up at his sides.

  A quick look made it clear he was talking to me.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s beautiful. And it’s so refreshing to see people maintain these older buildings instead of bulldozing them and putting up those awful glass-and-steel things you see everywhere.”

  Colton glanced over his shoulder as we walked, his green eyes lighting up.

  “I’m happy to hear you say that,” he said. “I feel that as a business owner in this city we have a responsibility to preserve New York’s history. And I’m sure that an aesthetically minded person like you feels the same way.”

  “I totally agree,” I said.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Richie shoot me a narrow-eyed look, one that seemed to suggest he wasn’t all that pleased with me filling the air with my opinions.

  C
olton led the two of us down a long hallway, opening a pair of double doors at the, revealing a space that was such a sharp contrast to the lobby that it was almost shocking.

  Where the lobby was a monument to old-style elegance, the large room we entered was sleek and futuristic. The walls were stark white and high-tech computers were everywhere. A few dozen employees filled the space.

  “Of course,” said Colton, “I had to make some compromises here and there to establish the infrastructure needed for the work we do here at CooperWare.”

  I looked around as we walked, taking in the sight of the staff hard at work. The wide-eyed expression on Richie’s face indicated he was just as impressed as I was. The vast offices were a jarring contrast to the humble offices of Liminal.

  “We’re almost there,” said Colton. “Just a quick elevator ride up.”

  The three of us approached the stainless steel doors of an elevator, Colton pressing the button to open them. A quick trip up later and we were on the executive floor, a space maintained in the classic style of the lobby. Colton led us to a massive set of double doors, the wood ornately decorated with hand carvings.

  “These are beautiful,” I said, running my fingertips over the intricate designs.

  “Aren’t they?” asked Colton. “The man who had this place constructed way back when was an industrial magnate, and if you ask me, the wealthy back then had far better taste than the wealthy now. You just don’t see detail like this anymore. Unless you preserve it, that is.”

  Colton took hold of the curved, gold handles of the doors and pulled them open, revealing a huge space with vaulted ceilings, tall bookshelves packed with colorful spines, and massive, arch-topped windows that looked out onto Brooklyn and Manhattan beyond.

  To my slight chagrin, a small Christmas tree had been placed on the coffee table, a few red and white orb ornaments hanging from the small branches.

  “Please have a seat,” said Colton. “Get comfortable.”

  Richie and I sat down in the high-backed, red chairs across from Colton’s enormous desk. Colton took a seat behind his desk and folded his hands on his lap.