His Surprise Baby Read online

  So, with an open invite from Heidi, Meredith would sometimes drop into Annie’s after work hours to keep Heidi company, helping her work out fledgling business kinks and just commiserate. Occasionally, this commiseration would spill over into the nighttime.

  8 p.m.: Annie’s closing time, a full 12-hour workday later. If Heidi was alone, she’d go home, watch some trash TV and eat low-calorie ice cream. She was too tired to flick through dating apps, which had previously been a bit of a hobby of hers. Though, having swiped on the entire city of Orlando, that interest had naturally dimmed of its own accord.

  If she was with Meredith, as she seemed to be more and more, they’d get cocktails at some hip new bar in the downtown area, one of those places with a live DJ scratching vinyl and bartenders who took their jobs way too seriously. More specifically, the women would get the men around them to buy the cocktails.

  Heidi reasoned that, as a soon-to-be new business owner, it would be criminally stupid of her to spend her own money on booze. Flirtatious strangers, on the other hand, were welcome to waste as much of their cash on Heidi as they pleased. And, boy, were they ever happy to oblige. It was almost too easy, and Heidi would’ve missed the chase if she weren’t so damn worn out.

  11:30 p.m.: Bedtime. Heidi would strip off all her clothes and clamber naked into the cool, refreshing sheets. The schedule was incredibly rigorous, and a few more hours of sleep would be welcome, but actually—and this even came as a surprise to her—she was really happy.

  Doing a job well suited her; it left her exhausted and satisfied at the end of the day. It was kind of like vigorous sex—sweaty work, but worth the end result.

  And when she finally did hit the bed, her dreams were all about the very thing she couldn’t have: Bradley Fox. No sooner would her eyes squeeze shut, then she’d begin to see hot scenes of them doing various intimate activities.

  She saw herself visiting him for a follow-up meeting, but unzipping her dress and letting it fall to the floor as she walked into his house. She saw him shoving her up against those granite kitchen counters, saw it so vividly she could almost feel the icy touch of the counter on the small of her back. She saw his lips spreading open, and moving close to press against her own.

  The dreams were bathed in sunlight, and were so tactile that sometimes she woke with a start, rolling over in bed expecting to find a naked Bradley. Alas, they were still just dreams, and her bed remained sadly Bradley-free.

  They’d been in occasional contact over the past few weeks, but nothing more than a text or two, just her running plays by him, no pun intended. Business texting left little room for romantic tension; calendars and email coordination did not lend themselves to innuendo.

  But now, after working some backbreaking hours, she was ready to give him a call. She found herself excited to hear that melodic voice saying her name, as though it was a song he sung gladly. Besides, away from the confines of what was acceptable to say over text, perhaps he would get a little…freer…with his words.

  Stop that, she instructed herself. No ‘free with words’ nonsense. You are Heidi Morris, and you are a professional. Totally. Always. No room for argument.

  From the comfort of her armchair at Annie’s, on exactly day 14 of her bravely fighting media fires, Heidi took out her cell and dialed Bradley. She held her breath as the dial tone came through. At last, on the final ring (was he taunting her?), he picked up.

  “Heidi?”

  There was that damn voice, the voice that sounded more like a late-night radio broadcaster than something that belonged to a regular human. She wondered how many women he’d hooked with his baritone, and how well that voice lent itself to dirty talk. But she never lost her composure for a man; it was against her principles.

  “Yes, it’s me. Hey there, Bradley. I’m calling with some good news.”

  She paused, letting the excitement mount in the silence.

  “Assuming you’re on board with some meet-and-greets post-games next season—just a few of the big fans and donors you know, nothing excessive—as well as at a couple of choice parties, plus putting in charity appearances where I expect you to make sizable, public donations…”

  “Of course.”

  “Assuming you do all that, I’d say that the crisis has officially been averted.”

  On the other end of the line, she heard him let out a whoosh of breath and a small laugh. She suspected it was the first time he’d laughed in a while.

  “God, Heidi—thank you. I’m in your debt.”

  “No, your bill is all squared up; I’ve already received the deposits.”

  “You know what I mean. I wish there was some way I could show you just how grateful I am.”

  She certainly knew one way. However, Heidi wanted to keep it professional, to make a good name for herself in this town as she began to build a brand. But she was still a woman who was attracted to men. Especially men who looked like he did. Which is why she said:

  “I’m sure you can think of a way.”

  “How about,” he replied, “taking you out for dinner tonight?”

  “Sounds great. Let’s make it tomorrow, though. I need to catch up on some sleep.”

  “It’s a date. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Okay,” she blurted out, mentally stumbling over the word ‘date.’ “See you then.”

  Is it a date? she thought, mind racing. Do you want it to be a date?

  She groaned, confused—and a little bit aroused—and put her head in her hands. Since when did PR management get so emotionally complicated?

  Chapter 8

  Bradley

  Bradley let his car idle in front of her apartment; he’d arrived fifteen minutes early, but didn’t want to appear too eager. Bradley had spent the best part of 24 hours hemming and hawing over the details of the date—er, meeting. Where would they go that was both upscale and intimate? He wanted to impress her, but also exhibit a tasteful restraint.

  What exactly were the professional lines in the sand? Would she cross them? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so taken by a woman, so utterly baffled over how to conduct himself.

  It wasn’t just that she was hot—though, of course, that didn’t hurt things. He’d met and dated and slept with more than his fair share of hot women, and they were no longer a novelty to him. Rather, it was her unquenchable drive—that roaring ambition that had somehow righted the sinking ship of his public reputation—that turned him on.

  She’d neatly resolved seemingly insurmountable dramas that would’ve taken any other PR rep months to solve. Heidi Morris was a powder keg. He saw himself in her—the way she demanded what she wanted, and then found a way of getting it. Like him, she called the plays, and executed them to perfection.

  He passed the minutes listening distantly to a podcast, though in reality, he was thinking about how close she would be to him in the minuscule sports car, which was only barely a two-seater. It was designed to go fast, not fit a whole family. The podcast included a series of stories by random people on a specific theme, and he paid close enough attention to get the gist of them until one woman started recounting how she lost her virginity. At that point, he got a little hot around the collar and silenced the sound system.

  Luckily, he didn’t have too long to wait between turning off the podcast and the date; he’d neatly elapsed the entirety of the 15 minutes, though it had been a testing wait.

  Suddenly, through the glass walls, he could see her in the lobby of her apartment building. She was adjusting her skirt and settling a chain that lay around her neck. Her actions were fidgety, a little self-soothing.

  Good, he thought. She’s nervous too. Nervous, but timely.

  He appreciated timeliness more than most people knew, a trait instilled by his mother and endless childhood football practices that started precisely when the clock hit four in the afternoon. He had, to his mild shame, even ditched dates for leaving him waiting past their original appointment time. What could he say?
Sometimes, he was just kind of a dick.

  As Heidi approached his car, he noted that she’d transformed from the nervous, jangling girl he’d spotted through the glass. Now, she was a tigress: long, bold steps in her strappy heels, arms swaying at her sides, walking as if down a Parisian runway. Remembering his manners, he jumped out of the car, made his way to the passenger side, and held open her door.

  She stopped in front of the car and adopted a sober expression.

  “How could you take me out in something so shabby?” she asked, deadpan, gesturing to the vehicle. It was one of only one hundred in the world, hand crafted by a team of five in the Italian countryside, and gleamed with black iridescent paint. In other words, ‘exclusive’ didn’t even begin to cover how obscenely nice it was.

  Bradley laughed, thankful that she wasn’t cooing over his wealth. He already had enough friends who wanted him for his cash, and didn’t need another. Plus, maybe it would be interesting to see if he could win a woman who couldn’t give less of a shit about how loaded he was.

  Uh, no, he muttered in his head, interrupting the train of thought. You’re not trying to win her, you stupid son of a bitch.

  “Well, it was either this or the minivan, so consider yourself lucky,” he shot back at last.

  She grinned and swooped gracefully into the passenger seat. He shut the door, and walked back to the driver’s side, settling himself into the comfortable, hand-stitched leather upholstery.

  “What do you like?” he asked, gesturing towards the chrome radio.

  She reached for the console and let her fingers flutter over the stereo. After a moment of fiddling with the buttons, she settled on the local classic vinyl station. He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “I would’ve pegged you for a 2010s pop kinda girl.”

  “Nah, but I like that you were trying to peg me.”

  He blushed and looked over to see if she caught the accidental (?) innuendo she’d made. The color was rising in her cheeks, too. How naughty, he thought to himself with a touch of glee.

  Heidi quickly changed the subject, which Bradley noted with a little internal chuckle; she was a bit of a novice when it came to subtlety. The laugh caught in his throat when he noticed how high the skirt was rising around her legs; its hem was caught on the edge of the seat, and thus laying bare more and more of her tan thighs. He flashed back to the dreams he’d been having recently, in which those thighs played a big role: wrapped around his back, kneeling on the ground, splayed across him, spread-eagle style.

  Eyes on the road, he thought sternly. Make small talk.

  And so he did make small talk, though Bradley wasn’t sure how convincing it was.

  “Are you going to that Orlando Museum gala next weekend?” he asked, having fumbled for something to chat about.

  “Uh, no. I can’t possibly sit through that many speeches about nothing. Too much rambling by old guys who spit on the microphones.”

  He nodded in agreement. “They asked me to make an appearance.”

  “I know,” she said with a smile, “the organizers ran it by me.”

  “Right, of course.”

  “I’m not that demanding—you don’t have to attend that bore-fest.”

  He laughed, and added, “I don’t know if I could take another round of overcooked pasta. Last year’s catering almost made me puke in the champagne fountain.”

  Heidi emitted a chuckle at this, and he was pleased with himself for getting one out of her.

  From then on out, the conversation flowed naturally. They talked about their various neighborhoods, other current events, an art show that Heidi wanted to see. Bradley eagerly offered to buy her a set of tickets, and she beamed.

  He pulled to a stop in front of the valet just as they were settling into the comfortable familiarity of friends. After a long internal debate, he’d settled on Mochu’s for dinner. Not intimidatingly high-end, but no slouch either. He once again jogged around to the passenger side, which was no easy feat in a well-cut, three-buttoned suit and tight Oxfords that the football league had actually claimed were damaging for feet, and advised against players wearing.

  Worth it, he thought. This suit is doing good things for me.

  He helped Heidi get out of the car before the valet could butt in. She placed her hand in his, and pressed gently on it, using him as leverage, and he let his fingers hold onto hers for just a beat too long. They both stared at their locked grasp, unsure what to do about it. Quickly, Heidi pulled away, and Bradley mirrored her lead, coughing with embarrassment.

  Dinner was in a dazzlingly white room. Brushed glass ran across all four walls, and the ceiling was at least two stories tall, with an enormous skylight fixed in the center. The restaurant was bathed in moonlight and the glow of candles which hung in sconces. Candelabras were centered on every table, so that each group looked to be their own pinprick of light. It was like something out of a fairytale.

  The maître d’ led them to what was plainly the finest table in the house; it was positioned on a raised dais—almost like a wedding, Bradley thought with some concern—and afforded them a good people-watching view over the rest of the luxuriously dressed diners.

  Bradley pulled out a chair for Heidi, and soon, his wedding-related fears were assuaged; they were once again in close conversation, heads bent near to each other, quiet laughs bubbling from both throats.

  He watched as Heidi’s hands trailed up and down her arms, tracing unintentionally sensuous paths over goosebumps.

  “Are you cold?”

  “A little,” she admitted.

  He took off his blazer, careful to keep the designer label hidden from sight. Wouldn’t want her to think his gesture was merely an opportunity for peacocking. He leaned in close, suspended the jacket in air, and deftly swooped it around her shoulders. He saw her throat move up and down in a quick gulp.

  Once more, he had to instruct his body to move back from hers, and leave enough distance to keep operating under the word “professional.” It took a pretty concerted effort on his part, one that would have toppled a lesser man.

  “So,” he began, looking for something to cut the tension induced by his jacket, “I saw on your resume that you went to Miami U.”

  “I did, yeah.”

  “With a business degree?”

  “You did your homework.”

  He actually had done his homework, though only once that first electric meeting had taken place. He’d gone on a guilty deep-dive through Heidi’s social media, which was frustratingly empty for a woman who worked in image management. Her business page offered the most well-rounded view of her life, but even that was meager pickings. He’d been able to find out the basics of her life—the years, the locations, etc.—but nothing personal, nothing that couldn’t be gleaned from a yearbook or resume.

  He was anxious to learn more, so he went on, asking, “What was it like for you? College, I mean.”

  She paused, apparently weighing the words. She took a sip from her cocktail and rubbed her lips together, before at last answering, “I had my ups and downs.”

  “Oh yeah?” he pressed.

  At the risk of sounding like a vulture, he was excited that she’d offered this part of herself up to him, and without having to be urged in that direction.

  “Yeah. It’s just that, I didn’t feel like I totally belonged anywhere, you know? I liked to party, but I was too serious about school to do Greek life. I thought about hosting on the campus radio, you remember, the—”

  “Miami Music?”

  “That’s the one. But it was packed with stoners. Then, I tried to join an investment club, but it was just a bunch of white guys in pastel shorts who called me ‘sweetheart.’ And I got enough of that from my professors—no need to seek it out after hours.” Heidi rolled her eyes.

  “Of course,” she said hurriedly, “I had friends, and I was close with my family, who lived a couple of miles away. I’
m not trying to make this sound like a sob story. I had a great time. But I guess it made me hungry to find a place where I really fit in, where every part of me mattered, and I didn’t have to shove away any of my personality or history.”

  She abruptly closed her mouth and turned away, casting her gaze over the room.

  “I’m sorry,” she said guiltily, “that was kind of an overshare.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he replied firmly. “Never apologize for sharing things about yourself. I want to know them, more than you can imagine.”

  Her chest rose and fell. To fill the silence, she lifted up her glass again, and this time, Bradley raised his own, clinking it to hers.

  “Cheers,” he said with a grin, “to oversharing.”

  The remainder of the dinner, by Bradley’s own estimation, was a success. After the momentary dropping of her guard, Heidi kept it purely professional, talking extensively about his upcoming interviews and appearances, locking in schedules, and grooming his social media profiles. But he could sense the tension every time her arm brushed his while darting a pair of chopsticks towards the sushi they shared as an appetizer, or the way she would slowly lick her lips after sauce had covered their surface.

  The professional sheen was wearing off quickly.

  After several courses of Asian-fusion cuisine, including sumptuous Kobe beef and duck dishes that deserved personal Michelin stars, their appetites were sated. Well, one of them, anyway. Bradley flagged the waiter down and lazily ordered a dessert course.

  “Dessert? I thought we’d eaten their whole fridge,” joked Heidi.

  “I’ve got a sweet tooth,” he replied with a wink.

  They wiped their mouths and polished off their cocktails, and soon, a molten chocolate cake had arrived, topped with fresh strawberries. Heidi stabbed a fork into the middle of the cake, making fudge ooze out. She lifted a bite to her mouth and swallowed, a moan of pleasure passing her lips.