Surprise Daddies (#1-4 Box Set)

by London James

  “Right.” Autoimmune diseases are more common in women, but it’s not unheard of for a man to be ravaged by one. The doctors have ruled out systemic ones like lupus, but they still think they’re on the right track in their investigation. Maybe he has something they haven’t seen before, even though I’ve gotten him some of the best doctors in the region.

  The idea of something finally working genuinely excites me—Nora sends me updates about Dad’s condition based on what he tells her after his appointments, but he still isn’t responding to any treatments. I wouldn’t have wished the suffering he deals with daily on my worst enemies. He’s gone from an athletic, robust man to a weak one who has to use a walker just to cross a room.

  “It’s still pretty risky, though,” Ben adds. “But it’s worth a shot, I bet.”

  “Definitely,” I comment, even though the realization has taken me down a notch. I want him to get better, sure, but I don’t want him to risk getting worse on a long-shot treatment. If I suggest something that makes him worse, he’ll likely never trust me again. Not that he trusts me much now, despite not having a reason to distrust me, but still. Our relationship is on a tightrope, and any breeze could throw us off.

  I wipe down the machine and move on to the next one. I need the gym to clear my head, not act as a place where I stew in my thoughts. So I throw myself into the next set, letting my muscles burn.

  I love my work, but some days are a little rough if they’re packed with back-to-back meetings like today. At least there’s the beautiful view—our offices are in Dumbo with views of the water and Manhattan. Even with the summer haze, our view is stellar, the warm sun streaming into the building. All of our conference rooms are bright and inviting, which I did on purpose. I’m in meetings day in and day out, and like hell am I going to sit in a dark room for all of them. As the boss, I can shape the office into anything I want.

  Sometimes I even bring my little mutt, Sarge, into the office if my meetings are mostly internal. I miss the little punk when I have long days like this, but he’s living it up at the doggy daycare. They send me text updates of what he’s doing a few times a day. Usually he’s running around with a ball in his mouth or sleeping, his two favorite things.

  I can’t believe I’ve turned out to be one of those Brooklynites who’s obsessed with his dog, but Sarge was an unexpected comfort after I left the service. I struggled with nightmares, though not nearly as bad as some people I knew and having him nearby brought me back to earth. I went to one therapy session, realized that doing it was the most uncomfortable thing I could ever imagine, then decided that Sarge would help more. And he doesn’t talk.

  “Mr. King?” My assistant, Malcolm, catches me on my way out of a meeting with our front-end development team. “Your lunch meeting got canceled, so you’re free until 2 p.m..”

  “Thanks, Malcolm. And seriously, you don’t have to call me Mr. King.” He’s one of the best assistants I’ve had in a while—serious and focused on making sure I’m where I need to go, though he can be a little too formal. Too many of my past ones spent half of the time they should have been working kissing my ass and trying to get ahead. If they just did their jobs like Malcolm does, they would have gotten ahead easily.

  I wander over to the cafeteria area one floor down and pick up a wrap before heading back into my office. Normally I try to catch someone and go out for something, but I need a little time to myself. I go back upstairs to my office, which has floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides and bask in the light for a moment. Maybe going to the beach would help me feel better. I haven’t felt quite on-base since Ben and Daisy’s party.

  I sit at my computer and open my personal email, deleting spam and sifting through various newsletters I’m subscribed to. In the left-hand corner, I notice Briony come online to chat. I almost click over to say hi but pause. We’re alright again, sort of, but that doesn’t mean we’re suddenly best friends. We weren’t even close friends when we were younger. She was firmly in the ‘Ben’s little sister’ corner of my brain most of that time. We carpooled together, and she hung out with us when we let her. And besides, I don’t have anything to ask her for yet—I’m not sure what I want to do for the cocktails.

  But do I really need a reason? I can talk to her for fun. I can keep myself under control, for fuck’s sake. If I can go into combat, I can keep it in my pants.

  AshJK: Hey

  I stare at the open chat box, hoping the reply bubbles will appear. I start in on my wrap, tearing at the wrapper a little harder than necessary.

  BrionyMc: Hey, what’s up?

  Relief surges through me. But what can I say next? The cardinal sin of starting any online conversation is just leading with ‘hey’. Am I fifteen again, before my growth spurt and ability to flirt appeared? Jesus.

  Thankfully Briony fills in the gap.

  BrionyMc: Does your username mean ‘Ash Just Kidding?’

  AshJK: Did you forget my middle name, Little B?

  BrionyMc: Oh no, how could I have forgotten this necessary piece of information? Whatever will I do?

  She includes a gif of a cat covering its face, almost like it’s ashamed before it flops over on its side. I smile a little.

  AshJK: J stands for James. K for King. I forgive you for your terrible mistake ;)

  Her reply bubbles disappear for a moment. Shit, did I lose her that quickly?

  BrionyMc: This is you -

  I click on the link she sent me, and it’s a video of a donkey braying at the sky as it rains, almost in defiance. My smile turns into a grin.

  AshJK: I’m a donkey?

  I know she has to be rolling her eyes on her end, her pretty, full lips pressed together to hold back her brilliant smile. Those years and years of braces when we were in high school were worth it.

  BrionyMc: You know what I meant. Ass.

  AshJK: Of course I did. But it brightens my day to tease you.

  I take a sip of the long-cold latte on the corner of my desk, waiting and waiting for her reply. I realize how ridiculous I’m being, waiting for her response, and open another tab. I need a break from work, so I pull up one of my favorite food websites.

  I hesitate to call myself a foodie, especially since the term is fucking ridiculous, but I do like trying new restaurants and bars. I need some inspiration for my cocktails anyway—something unusual, but perfectly Ben-and-Daisy. I’ve gotten my perfectionist streak under control in my work life, striking the right balance between having high standards and accepting inevitable failures from time to time, but it still rules me in my hobbies. Everything has to be just right.

  I click over to my chat tab the moment a message alert goes through.

  BrionyMc: You’re incorrigible

  I type, love those big sexy words before deleting them. Too far, and also weak as fuck on the flirt scale. High school seniors know what incorrigible means. I’m rusty.

  But I shouldn’t be flirting in the first place.

  BrionyMc: How’s your cocktail planning?

  AshJK: Still in the early stages. I’m not sure of what alcohol bases to go with yet. How’s your flower planning?

  BrionyMc: It’s going well. I have some preliminary arrangements for the engagement party space and some rough notes on the other events. Would knowing what flowers I plan to use help you? I know some are edible and that sometimes people make liqueurs out of them.

  AshJK: Yeah, it would. Want to meet up for a drink to go over some things? I’m probably dealing with some ‘unknown unknowns’ with all the flowers.

  She types for the longest time before her reply bubbles disappear. They reappear again, then disappear, then finally she sends her message.

  BrionyMc: Ok, sure. When/where?

  Thank God. Maybe she’s starting to trust me a little.

  AshJK: Somewhere between our two places? Maybe off Carroll St on the F/G tomorrow, around 7 or so?

  BrionyMc: Sure, how about here?

  I quickly search for the place she linked in an
other tab. Very casual, with outdoor seating. I love summer in the city, just for the outdoor seating at bars, but the thought of Briony in another tiny dress is going to kill me.

  I need to keep my damn hands off of her unless I want Ben to rip my fucking head off. Briony’s attitude still screams ‘goody-two-shoes relationship girl’ so nothing good can come of another hookup. Absolutely nothing at all.

  AshJK: Perfect. See you there.

  Chapter Five

  Briony

  I’m not sure why I suggested this bar. It was the first place I thought of, even though it’s definitely not a good place to have a business-like conversation. The outdoor seating is so packed that I had to save us a spot at the bar instead of a table, and music is blasting over the speakers so loudly that I can hardly think. Sweat drips down my back, even though I wore a linen dress that lets the air flow around my lower half.

  And this bartender. He’s been eyeing me ever since I sat down, mouthing that he’ll be right with me even though I’ve been waiting for a reasonable amount of time. His eyes dart directly to my cleavage. That’s the summer struggle—I can wear a dress that shows skin because it’s a hellacious fire pit almost everywhere and have creepers check me out, or I can cover up and sweat my ass off.

  The first few years I lived in the city, I covered up until I realized I don’t have to be nice to someone who’s giving me the creeps. It was a hard habit to learn, but Zara gave me pep talks to increase my confidence to say no. I have enough trouble with men without stringing along some random guy ogling me on the street just because I’m afraid of being harsh.

  “What can I get you, darling?” the bartender asks, putting his hands out on the bar. He gives me a long once-over that makes me feel cheap. “Let me guess… ”

  I hold my breath. I guess his guess—either rosé, a Cosmo, or a margarita, probably. I don’t have anything against those drinks — besides Cosmos— but so many guys assume that those are my go-to’s. Why do bartenders even try to guess in the first place?

  “Margarita?” he smiles, reaching for a glass.

  “I’ll just have whatever’s refreshing and on tap. I’m not picky,” I say, even though a margarita does sound nice. Maybe I really am predictable and basic.

  “Gotcha.” He goes for a different glass and looks over the taps. He finally chooses one and brings it over to me. “Want to keep the tab open?”

  “Yes, please.” I hand over my card, hoping the end of the transaction means he’ll leave me be.

  “Briony’s an unusual name,” he continues, studying my face and tapping my card against the bar. He’s doing the thing where his eyes flick to my breasts quickly, as if I won’t notice. Irritation creeps up my spine.

  “I didn’t pick it.” I give him a polite smile and pull out my phone. Would he take the hint?

  “It’s beautiful,” he says. And that’s a no. I shouldn’t have smiled, but I can’t help it—I have the opposite of a resting bitch face.

  “Thanks.” I look toward the entrance. Ash isn’t late, but I wish he would show up right about now.

  Someone appears between me and the guy next to me to order something, pulling the bartender’s attention away. I sigh, checking my phone again. No text from Ash. I’m not nervous about seeing him again, per se. Slightly sweaty palms? Check. My nervous tick of fiddling with my jewelry? Check. But my mental state is generally calm, which isn’t the case when my anxiety is through the roof. It’s Ash, and I’ve already decided that what happened between us will never happen again, even if Zara never lets me live with my decision. But that doesn’t change the fact that Ash is hot, and my inner awkward teenager still gets nervous around hot guys.

  “So, Briony,” the bartender keeps going, sliding back in front of me. “I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Eric.”

  “Hi, Eric.” I adjust my bag on the seat next to me so Eric can tell I’m not going to be alone for long. I give him my most neutral face. I don’t want to escalate it to bitchiness, but I will if I have to. He seems fairly innocuous in comparison to some guys who have come onto me in the past.

  “Waiting for a friend?” he asks, putting emphasis on ‘friend’.

  “She’s waiting for me,” Ash says from behind me, putting his hand on my lower back. He pulls me close, almost possessively. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “It’s fine—I was early,” I say as he climbs onto the stool next to me.

  “What can I get you?” Eric asks, suddenly going slightly cold. Hm, I wonder why?

  “An IPA, please. Any kind that’s good.” Ash takes his seat next to me, and Eric finally leaves. “You ok?”

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” I say, sipping my beer. It’s actually pretty good, so Eric wasn’t a total pain in my ass.

  “You looked a little distressed. That guy bothering you?” His eyes narrow at Eric. Is he jealous? Or feeling protective? Ben is already protective enough—I do not need two men in my life trying to guard me like ‘roided-up pit bulls. It’s exhausting, but also troubling. Do I give off a damsel-in-distress vibe all the time, or is it just them still assuming I’m a naive little girl?

  “Down, boy. He was just trying to hit on me, and I was trying to drop hints that I wasn’t interested.”

  He keeps looking at Eric for a second before he turns back to me. “Do men do that to you a lot?” Ash asks, his expression inscrutable.

  “Hit on me even when I’m giving hints that I’m not about it? Yeah. But I wouldn’t have survived as a single woman in this city if I didn’t know how to deal with the odd, uncomfortable bar interaction,” I shrug.

  “I’m going to talk to that guy and tell him to—”

  “Ash, no, Jesus.” I grip his forearm to stop him from hopping up—and doing what, going off on Eric for just being a creep? What would the good in that be? The guy’s left me alone, finally. “I’m fully capable of taking care of myself. Without needing to call in for backup.”

  “Fine.” He sighs, handing over his card and keeping his tab open. Eric doesn’t give me a second glance as he exchanges Ash’s card for his beer. “And I know that you can handle yourself, Briony.”

  Ash gives me a long look, his dark brows furrowed as if he isn’t sure what to do with me. I swallow more of my beer to take the edge off the knee-jerk feeling of irritation and the subsequent guilt that comes with it. Being a little sister, I sometimes resent being protected, but his heart is in the right place. And he listened to me without complaining about it, which Ben doesn’t always do.

  “Anyway, Ben and Daisy,” I say, steering the conversation away from myself. “Flowers. Alcohol.”

  “Right.” Ash pulls out his tablet and puts it on the bar. “I’m at a loss.”

  “How so?” I flip through the pages of my notebook until I reach the section on Ben and Daisy’s events. The engagement party page is a little bit extra—I’ve gotten into the way-too-detailed journal craze, so I’ve drawn each of the centerpiece flowers, along with descriptions and pricing on one side of the spread, with logistical notes on the other. Our app developer is still working the kinks out of BloomBrightly’s app, so I’m not able to use it yet.

  “I’m trying to hit the balance Daisy was talking about at dinner. Delicious, but interesting, something that encapsulates them as a couple.” He turns on his tablet. The lock screen is an absolutely adorable dog, not big but not tiny either. He has big ears that flip over at the tips like a puppy’s, and dark, intelligent eyes. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s a border collie mixed with a shepherd and maybe a smaller dog breed. Like Chunk, he’s black and white.

  “Is that your dog? You have a dog?” I ask.

  “Yeah, that’s Sarge.” He turns the tablet toward me. “He’s probably taking a nap in the middle of my bed right now.”

  I grin like an idiot. I didn’t peg him as the type of guy to have a pet, but he and Sarge make sense. Sarge looks like a smart little dude who likes to go on runs and protect the house. “He’s so cute.”

  “He’s a
little punk, but I love him.” Ash smiles gently, and it makes my heart flip-flop in my chest. Men with cute dogs are a weakness of mine, apparently. Ash unlocks his tablet and pulls up a note app. “Anyway, I have some general directions I was thinking of going in, but I’m worried I’m off base.”

  I look over his notes. They’re split into a Ben column and a Daisy column, with their favorite drinks in a list below. Underneath those are flavor notes, question marks, and types of alcohol.

  “These look like solid starts. What’s wrong with these?” I ask, my brows furrowing.

  “They might not be ‘them’.” Ash shrugs and takes a sip of his beer.

  “You’re overthinking it.” I turn to a new page. “Would Ben and Daisy overthink it?”

  “Ben? Maybe. Daisy would go with the flow.”

  “So just roll with that vibe,” I say. “Ben’s drink would be a little fussy and extra, and Daisy’s would be simple.”

  I nibble the end of my pen, comparing my list of flowers with some of the flavor notes he put down. I feel his eyes on my face in a curious way. I blush despite myself, suddenly aware of how close together we’re sitting. Our knees are inches away from each other, and I feel the heat from him against my skin. My body responds to him whether I want it to or not, the traitor.

  “What’s with the blush?” he asks, an eyebrow going up.

  That only makes me blush more. “Nothing.”

  Like a shark, he senses blood in the water and grins. “Something had to make your chest and neck go that nice shade of pink.”

  “Nothing, seriously,” I insist, even as I color even more. Damn every ancestor who passed down the pale-skin gene.

  “Uh-huh.” He gives me a once-over, totally unlike the one that Eric gave me earlier. This one makes my nipples tighten and a dull throb pulse between my legs. “I could tease you about it, but I’m trying to be good.”

  “Kudos for managing to do the bare minimum,” I shoot back. He holds in a smile and takes a long swig of his beer.