Baby and the Billionaire

by Beverly Evans

  "Some did a few years back, but whoever was in the house acted like they didn't know we were there. The last time they came, I brought over some fresh bread, and they didn't open the door. I left it on the porch, and it was still sitting there the next morning. Then it disappeared. I never tried again."

  I let out a thinking sound and peer at the house again. Tell me all your secrets.

  "Well, I will do my best to find you neighbors who are much friendlier," I say with a smile.

  "I would really appreciate that," Ashley says. She waves and scurries back across the street where I'm sure her puppy is laying waste to the white wicker living room furniture she once prized.

  I'm strangely compelled to wait until she goes back into her house before opening the door. Going into this house is like cracking an Egyptian tomb. Either I'll find treasure and enjoy the glory that comes with it. Or it's a curse. Either way, I'm going in.

  The house is empty when I step inside. Not just quiet without people. It's empty. I roam through the rooms and find nothing. Not a single piece of furniture. Not a picture. Not a duffel bag packed with clothes for triennial visits. Every room of the home sits completely barren. Of everything, that's what sends a chill down my spine.

  Air trapped inside for three years feels stuffy and stale, but there's no smell of mildew or unfortunate animals finding their end somewhere, like what sometimes happens in houses that have been closed for more than a few months. It's a plus, and I will absolutely take it. Getting this house sold is going to take some doing, but I'm determined to do it.

  As I move through a small room to the back, thinking of ideas for a den or man cave, a fireplace catches my eye. It's ornate and old-fashioned, designed to be the focal point of the room. On either side, the andirons have gone green with age. I run my fingertips across them. One is slightly crooked. It's not much, just a slight tilt to one side. Probably caused by someone hitting it hard when moving furniture out of the room. It easily shifts back into place. I'll add getting it cleaned and fixed to my list of things that need to be done before I start showing the house.

  I need some inspiration to bring the house back to life – or possibly to life for the first time. After locking up the house, I go into town and stop by the diner for one of the amazing boxed lunches they start offering as soon as the chill knocks off the weather each year. White twine-wrapped box of cold fried chicken, potato salad, homemade cheese crackers, and a pineapple cupcake in hand, I head for the mansion on the hill.

  Flowers dot the grass where snow had been. Somewhere in the hedge, the sled is still there, obscured now by the leaves grown on the branches. I spread out a worn quilt and settle onto it to eat as I stare out over the town.

  "Is it warm enough for a picnic?" a man's voice asks behind me.

  There's the hint of a split second when I think it might be Gavin; then I realize the voice is too high and young to be him. I glance over my shoulder and see a young man I don't know, but have seen before standing, a few paces behind me.

  "It's always warm enough for a picnic if you have enough layers on," I tell him.

  He nods. "Fair enough."

  The familiarity of his face is faint. He's new in town. I've only seen him in passing. There's something about him that strikes me, but I can't figure out what it is. He gives a slight smile, turns, and walks away around the side of the mansion. I reach for my cracker and turn back to Shadow Creek, telling myself the hair standing up on the back of my neck was from the cool temperature and not the strange interaction.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Gavin

  April…

  “You’re thinking about her again, aren't you?” Marla asks.

  I look up from the plate of pasta I've been trying to eat for the last fifteen minutes.

  “It's kind of hard not to think about her after what happened. Having twenty people I don't know jump out at me screaming ‘Happy Birthday’ isn't something I'm going to forget anytime soon. Especially considering it wasn't even my birthday,” I tell her.

  “You know that's not who I was talking about,” she says.

  “Yes, but I hoped it would derail you,” I offer.

  “How long have you known me, Gavin?”

  “Long enough to know that was probably futile, and you're going to continue down along this path no matter how much I try to resist.”

  “Yep. That's about right. So, why don't you tell me why you've been staring at those meatballs like they insulted your mother since the waiter brought them?”

  “They just aren't hitting the spot the way I thought they were going to,” I say.

  “Have you called her?” Marla asks.

  “Scarlett?”

  “No, the woman who made the meatballs. She probably deserves to know her recipe just isn't getting your approval. Of course, Scarlett. You haven't been yourself since you got back from Shadow Creek. She did a number on you.”

  “I wouldn't go that far,” I protest. “I'm attracted to her. She's funny, and she fascinates me. But I made the choice to come back here. This is where my life is, and I don't have the time or effort to devote to making somebody else a part of it.”

  “Bullshit,” she frowns, crossing her arms.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I call bullshit,” she repeats. “You're just not used to somebody challenging you and getting you out of your comfort zone, and that's what she did. That freaks you the fuck out.”

  “Maybe you're right, but what does it matter? It was one weekend. Not even the whole weekend. Neither one of us is going to throw away everything and dive headfirst into a relationship that may be nowhere near as interesting and exciting once we're outside the confines of one Valentine's Day weekend together.”

  “That might be true,” Marla admits. “Knowing something is temporary and trying to make the most of every second you’re together can really add to the experience.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Summer camp counselor training, the summer I turned twenty,” she says. It's all the story I need to hear.

  “I did call her. Just once, about two weeks ago. I realized she never gave me her new cell number, and so I called the real estate office. She was extremely busy, and we only talked for a few minutes. I haven't heard back from her since.”

  “And you haven't called her again?” Marla asked.

  “No. Why should I? She made it clear what she thought of our relationship when I left, and when I talked to her on the phone, I seemed to be more of an interference than a good surprise,” I explain, a little more defensively than I’d like.

  “So, you gave up,” she says.

  “No, I went back to what I always do. Work. Remember, Marla. I don't do relationships. Eva was an aberration and look what that's gotten me. That weekend with Scarlett was great, but it's over. There's too much for us to be focusing on with the acquisition and dealing with these international clients. I can't be wasting time chasing after her, too.”

  “So why aren't you eating your meatballs?”

  I slam my fork through one of the meatballs and shove a bite into my mouth.

  “There,” I snap. “Satisfied?”

  She shrugs as she takes a sip of her coffee. “I'm just saying, Gavin.”

  I wash the mediocre meatball down with most of a glass of water in front of me.

  “Let's get back to the office,” I tell her. “I want to prepare for this afternoon's meeting.”

  We are at the office until late, and by the time I get back to my house, the staff is done for the day. Everything's quiet. There's a note from the cook sitting on the marble island in the middle of the kitchen telling me dinner is waiting in the refrigerator and giving instructions for how to warm it. It always makes me laugh when she does things like that. She seems to forget I'm an adult.

  That's easy to understand. I spent more time with her than I did with my parents when I was a child. It's only within the last few years it occurred to me that Olivia was a little older t
han I am now when I was a little boy. She always had the warm, nurturing presence of an older woman. It's like she had to grow into her personality, and she has just now matured into herself.

  I follow the instructions to warm the plate of chicken and rice and carry it with me into the dining room. As I eat, I scroll through my phone. An article on the society page about my faux birthday party makes me cringe. Hopefully this nightmare won't last too much longer. All I need is someone else to be a part of a scandal or do something embarrassing, and all the attention and humiliation will transfer over to them.

  At least there are very few actual pictures of me in the article. The focus was primarily on Eva and the spectacle she made of herself. In the less than five minutes I was at the travesty of an event, she made a scene dramatic enough to be performed at the opera house, characterizing herself as the victim because I wasn't more touched by the gesture. I'm hoping with everything in me the long conversation we had the next day is enough to rid me of her for good.

  My mind wanders to Scarlett. If she is so invested in making things special that she creates celebrations for snow, I wonder how she handles birthdays. The first thing that comes to mind is her preparing breakfast in bed. This immediately makes me think of waking up to her in nothing but my shirt as she baked biscuits and fried bacon. I try to focus on that and continue imagining what a birthday celebration with her might be like, but my thoughts move along to her taking off the shirt.

  Her elegant hands release each button slowly, creating exquisite torture with each sliver of skin she exposes. It falls away from her shoulders and pools briefly around the lush swell of her hips before she takes it off completely.

  Her body is soft and feminine, each curve and plane perfectly placed so my fingertips tingle with the desire to touch her. Her hair tumbling down around her shoulders and partially concealing her breasts only makes her more desirable. I want to brush away the silky strands and replace them with my tongue. The memories conjure so much desire for her, my body aches.

  With a sigh, I step away from the table. I go upstairs to the bathroom and run a shower. Stepping under the stream of hot water, I imagine the soothing glaze of heat is the brush of her tongue along my skin. My cock is already hard, and it gets even harder when I think about her hand on me in the car.

  The excitement of sitting in the car by the side of the road was enough to nearly push me out of control. But I fought to maintain myself, wanting to enjoy as much of her touch as I possibly could. I close my eyes and wrap one hand around my shaft. The other presses to the wall as I stroke myself. I can almost feel my fingers plunging deep into her silky pussy, the way the still-tight walls closed around them.

  The sound of the water on the tile becomes Scarlett's desperate whimpers and moans. I stroke faster, pausing briefly to run my hand over the soap to make it slippery. My mouth craves the taste of her kiss and the suppleness of her breast. I imagine my tongue swirling around her taut pink nipple and delving into the hot wetness of her folds.

  It doesn't take long for me to explode. As I come down from my orgasm, I lower to the floor of the shower. Leaning back against the wall, I let the water wash down over me and further relax my muscles.

  I sit there, imagining Scarlett's sweet, satisfied body in my arms until the water runs cold.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Scarlett

  May…

  Nothing takes the zip and excitement out of buying a new house like having somebody break into it. That's not something I ever thought about. It's not something I ever thought I'd have to think about. Yet here I am. I got the abandoned house cleaned up and ready for eager new eyes in record time. Let's just say I had a lot of energy and wanted to keep my mind on something productive.

  I enjoy being able to stage houses that still have furnishings. It makes it easier for people to see the house not just as a building, but as an actual home. But it's not completely out of the realm of my experience to have to promote a house that's completely empty. While most of my usual tricks and techniques don't work in these situations, I've found ways to work around that.

  I couldn't dry a bunch of towels or set up Spring floral displays, but I ensured every inch of that house was clean and fresh. A few coats of paint and new blinds on the windows made a difference. This was an opportunity for me to present a completely blank canvas. The people coming for tours saw the house just as it was, untouched and unfettered by existing decorations or even signs of anyone else living there. That approach has its advantages. And it worked. Quickly. The first couple who saw the house jumped on making an offer. They were thrilled with the house and couldn't wait to close on it so they could start building their life there.

  Until we arrived for a second walk-through, and found the back door kicked in and glass scattered across the floor in three rooms. The andiron made a deep gash in the floor when someone dragged it out of the fireplace. That took the edge off their excitement. But we chalked it up to stupid teenagers, and I set to work cleaning it all up. The door got replaced, the glass swept up, and the andiron tucked back into the fireplace where it should be. The couple went back to imagining what it would be like when they were able to move in and live their day to day lives in those rooms.

  Until I got a call from the police one afternoon saying Ashley made an emergency call to report ghosts. Officer James got to the house with a mocking smirk on his face and said he just knew it had something to do with me. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten a call out about ghosts, but it was the first time it happened to someone not sampling their moonshine or over the age of seventy-five. As soon as he heard it had something to do with a house I had on the market, he got it in his mind I had something to do with it. He was convinced I made a fuss to bring attention back to last Halloween.

  I didn't. And I certainly didn't punch the holes in the walls or pry up the floorboards in two of the rooms. That was harder to gloss over with the buyers. Them being recent imports to Shadow Creek seemed like a bonus when they came to look at the house. They didn't know the strangeness surrounding it or have any immediate opinions about it. After that incident, them being new to the area became less of a good thing. Suddenly they were questioning the safety of the town and if it was the right choice for them.

  The kicker came when the flower beds got dug up. They promptly withdrew from the deal and hightailed it right out of Shadow Creek. Not a good day for our public image. Also, not a good day for my business and my stress levels.

  Also, yesterday.

  Now I'm back at the house, trying to figure out what in the living hell is happening. Not that I really need this right now. My brain is so far gone from wanting to deal with idiot pranksters and crumbling deals; I barely have it in me to walk through the rooms looking for the next disaster. Fortunately, I haven't found one. The house seems quiet today. Maybe yesterday's defiling of all the pretty flowers was enough for a little while. At least it isn't as empty. The bean bag chairs I brought and tossed on the floor in the living room might not be much, but I foresee myself spending a considerable amount of time in this house in the near future, so at least I should have something to keep me comfortable.

  The doorbell rings, and I walk over to it, expecting Ashley. She promised to keep an eye on the house and tell me if she saw anything strange. Maybe she has a report for me. Peeking through the peephole, I don't see Ashley. I let out a groan and open the door. It's not Sylvia standing on the front porch that brought out that reaction. It's the envelope she has in her hand and now holds out to me with innocent eyes and a broad smile.

  "I got you a Mother's Day card," she says.

  Ugh.

  I take the card from her and spin back around to go inside, my head falling back as I go. It's amazing how one gesture can be so sweet and so nerve-wracking at the same time. Back in the living room, I toss myself down onto one of the bean bag chairs as Sylvia carefully navigates getting into the other one.

  "Maybe you shouldn't do that," she says, trying to an
gle herself so she can make it into the chair. "You might shake the baby loose or something."

  She finally takes the plunge and drops onto the chair. It scoots a few inches, but she gets herself under control.

  "You alright?" I ask. She nods. "You sure?"

  "I'm good."

  "I don't think I'm going to shake the baby loose. I figure it's in there pretty sturdy, considering it's been hanging out for three months through everything we've been doing this spring without even making itself known," I say.

  "What did the doctor say?" Sylvia asks.

  My first appointment was yesterday, coinciding with the sale of the house going up in smoke, so I haven't had the chance to catch my best friend up on everything. That's why she's here. She was supposed to bring lunch, not a card with so many flowers on the front I'm tempted to just shove it into one of the beds outside to make up for the torn-up ones.

  "She's shocked, needless to say. I didn't even think I could have children. She went over my charts and read everything the doctors told me when I was younger. She says the chances were so slim she can understand why they would tell me that. Give me a chance to wrap my head around it and whatnot. But apparently not so slim to be considered impossible."

  "Clearly." The doorbell rings again, and Sylvia begins her valiant efforts to try to get out of the bean bag. "Coming," she calls, swinging one arm and one leg. It doesn't do much. "On my way."

  "I'll get it," I tell her.

  "No," she argues, trying a new flail. "You're pregnant."

  "Just like I was when I went rock climbing two weeks ago. Didn't stop me then. Besides, you and that chair seem to be having a disagreement."

  "It's going to be fine," she says. "I'll make it."

  The doorbell rings again, and I get up to answer it. A delivery driver from Angelo's stands on the porch with a towering stack of food. I take it from him and carry everything back into the living room just as Sylvia gets to her feet.