Luz gave me one of her broad smiles.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she said.
I made my way through the rest of the house, saying my good mornings to the rest of the staff as I did. All eyes were on me as I stepped into the kitchen.
“There’s my girl!” said my dad, a big smile spreading across his face as I entered.
“Morning!” said my mom.
Isabella and Amy were busy with the kids, all of whom were in their highchairs, their breakfasts in front of them.
“Mommy!” said Alfred, clapping his hands together, his big eyes on me.
The rest of the kids started in with their precious toddler-talk, spouting out the words they’d picked up over the last few months.
“Morning, all,” I said, making a beeline for the coffee maker. “And good morning to the birthday crew.”
The kids were all beyond happy about their birthdays, and I was just as eager to celebrate them.
“So, mommy-of-four,” said Amy. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“Well,” I said, blowing on my coffee and eyeing the big pan of eggs that someone, likely Isabella, had prepared. “Jordan ran out for a quick meeting, and he’ll be back around lunchtime with the cake. After that, it’ll be time for a play date with some of the neighborhood kids. Then, hopefully, they’ll all be tuckered out by dinnertime, and I can make something delicious for you all.”
“Works for me,” said my dad.
The four of us took our seats at the kitchen, and I let my eyes drift around. The house was looking so beautiful, and I could hardly believe that I was lucky enough to share it with four beautiful children and the man I loved.
“So,” said Isabella. “I know we have a rule about not talking shop outside of work, but I got a call from none other than Will Cohen.”
“Wait,” I said. “You mean billionaire Will Cohen of one of the biggest venture capital groups in the city?”
Isabella nodded with a smile.
“That’s right,” she said. “And he said he wants us to cater a startup party two weeks from this weekend.”
“Holy crap,” I said. “That’s huge! Are we ready for it?”
“I am if you are,” she said.
“Of course,” I said. “But we’re not even officially open for business. How did he know to reach out to us?”
“Evidently his wife’s a huge fan of your blog. And when she read that you were starting a catering company, she had to get you on board. That was a good move to finally let people know it was you writing the reviews and creating the recipes.”
“There you go!” said my mom. “Back in the saddle. Or in front of the stove, I suppose.”
I was thrilled at the news. It was going to be a tricky proposition to be both a mother and a new business owner, but I was ready for the challenge.
“Now,” said my dad, “we just need to get Jordan to propose, and you’ll have everything in order.”
My mom gave my dad a light slap on the shoulder. “Richard! You know not to mention the marriage thing,” she chided him.
I took a calming breath before replying. “I told you before,” I said. “Jordan and I agreed to take things slow. We’ve had so much going on with the house and our companies and the kids, we don’t want to rush anything.”
I wouldn’t admit it, of course, but I was starting to agree with them. Jordan and I had been busy, and we did have a great life already, but I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t want to make things official, to be Mrs. Chloe King. The name had a nice ring to it—and a nice ring wouldn’t hurt, either—but I figured Jordan would approach the matter on his own time; it wasn’t like we had any rush.
The five of us sat down with our coffees, chatting the morning away, occasionally taking breaks to play with the kids. A couple hours later, in time for lunch, Jordan stepped through the door.
“Afternoon, all,” he said, entering the kitchen with a massive cake box in his hands.
Everyone greeted him, and I hopped up to give him a kiss.
“What’d you get?” I asked, glancing down at the box. “Vanilla buttercream?”
“It has buttercream—don’t you worry.”
The box didn’t have a window to see the cake so I had to trust him. Jordan set the box down on the kitchen table, the rest of us getting our plates and forks ready.
“Baby, why don’t you call the staff in to join us,” said Jordan.
“Sure,” I said.
I found Luz and told her to spread the word. Five minutes later, the staff of ten was gathered with us in the kitchen, the kids eyeing the cake box hungrily.
“Now,” said Jordan, “before we dig into this thing, I just want to say something.”
All eyes turned to Jordan.
“These last six months…to say that they’ve been wonderful would be an understatement. Each day has been filled with so much joy that it’s almost been hard to understand. It’s like my life before Chloe and the kids is a distant memory, a previous life that I can only remember hazily. And now, with the kids turning two, I think I’m ready for Chloe and me to start our next adventure.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by this. My brow crinkled in confusion.
“Chloe, go ahead and open up the box.”
I didn’t waste a second. Placing my hands on the sides, I slowly lifted the lid. And when I laid eyes on the cake, I was so shocked by what I saw, that the lid fell out of my hands and landed on the floor.
In ornate, gorgeous writing in icing were the words, “Chloe, will you marry me?”
I gasped and turned toward Jordan. He stood before me, a gorgeous glittering ring in his hands.
The air was tense as everyone awaited my response.
“Of course, I will!” I said, throwing my arms around him and covering his face in kisses.
Cheers erupted from around us as Jordan and I embraced. But our moment didn’t last long before I felt the wet splatter of something against my back, followed by the splat of something else against Jordan’s face.
We turned to see that the kids had gotten into the cake, picking up handfuls from one end and launching them at us, giggling wildly as they did.
“You know,” said Jordan. “I’m almost so happy right now that I can’t even be mad.”
I smiled broadly, kissing Jordan right on the splatter of cake on his face.
“Same here,” I said.
Jordan pulled me close again.
“I love you, Chloe,” he said. “So much I can hardly stand it.”
“And I love you, too.”
The kids were making a mess, but none of us cared.
“You know, I wouldn’t want to start this next step any other way,” I said.
“I’m right there with you,” Jordan said. “And I always will be.”
The End
Bought by the Boss
Time for a tease!
Up next is the first chapter of the previous book in my San Bravado Billionaires’ Club series, Bought by the Boss
Happy reading!
Layla x
Copyright 2018 by Layla Valentine
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
Maria
Disbelief grips my heart. My jaw drops open. “You have to be kidding me.”
The woman stares at her computer, studiously avoiding my gaze. She taps away at the keyboard, speaking as her manicured nails sparkle under fluorescent lights. “It looks like your temp agency received notice of the change two
days ago—the seventeenth. Maybe you should give them a call?”
Disbelief turns to panic. No. This can’t be happening. I have bills to pay! I was counting on this work.
I dig my phone from my purse. “I’ll be calling them, all right.”
Before turning away from her, I launch one last attempt. “You’re absolutely sure you don’t have anything else available? I have lots of customer service experience. I’m good with computers.”
She arches an eyebrow and finally looks at me. “Honey, this is San Bravado. Everyone’s good with computers. And no, we don’t have anything else available for your skill level at this moment.”
She emphasizes the words “skill level” as if my two years of community college are worth nothing.
My shoulders begin to slump, but I catch myself and straighten my spine, raise my chin. I refuse to let her make me feel small.
“Thank you for your time,” I say, not meaning a word of it.
She nods curtly.
I spin on my heel and high-tail it from the HR office.
Once out in the bright California sunshine, out from under the woman’s demeaning gaze, I let my shoulders fall again. I’m too tired to hold them up.
BioTech’s shiny front facade is ringed with palm trees and luxurious planters, bursting with colorful gladiolas and dahlias. Interspersed with the landscaping are polished black granite backless benches. I lower myself down onto a free one and burrow my face into my hands.
It’s only one in the afternoon, but it’s been a long, humiliating day. Not only did I show up to a temp position that was already filled, but I also wasted an entire morning trying to clear up the mess.
I sigh and then finally dial my temp agency. As usual, I’m directed via a voice-recorded menu to leave a message for my coordinator. It’s a struggle not to unleash some of my pent-up frustration onto the coordinator, but I manage to hold back. Complaining over the phone will get me nowhere. Besides, no matter how desperate I feel about my upcoming bills and lack of employment, things could be worse.
I think of my older sister, Camila, and the news she delivered to me the week before. A chill passes over my body, and I shudder despite the sunny weather. Things could be a whole lot worse.
My phone is still in my hands. I dial my best friend, Jemma. She answers on the second ring. “Maria! What’s up, girl?” She’s breathing hard, and I hear the whir of machinery in the background.
“Are you busy?” I ask.
“On the Stairmaster at ReFuel. Jackson has me doing a killer glutes workout. My ass is on fire.”
“And that’s…good?” I ask, guessing that having a burning butt is a good thing though I’ve never had enough spare time to get as into workouts as my friend. I get enough of a workout just earning my keep in the ever-more-expensive San Bravado urban jungle.
“You know it. What’s wrong? You sound upset.”
I sigh and listen for a moment to the sound of machinery. I can picture Jemma at her favorite fitness studio, glowing as she sails up the moving Stairmaster in the perfect workout outfit. Her sleek blond ponytail is probably swishing back and forth with every step.
Jemma and I are opposites in many ways. She’s sunny, outgoing, adventurous. As the daughter of a hotel mogul, she’s never had to worry about money in her life. I’m dark-haired, serious, and reserved. I’ve also been working minimum wage jobs since I was old enough to push a mop.
I worked at one of her father’s hotels. At eighteen I was promoted from the cleaning staff to a receptionist. Jemma was also working the front desk. After learning that she loved to create art, I convinced her to take a class at the community college with me. Jemma insisted that I changed her life, and we’ve been friends ever since.
“It’s the temp job,” I say. “Remember the one I told you about, at BioTech? I showed up at seven this morning, and there was already someone at my desk.”
“No way!” Jemma cries out. Then, “How many more? Eight?” It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to her personal trainer, Jackson, not me. “Jackson, you are killing me today!” I hear her giggle flirtatiously. She’s been wanting to get with Jackson for months now. Given Jemma’s track record with guys, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet
“It was embarrassing,” I say, trying to recapture her attention. “I am so over this temping shit. I need to find something more reliable. This drains me, you know?”
“I know. If I was talking to my dad, you know I would find you something at a hotel.”
“You two are still not talking? Jem, how long is this fight going to last?” I can’t hide the disappointment from my voice. Jemma doesn’t know how lucky she is to have a father—even if he isn’t perfect. I think of all the times my mom struggled just to put food on the table for me and my sister. But I can’t lecture my friend about this. I’ve tried before, and she simply won’t listen.
“No,” she says. “Oh my God, Maria, he sent me the worst email. Well—it had his signature, but I’m sure his personal secretary wrote it. I’ll tell you all about it. Want to grab coffee tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah.” It strikes me that I have nothing else on my schedule for the morning. Fear over my unemployment once again rips through me.
Jemma is saying something to Jackson again. “Almost done? Great! Yes, towel please.”
I imagine Jackson helping Jemma towel off. Those two are definitely going to hook up soon, it’s just a matter of when. I wonder briefly if I’ll be hearing about it in the morning, over lattes at our favorite cafe. Thinking of catching up over coffee, I recall the last time we sipped espresso-flavored drinks. Jemma had been all excited about setting me up on a blind date.
“Hey, remember the date you set me up on with the guy from ReFuel?” I ask.
“Right! Mike. He is…such a…good guy. Super hunky. Oh yeah! That’s…tonight isn’t it.” Her breathing is more labored now.
“I think I have to cancel. I just don’t—”
“You can’t cancel,” she says, predictably.
“Jemma, I’m totally drained. Today sucked. I’m running on empty.”
She’s breathing so hard now that her words come out in short bursts. “All the more…reason to…meet him and have some fun!”
I’m about to say that the most fun I’m up for is curling up on the couch with a pint of ice cream and a tear-jerker on the tube when she interrupts me.
“You are going on that date, Maria. It’s been months since you went out with a guy. You’re in a rut… Oh, that’s eight minutes? Hallelujah!” The mechanic whirring stops, and I hear her gulp down some water.
I take the opportunity to defend myself. “I’ve been stressed. Ever since I got fired from my last office gig things haven’t been easy. It’s hard to just pay rent and buy my groceries. I don’t have time to—”
“Listen to me. Sitting around in your apartment feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to get you out of your situation. Think of dating as networking. Maybe Mike will know someone who’s hiring. He’s pretty high up on the food chain at a bank downtown, I hear.”
My friend’s words make twisted sense. Maybe an evening out will be better for me than staying in.
I think of Camila again.
This isn’t just about me and my need to pay bills. This is about my sister. Her family. I want to help her.
She’s always been there for me. Since our mom passed a few years back, Camila has been my rock. Now, she needs my help. I can’t let her down.
“Okay,” I say resolutely. “I’ll go.”
“Wear something cute,” Jemma advises, before informing me that she has to go do deadlifts while her heart rate is still up.
Six hours later, I smooth my short dress down over my thighs as I step off the bus. The hydraulic brakes hiss as they release, and the bus barrel’s down the hilly, paved street, leaving me alone.
I’ve followed Jemma’s advice. Despite my reservations about the date, I pulled out all the stops with my outfit. I’m wea
ring a cute, funky black and white strapless dress. The pattern is wild—a mix of stripes, checkers, swirling floral forms and a few palm trees thrown in for good measure. My black hair has been conditioned into a lustrous, wavy shine that falls to my mid-back. I know that the bold red lipstick I’m wearing complements the dress’s wild print and makes me look more confident than I feel.
Which, given my day so far, is not very confident.
My bruised and battered ego is well camouflaged by my flashy, glamorous outfit.
I glance up at restaurant signs as I begin walking down the block. I knew that this Mike character was cut from fine cloth, so to speak, but I didn’t realize how fine. These restaurants are nice. Way too nice.
I’m starting to feel out of my element as I pass yet another maître d’, waiting to seat his VIP guests. I stop and do a double take.
“Um, is this Oiseau?” I ask. The French syllables make my mouth feel like it’s full of marbles, and the word comes out Oss-you.
The maître d’ peers down his nose at me. “Oiseau?” he says fluidly, confirming my suspicions that I’ve butchered the word. “Yes, ma’am. Unfortunately, we’re full this evening. Reservations only.”
I feel myself blush. Apparently, this man doesn’t think that I belong in his restaurant. “I—um—have a reservation, I believe. Well, my friend, ah, date… Mike… he made a…”
My words die out as I reach for my phone and look through my texts until I find the one from Mike. I haven’t actually talked to him. All of our arrangements have been made over the phone. But there, at the bottom of one of his messages, is his last name. “Wilson,” I say. “That’s the name. I think it’s for seven.”
The man seems to scowl as he looks down at a binder spread open on his podium. He runs a narrow finger over the page, and then pauses and looks up at me with surprise.
“Yes,” he says. “Of course. Mike Wilson, table for two. Seven o’clock. Mr. Wilson hasn’t arrived yet.” He glances at his watch.
Four Secret Babies - A Second Chance Billionaire Romance (San Bravado Billionaires' Club Book 7) Page 22