My Dad's Rival's Secret Baby

by Jamie Knight

  “Hey, look who came out for a change!” Gage, one of the longest-tenured agents at the company (and a friend of mine), calls out. “Pull up a chair, boss!”

  Mariah looks at me to make the decision, and for just a second after I say, “Sure!” I see a flash of…disappointment in her face. Disappointment? That can’t be right. Why would she be sad about getting to spend time with some of the top realtors in the company? The simple answer is, she wouldn’t – she has already expressed how much she wants to network and rise up in the company ranks - so I shrug it off mentally and grab a couple nearby chairs.

  The bartender brings over my usual (a rum and coke - incredibly imaginative, I know), then leans over to Mariah.

  “How about you, new face? What’s your pleasure?”

  Mariah smiles, and I notice for the first time that when she does, dimples rise on her cheeks. It’s cute.

  “Um, I’ll take a Bahama Mama, please,” she says.

  “Coming right up.”

  One of the guys, Trevor, snickers just loud enough at her drink choice for Mariah to hear. She glances at him and his beer bottle, then says, “Oh, sorry, are we only allowed to order cheap beers with less alcohol content than my pinkie finger?”

  The whole table is silent for a second, then everyone starts laughing.

  “The new girl’s got you there, man,” Gage says between chuckles.

  Even Trevor smiles ruefully as he sips from his beer. It’s pretty clear, though, that Mariah’s getting off scot free at least in part because this gives him an excuse to stare at her.

  “Heard you closed the Sanchez account today,” Ron, another longtime agent, says to Mariah. “Nice work.”

  She blushes. “Thank you.”

  It impresses me that she’s so humble about the whole thing. That account had been a veritable thorn in our side for months now, and she figured out a way to resolve the whole thing in less than forty-eight hours on the job. Not to mention, if I hadn’t happened to come by her office and eavesdrop, Jacobs would’ve taken all the credit for the sale with no one the wiser.

  Even when I’d given her more than one chance in our conversation to spill the truth, she’d kept it to herself and she’d been professional every step of the way. It’s been a long time since I’ve met someone as smart and clearly dedicated as she is.

  “Why don’t you tell us how you managed it?” I hear myself saying before I can think of a reason to stop. “What was the magic pill you got the Sanchezes to swallow so quickly?”

  It only takes a second – and a glance at her reddening cheeks - to see that I’ve put her on the spot, but I don’t feel bad. I think she can handle herself. I hope.

  “Well.” She pauses to take a deep draw from her drink, which she snagged from the bartender before he even has a chance to set it on the table in front of her. She’s clearly nervous, and it’s cute. “I looked over the files and meeting records, trying to get familiar with the case… and I just noticed that the house had been in the family for a very long time. It wasn’t that the family didn’t want to sell… it was that saying goodbye was hard. I think they just needed someone to acknowledge that, so that they’d feel comfortable letting go?”

  This is a surprise, even to me. I’d heard the names and glanced at the file, of course, but it was Jacobs’ case, and each time we talked about it, he attributed the delay to the family being unhappy with the size of the offers being made. It hadn’t even occurred to me (or him, obviously), that the problem might be sentimental.

  And yet. Mariah had figured it out almost immediately. She’d connected with the family, our clients, on a deeper level, and in the end, that’s what it had been all about. The instinct on its own is impressive, and that instinct paired with action? It means she has the makings of a truly great businesswoman.

  Around me, the whole table is laughing and chatting, including Mariah. She’s really connecting with everyone on the team, and that’s another check in the win column for her as far as I’m concerned.

  But even in the face of all this, the thought still niggles at the back of my brain… am I thinking this way about her because of her skills, or because of what I imagined doing with her while sitting behind my desk right after I met her? And, to be honest, quite a bit after that?

  Ridiculous, I tell myself. I may be, as my Aunt Shelly would say, “a bit of a horndog, even after you’ve long grown out of your teenage years,” but I’ve never let that affect my business decisions before, and there’s no way I’m slipping so much that it’s starting to do so now. Right?

  That’s when it hits me: there’s one surefire way to find out if I’m overestimating Mariah or being biased in some way. And the best part is, she’s handed the solution right to me, so I know I’m not getting twisted around: An open house.

  She wants one of her own, like she said, to prove herself, to be sure this last sale wasn’t a fluke. Unusual? Sure. Unprecedented? Definitely not. So that’s it then. She’ll get her open house, she’ll succeed or fail on her own merits, and I’ll manage and oversee the whole situation guilt-free.

  “Boss, you haven’t even touched your drink! Come on, the workday is over.” Gage nudges me, and I realize I’ve been sitting there, tuned out into my own little world, for so long that most of the table is well on its way to a second round while my drink is getting watered down all to hell as the ice melts in it.

  “Sorry, sorry. Just hadn’t quite shifted out of business mode yet.” I apologize to Gage, but my eyes are on Mariah.

  Talk to her, I think. Say something. Learn about her. I open my mouth to say…something. Anything.

  That’s when her phone rings.

  Chapter 23

  Mariah

  Things are going great. The other realtors seem to like me (making Jacobs the odd one out), and Mr. Drive is the one who brought me here in the first place, so I’m obviously on his good side. I try not to think too much about the question I put to him earlier, and instead tell myself that he’ll let me know the answer soon. I hope.

  And for now, just being around him is nice. Wait, what?! Shit, I’m still doing it. Still thinking about him the way I was in the staff restroom, rather than how I should be seeing him now, as my boss. For a second, I swear I’m back in the office bathroom stall, feeling that sensation of my tingly pussy as I play with myself while thinking about him.

  Fuck. I take a gulp from my glass to wash the fantasy away. It works, at least for the moment. And even if it hadn’t, the ringing of my cell phone would’ve.

  Who the hell is calling me -

  “Shit.” That one escapes my lips for real.

  “Something wrong, Mariah?” Gage asks.

  “No,” I mumble. “Sorry, just need to take this call. Be right back.”

  I duck outside and answer. “Hey, Sterling.”

  “Why am I only hearing your voice say hello and not seeing your face here for your shift, girl?” Sterling’s definitely not thrilled with me right now, and I can understand exactly why. My second shift at the diner was supposed to have started half an hour ago, and I’ve managed to completely forget about it.

  “I am so sorry!”

  “Unless that’s an ‘I’ll be there in five minutes to deliver this apology again in person’ apology, I don’t wanna hear it.”

  “Sterling, I really am sorry! The head of the company where I just got my other job – he invited me out for drinks with colleagues and I totally lost track of time.”

  “So, you’re telling me that not only are you missing a shift, you’re drinking instead?!”

  “Yes.” I mutter. No reason to lie now, I guess.

  In the background of the call, I hear Elle’s voice. “Don’t listen to him, hon, he’s drinking whiskey out of a coffee cup right now!”

  “Elle! Hush!” Sterling’s tone is less angry now, though. “Okay. New jobs, new everything… some things’re bound to slip through the cracks occasionally. Just make sure the next thing you forget isn’t your Thursday shift.”<
br />
  “Got it. Thank you.” My heartbeat’s slowing closer to normal now.

  “And Mariah?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m giving Elle all your tips.”

  With the sound of Elle’s laughter in the background, Sterling hangs up.

  Wow, was that close. Even with both these jobs falling into place as well as they have, I’m still struggling to make ends meet enough until my first official paychecks come through. I really could have used the tip money from the diner tonight.

  I feel momentarily guilty again, but remind myself: I’m not here to work in a diner. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but what’s more important? Making inroads with the head of the real estate company where I’m suddenly on my way to a career, or doing one measly closing shift at the diner?

  It’s only then that I realize just how tipsy I am. That drink was strong, for sure. Delicious, but strong. I should probably call it a night before I have too much to drink and say something stupid. In other words, quit while you’re ahead, kid.

  I’m about to head off down the street when I realize I can’t leave without saying goodbye. Especially to Wesley. Wait, what? Where did that thought come from? I’m kidding myself, I know exactly where it came from. But I can’t do anything about it. Right? He’s my boss.

  I’m not sure how long I stand there debating internally about unmentionable things, but my reverie gets broken when the door behind me swings open.

  “Mr. Drive, hi!” I call out, as soon as I see him. Wesley’s standing there in his suit, a smile on his face and my purse in his hand.

  “Everything okay, Mariah?” he asks. “You left your purse inside and I wanted to be sure you didn’t run off on m - on us.”

  Did he just stop himself from saying “me”? “Wanted to be sure you didn’t run off on me?” I have to be imagining it.

  I take my purse from him. “Thanks. I was about to come back in and say goodnight to everyone.”

  “You’re leaving so soon?”

  “Quit while you’re ahead, right?” I say without thinking. “Not that - I’m not quitting, I just meant - I mean, things seemed to be going well in there and I didn’t want to overdo it and press my luck.”

  “I understand.” He pauses, then comes closer. “Are you sure that’s all? It seems like something is bothering you all of a sudden.”

  I try to tell my brain to stop, but it won’t. He’s almost too perfect, it says. He’s kind, and strong, and sexy… and he’s trying to take care of you. Let him.

  “I’m not just your boss, Mariah, you know. I’m a person too. And your friend. I hope. Now. Can I help?”

  That does it. I spill about my two jobs, about missing a shift and how I’m barely making ends meet here in the city on my own. “But I really love this job. I do, and I can be great at it. I promise. There’s just - a lot happening all at once.” If that isn’t the understatement of the year, then I don’t know what is.

  Wesley’s face softens as he rests a hand on my shoulder. I don’t shy away from his touch. “Mariah, I had no idea. Well, there is one thing I can tell you that might make all of this a little more bearable.”

  Looking up at him, I half-expect it to be a wordless kiss. From his lips to mine.

  “I’ve been thinking about your request since you made it,” he says, that gentle smile playing across his features again. “And I’ve decided to grant it. There’s an open house scheduled with us tomorrow afternoon, and I need someone to take the lead on it while I handle other business. So. You have an open house all your own, and a chance to prove yourself. Even more so than you already have.”

  Now, I’m the one who has to restrain myself from kissing him. “Oh! Mr. Drive, that’s incredible! Thank you so much. I won’t let you down, I promise.”

  “No, I expect you won’t.” He squeezes my shoulder and it’s like that simple touch causes an electric current zips through my body. “More importantly, I expect you won’t let yourself down.”

  Chapter 24

  Mariah

  As it turns out, Wesley (when did I start calling him that in my head?) is right. I don’t let myself or anyone else down. At least when it comes to work. It’s a good thing I have to go in early the next day, though, because when I get back to my hotel, I find -

  “A fucking eviction notice? What the hell is this?!” I’m right in the night clerk’s face, but I’ve got no scruples about that. It’s midnight, I’m tired, and somehow I’ve just lost my living situation.

  The clerk looks at me through sleep-deprived eyes, hits a few keys on the keyboard in front of him, and sighs. “Miss, your bill is almost two weeks overdue. At fourteen days, we’re within our rights to request you vacate the premises. So that’s what Management elected to do.”

  Shit. Shitshitshit. This guy’s not wrong. I’ve barely been spending any money at all, and I’m still out straight trying to make the credit limit on my card last until a paycheck comes in. There’s definitely not enough left over to pay for another month in this place.

  “Okay. I’m sorry. Is there any way I can at least get back in for tonight? I don’t have anywhere else to go, and my keycard isn’t working.”

  The clerk looks bored. “Not my problem.”

  Suddenly, the stubborn streak imparted to me by my dad flares up. That, and the self-preservation instinct that I’ve cultivated myself since I was a kid.

  “Not now it isn’t. But I guarantee you, I’ll make it your problem. This notice,” I brandish it in his face through the glass partition, “states that after two weeks you can request that I vacate - but it’s only been thirteen days. So, either you let me back into my room for the night, or I’ll make sure it’s your head on the chopping block when the local cops ask me why I’m sleeping outside their station and I tell them it’s because I’m being illegally prevented from entering my living space.”

  That, at least, gets his attention. I seriously doubt it’s out of any sense of care for me or my situation, but he relents, and that means I have a place to sleep for the night.

  Unfortunately, having a place to sleep doesn’t actually mean I get any rest. The whole night is a fit of tossing and turning, trying desperately not to panic about the fact that I’m essentially going to be homeless when the sun comes up. That, and the fact that work on my first open house starts tomorrow.

  Somehow, I make it through the night and to the office the next day. I get there earlier than everyone else, so I can stow my two suitcases in my office without anyone spotting me - a plan on where to go next has to wait until after I handle the open house. Screw that up, and I can just plan on bringing them back to my father’s house… and then to my new husband Charles’s place. And I am not going to let that happen.

  Somehow, I get through the afternoon. A car takes me to the house that’s on the market, and I spend the time in the car reviewing information about the property, filing away any bits and pieces of information that I can while downing my third cup of coffee (I think I finally top out at around five cups today).

  The house is filled with people almost immediately after I open the doors. Apparently, the place used to belong to a soap opera star, and most of the people here are couples whose wives have insisted on visiting the property for a chance at touching something approaching fame.

  They’re not the ones with whom I’m concerned. The ones I focus on, beyond a polite greeting, are the few couples that I catch commenting on the architecture of the place, or whispering to their partners about how it reminds them of home somehow.

  Out of all these couples, one stays longer than all the rest, and, without much in the way of urging from me, makes an offer on the house that’s 10K above the asking price. Two sales in less than two weeks… not a bad start at all.

  Sure, part of me worried that I really hadn’t put much work into the open house myself – most of it had been set up in advance before I even started working for the company - but a sale is a sale, and right now, that’s what matters. I ca
n worry about owning things every little step of the way once I have a roof over my head again.

  Luckily, as it turns out, the rest of the office seems to share my feelings on the subject. After all, an offer is an offer is an offer - especially when the potential buyers schedule a meeting to sign the final paperwork in less than a week.

  Back in my office, I sink down behind my desk and let out a sigh that it feels like I’ve been keeping inside for weeks. Maybe now I can finally relax just a bit.

  That notion lasts for a grand total of about eight seconds before there’s a knock on my door. “Payroll delivery!”

  That gets my spirit up - until I open the envelope to find that my first check is made out to “Mariah Young”… the fake last name I used when I applied for this job. Motherfucker. I completely forgot that I did that to hide any connection to my father or his company. Now I can’t cash the check, and it’s just one more instance of my dad screwing me over. And this time, I can’t see a way out of it.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at that check with a fake name on it, but by the time I finally get up to leave, the rest of the floor is pretty much deserted. Again. I’m really making a habit out of being the last person in the office. If there was anyone around to see it, it’d be impressive.

  I wander into the lobby, idly looking around. It’s not like I have anywhere else to be. That’s when the couch where we relegate clients as they wait for an appointment catches my eye. It’s practically bigger than my bed at the motel.

  I sit down. And it’s softer than the bed, too! Could I…?

  No, that’s a terrible idea! But do I really have another choice?

  Besides, every great biography seems to start with a story about how the famous subject worked without sleeping or never left the office or snuck onto a studio lot with a fake ID to get their first gig. Is crashing on the office couch for a few days really that much worse than those things?