Billion Dollar Baby

by Imani King

“Okay, but we’re just going to keep it normal, right? You aren’t going to smash our slice into my face, are you?” I narrowed my eyes at Braden, trying to gauge if he was up to anything.

  “Of course not,” he answered, a smirk playing on his lips. I had a funny feeling he was lying. Before I could question him about it, he placed his hand on mine and guided it toward the cake.

  Slicing into it was like slicing into a cloud.

  “How big do you want it?” he whispered into my ear.

  “Well, I’m eating for three…”

  He laughed, measuring out an enormous piece.

  Carefully, we shimmied the spatula under the slice, trying to wiggle it out.

  As soon as it started to emerge, I noticed the cake was multi-layered. One was blue and the other was pink.

  “What are these flavors?” I asked.

  “Both of them are vanilla.”

  “Why are they dyed?” I asked, staring at the slice in confusion.

  Braden scooped some frosting with his finger and brought it up to my lips. “Just think about it.”

  My brows furrowed together. “I don’t get it.”

  He dropped his hand to my stomach. “Just think about it.”

  It took me a moment, but finally, it hit me. My eyes widened. “You mean…”

  He nodded, a bright smile on his face.

  Without thinking, I jumped into his arms.

  He caught me with ease, our lips colliding together into a passionate, earth-shattering kiss. He held me close as the kiss continued, my happiness threatening to overwhelm me.

  Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any better.

  Finally, I pulled away, looking into his eyes. “How long have you known?”

  “For a while now.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded. “I could’ve color-coordinated.”

  “You wanted to keep it a surprise,” he said. “Dahlia is the one who came up with the idea. I thought it would be cute so I went along with it.”

  I punched his shoulder. “What are we going to name them?”

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I think our little girl should be named after your sister. In a way, she did get us back together.” He grabbed a fork and started to feed me, making me feel like a true-born princess.

  “I like that. Maybe a slight variation of it, like Delilah.”

  “That sounds pretty.”

  I smiled, my mind working a mile a minute. A boy and a girl. Ever since discovering that I would be having twins, I was silently hoping I would get both. Now, my wishes had come true. “And I want the boy to be named after your grandfather.”

  Braden looked surprised. “Are you sure…? Even after everything that happened?”

  I nodded. “Things could’ve been a lot worse. He could still hate me, but instead, he showed me that life really is about second chances.”

  “Hmm… but do you really want to name our kid… Eunice?” Braden frowned. “He’s going to get picked on.”

  “Well, we can go with Eric… Ernest… Ernie… Eugene.”

  “I like the sound of Eric. We can always make his middle name Eunice.”

  “Sure.”

  “Then it’s settled.” He pulled me into his arms, hugging me tightly. “Both our families will live on through the twins.”

  “And that’s exactly how it should be,” I whispered, kissing his nose.

  He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to mine.

  Our eyes locked.

  In that moment, I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I had married my soulmate.

  We belonged together. We would stay together. Forever and ever.

  Chapter 25

  Braden

  “Delilah! Eric! Ready or not! Here I come!”

  I strolled easily through the halls of the ranch house. Since my grandfather passed and the money appeared in our bank account, we put on an addition that included two big bedrooms, one for each of the twins.

  Of course, there were also the expanded stables, a long house for the goats, and a studio for Dahlia to do art lessons with the little ones and the twins. It was an estate, not a simple ranch anymore. And I wasn’t a broke-ass wannabe cowboy. I was a very, very rich man.

  In more ways than one.

  I peeked into the bathroom, my eyes scanning over the surface of the lovely amber stone and tile and the varnished claw-foot bathtub that the twins loved. I didn’t hear anything in there. I took a few more quiet steps, and I heard the Delilah’s breathy giggle, muffled by the sound of a blanket or possibly a door.

  “Hmmm,” I wondered aloud. “I wonder where those twins could be. Are they in the same place, or in two different places? You know, they’re usually in the same place. But it would be really tricky for Daddy if they were in different places.”

  Inside of Delilah’s room, I heard shuffling around, punctuated by riotous laughter.

  I dramatically opened the door to Eric’s room. “They’re not in here! I don’t know where they could be!”

  I made stomping noises like I was going back down the hallway, and then I tiptoed and gently opened the door to Delilah’s room. There’s a movement inside the teepee that Delilah got last Christmas.

  “Shhhhh,” she said. “Daddy’s here. Or I think he is.” There’s another flutter of movement, and I see her head pop out of the tent. Her brown curls fall over her face, just like her mother’s. She gasps and falls back inside.

  “I see you!” I exclaimed. “And I’m coming to get you!”

  I launched myself forward and fall into the tent — just dramatically enough to cause a stir, but not enough to actually fall on her. She squealed in laughter as I pull her out of the tent and into my arms. Just as we both landed on the soft sherpa rug, Eric came tumbling out from the bottom bunk and landed on my back.

  “Be a tall horse, Daddy! Carry me around!”

  “Me too,” Delilah exclaimed.

  Just then, Adele appeared at the door, her belly swelling with the new life inside of her. She turned, her body outlined in the light pouring in from the windows at the end of the hall. Eighteen weeks along — with another little girl. I was secretly hoping for a second set of twins, but she might have killed me if I’d actually told her that. The birth was a difficult one, with two hours of pushing and an emergency c-section. She tried nursing both of them and got off to a rocky start.

  There were tears and late nights, and lots of doubts in that first year. But some how — masochistically — I knew I’d do it all over again if it meant another chance to raise two babies at the same time.

  Yes, Adele might have killed me if I’d spilled that secret at our first ultrasound.

  She might have reminded me that a third baby would be hard enough, without having to deal with a fourth. But we had all this money — and this huge ranch — and all the love we ever needed in the world. Why wouldn’t we add a third?

  That was our feeling. And it came from both of us.

  We were a team these days. There were no secrets between us.

  “I’m afraid Daddy can’t be a tall horse right now,” Adele said. It’s just about time for dinner, and Auntie Dahlia is on her way over with the kiddos.

  Delilah’s face lit up with wonder. “Ellie!” she exclaimed. She loved her older cousin with the absolute adoration that comes with being three and a half years old. We were so lucky to have Dahlia in town — especially when we needed a simple break from the kids. Somehow, Dahlia was able to manage all four kids at once without breaking a sweat. I had no idea how she did it. It was either something deep in her bones, or it came with ten years of teaching experience. Maybe both. Either way, it was truly a magical feat. One that I wasn’t able to replicate. When we watched Robert and Elise, it always took every ounce of our energy away.

  “Yep,” I said. “And Uncle Eddie is coming this way too.”

  Adele sighed. “You didn’t. You are the worst at playing matchmaker.”

  “He’s been away. He alwa
ys had a thing for your sister. And now that she’s dating again…” I let my voice trail off.

  “Yeah, that hasn’t gone so well for her. And Eddie’s kind of a playboy.”

  I laughed. “Kinda. But I think he’d settle down for the right girl.”

  “I guess so,” Adele said. “I’m not sure my sister needs to be subjected to that. Though he is pretty … handsome.” I know Adele was about to say something a little raunchier. But instead, she winked at me and giggled.

  “What’s a playboy?” Eric asked in his most earnest voice.

  “A guy who likes to play sports,” I said without missing a beat. That is one thing I had learned to do — cover up adult conversations in front of three year olds. It’s a skill that comes quick once your toddler becomes a threenager.

  Adele chuckled. “Yep. Something like that. Come on, you guys. I have a roast that’s just about ready. And a dessert that the chef prepped last night. We just need to make some whipped cream.”

  The chef. I smiled at that. Adele liked to do most of the cooking herself — and I definitely had stepped up my game with my excellent breakfast skills. But once she got pregnant a second time, I hired a part-time chef to help her. That was something we could do with our lives now — lighten each burden. I was doing my best to think ahead and be the man she’d always needed me to be.

  I wasn’t that guy back in high school. And I wasn’t that guy when she first got pregnant. But I am now. And I’m proud of it.

  I watched as she lead the kids to the beautiful, remodeled kitchen. They each stood on their own cooking stool and helped her whip the cream for our chocolate ganache. I set the table and put out the appetizers. As the sun set over the mountains in the background, I welcomed Eddie and Delilah and her kids into our home.

  That’s what it was for — my estate — it was for entertaining. For welcoming. For creating a space for the family I never had. My mother and father had always been too concerned with money to give me the time of day. And when they passed, my grandfather had taken their place. He was only hard on me. He made up for that before he passed on, but I never had what Adele and I created here.

  This place was special. Our home was special. And it was overflowing with the love we’d always had for each other.

  And it grew stronger with every passing year.

  Excerpt from Talisa’s Heart

  It’s one of those times when the hands on the clock seem to be going backward. I never imagined I’d work in a law office but here I am, and today is dragging. During the duller moments at work – and there are plenty of those – I amuse myself by jotting ideas, notes, characters, or just phrases I like, down on Post-it notes and sticking them to the screen of my computer. At the end of the day, I collect them up, shove them in my pocket and take them home to sort through them. I keep the ones I like, ditch the ones I don’t, and staple together those that seem to be somehow connected. At home, I’ve got a drawer full of ideas that one day I firmly believe will give rise to an impressive and much-admired body of literary work. At least that’s the plan; I guess you could never know how these things are going to work out.

  I pick up my pen and hastily scribble onto a Post-it: ‘A strange melancholy claimed her. Not sadness exactly, but the ache of things that should be and sadly are not.’

  I stare at this for a moment in thought, then cross out ‘sadly’ and replace it with ‘regrettably.’ That’s better. The double use of ‘sad’ bothered me; just seemed a bit redundant. I peel off the note and stick it beside one already on my computer that says: ‘L. makes use of C’s absence to explore the attic???’ That one is part of a story that’s gradually taking shape in my head. It’s important to grab ideas when you have them and nail their feet to the floor before they have a chance to run away. I’m pretty sure that some famous author said that (or something like it,) but I can’t think who. I jot down the phrase ‘nail ideas; feet to the floor,’ just in case it’s original to me. It is a nice little phrase; I can Google it when I get home.

  “Talisa?” I turn to see Joanne, who works a few desks down from me. “Coming for a drink?”

  I shrug. “Doesn’t seem like I’m going to be doing much else today.”

  I get up, and Joanne and I head out the open-plan office.

  Law was never a career that I imagined pursuing, and it’s safe to say that it’s not the career I’ll be in for the rest of my life. In fact, it’s not my ‘career’ at all – it’s a convenient and necessary way of making some extra cash so I can afford the MFA program at New York University. I’ve been accepted, but there’s no way I can pay. There’s something to be said for having a real job for a bit. What’s a writer going to write about if she hasn’t got a bit of real-world experience to base her writing on? Writing can’t be all imagination, it has to come from somewhere, and it has to breathe that life back into the reader. I suddenly wish I was back at my desk so I could write that one down – I’m on fire today!

  If I’m being honest, there is another reason I chose a job in a law office, a reason I’m not one hundred percent comfortable admitting, even to myself. The thing is, it’s all a bit whimsical, like dreams and pixie dust, isn’t it? Who actually becomes a writer? No one in the Charming family – my family. No one I know, in fact. Dreams are all very well, but when you’ve got bills to pay and food to buy, then they’re suddenly very useless indeed. My landlord isn’t going to accept my hopes and aspirations instead of rent. You have to be really, seriously good to be able to make a living out of following your dreams, and if you fail, then...

  Well, then you’re a failure. You’re also a dead weight on your family, and I have no desire to be either of those things.

  I’ve always known, from as far back as I can remember, that what I wanted to do with my life was tell stories, but at that age I had also wanted to be a koala bear and eat paste. Just because two of those dreams didn’t pan out, doesn’t make the third one a good idea. You’ve got to be practical about these things; you have to grow up.

  That’s what I kept saying to myself when I applied for a job at Brighton and Ellis. It’s a smart, ambitious law firm. It made sense for me to work here, even for a summer. My family didn’t have the kind of money I needed to go to graduate school at NYU. And us Charming sisters — we’ve always been the sort to fend for ourselves when it comes to these things.

  I remember filling in the form online, writing the cover letter. I made the words sing and pop off the page, the creativity flowing through my fingers even as I typed what was supposed to be a boring business letter.

  This isn’t what you’re supposed to do.

  The voice in my mind was small, but it was there.

  You always said you’d move to New York. Get your master’s degree. Teach. Write. No job back in Maryland. No boyfriend in DC. Nothing to tie you to this place or hold you back.

  I think back on it even now, tapping my pen against the Leymen deposition. The words in this document don’t pop or sing. But they do pay my rent.

  “Psst. Talisa. Come on. We need our drink.” Joanne winks at me.

  Unfortunately, the ‘drink’ that Joanne mentioned is just a trip to the water fountain. Like most of your high-end law firms, Brighton and Ellis frowns on alcohol in the workplace. Still, these drinks with Joanne are the highlight of my day, which gives some idea of just how tedious the rest of it is.

  “How are you settling in?” asks Joanne, a bubbly blonde a few years older than me.

  I just shrug. I’ve been at Brighton and Ellis for six weeks and, quite to my surprise, it turns out I have a natural aptitude for this work. But the fact that Joanne still considers me to be settling in after six weeks on the job tells a story. It’s not just about being good at the job, you need to fit in on some deeper level. No matter how good I am – and I am – I’m still a square peg being forced into a round hole, and no matter how much better I get at the job, I don’t think that’s ever going to change.

  “Have you met him yet?” Joanne
presses me.

  I roll my eyes, instantly knowing who she’s talking about. If there’s one element of working at Brighton and Ellis that irks me – though besides the expected level of boredom, it’s not such a bad job – then it’s my boss, Isaac Brighton. Not that I find him an unpleasant or offensive man to be around; on the contrary, I’ve never even met the man.

  “You know what my Mom says?”

  “I know some of the things she says,” replies Joanne. “I think you’ve asked me that question every day since you started working here, and she’s had something different to say every time.”

  “She has a saying for every occasion,” I say, a little coldly.

  “How convenient.”

  “She says,” I go on, unabashed by Joanne’s genial mockery, “‘It doesn’t matter what job you do, from cleaner to CEO, as long as you do your best.’”

  “She’s a lesson to us all,” says Joanne, with a sly smile.

  “I can’t abide people who reach a certain level of success and then just sit back on their ass and let everyone else earn their ridiculous salary for them,” I explain. “How is it possible I’ve never met the man I work for? Because he never goes near his own office, that’s how. We’d have to move the office closer to the golf course to see him. And even then, he’d probably just pop in between holes. The man never does any work!”

  Joanne shakes her head. “I’m not really sure about that, Talisa. I’ve worked here for a while now and I’ve always found him to be...”

  “It’s entitlement.” I’m not really listening to Joanne.

  Joanne again pulls a face and looks about to put me straight, but instead the words die on her tongue unsaid, as she stares at something behind me.

  I turn around and immediately understand why Joanne stopped – it’s the Diet Coke Man.

  Since my arrival in the office six weeks ago, the only thing I look forward to in the working day (besides drinks with Joanne) is the Diet Coke man wandering through to the vending machine, buying a drink, and wandering back. I don’t know where he comes from or where he goes back to, but watching him is the highlight of my day. I do know that this sounds little bit creepy and very hypocritical. But, if a man in the office was looking forward to watching me pass every day, leering at my backside, or indulging in fantasies about what he might like to do to me across the desk when no one was about, then I might be incensed. But this is different, because...