Pretending She’s Mine

by Paige, Violet

  Pretending She’s Mine

  Violet Paige

  Copyright © 2018 by Violet Paige

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Parts of this story were previously published as the short story “Tempted” by Violet Paige.

  Contents

  Keep in touch with Violet

  Prologue

  1. Asher

  2. Journey

  3. Asher

  4. Journey

  5. Asher

  6. Journey

  7. Asher

  8. Journey

  9. Asher

  10. Journey

  11. Asher

  12. Journey

  13. Asher

  14. Journey

  15. Journey

  16. Asher

  17. Journey

  18. Asher

  19. Journey

  20. Asher

  21. Journey

  22. Asher

  Epilogue

  Keep in touch with Violet

  Keep in touch with Violet

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  Prologue

  There were many ways I had imagined fatherhood. It was a rite of passage. A milestone in a man’s life that cemented the beginning of a new chapter. A way for him to secure his legacy. Pass on the best elements of his gene pool.

  Part of me was old-fashioned. I blamed the military training and the years as a Seal for that rigidness in my personality. There were steps a man was supposed to take. Plans he was supposed to make before becoming a father. I was the kind of man who did things the right way.

  The irony of what I now faced wasn’t lost on me.

  I envisioned becoming a parent with the woman I loved. Mainly, the woman sleeping next to me. A woman I had bought a ring for. Planned a proposal for. Fallen for in a way I didn’t know I was capable of.

  But this? Finding out I was a father like this? No. I shook my head. It was all wrong.

  I was supposed to sit on the edge of the bed while we waited for the results on a little plastic stick. It was something we were supposed to do together. Plan it. Think about it. Talk about it. Not like this. Never like this.

  Where was the gold band on my left hand? When had the vows been made? Where was the house and the savings plan? Those were the values drilled into me. Those were the things a man with honor and character did before he became a father. A man was supposed to provide. He was supposed to protect his family. Yeah, it was old-fashioned as hell, but that’s who I was.

  It was on me. I had done this. I had played Russian Roulette like a rookie, thinking it wouldn’t catch up to me. It looked like it finally had.

  I thought about what had led to this moment. I thought about the decisions I had made when I was in the darkest place in my life. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t that man any more. I had to pay for my sins. Or at least in this case, own them.

  I had drowned out the nightmares with women. Night after night. One woman after the next. Beautiful women. Smart women. Women eager to help a soldier forget his demons for a few hours. They weren’t women I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Or even women I wanted to date. It was mutual. It was plain and simple sex for the sake of fucking. Two people satisfying a need.

  A need that couldn’t be quenched any other way. I had tried drinking. I had tried running and lifting weights. They didn’t do what sex did for me. Hell, nothing did what sex did.

  It was never about making a baby. My baby.

  Maybe if I hadn’t been so adamant that I didn’t need counseling, I would have found another way. Or if I hadn’t told everyone who asked if I was all right to fuck off, things would be different. I came home from that last deployment determined to erase the horror on my own. To move on. To build a new career. It took a few months of wandering in the murky abyss to get my shit together.

  I ran my hands through my hair. Journey sighed beside me, nuzzling against my shoulder. The sheet rose and fell with her soft breaths. Her dark blond hair outlined her face. It hit me then that this was the last time for a while she’d sleep peacefully.

  I wanted to study her face. Memorize every beautiful line of her body. Every curve. Every sound she made while she slept. Was that possible? Could I commit to memory everything about the woman I loved in such a short time?

  But the fear that she would awaken and read the expression on my face, hit me violently and I knew what I had to do. I had to stop stalling.

  I eased out of the bed, placing one foot on the floor, followed by another. I stretched my tall frame as she instinctively tucked my pillow against her breast, never opening her eyes. She did the same thing every morning when I climbed out of bed. Although, this morning I knew it was different.

  I knew I was getting ready to shatter everything we had into unrecognizable fragments. Fragments so small they’d become dust and ashes. Remnants of the trust she had in me.

  I held the phone in my hand, tapping the button to close the screen. I had used two independent DNA testing agencies. The results were the same for both. Both reports had landed in my inbox last night, just as promised. The forty-eight-hour guarantee or my money back was something they touted. Then, I thought it was worth the extra expense. In this moment, I wished I had put it off longer. Sent the analysis off to a thirty-day lab instead. Results I had wanted two days ago, were now upending my life.

  The reports were clear. There was no need for a second test, or a third opinion. The girl was mine. I had a daughter. A two-year old who needed me. A little girl whose mother had abandoned her to a set of elderly grandparents ill-equipped to take on a toddler.

  They reached out to me after months of trying to raise the girl on their own. They had to be desperate to contact me. I knew it was the last thing they wanted, but reality had set in. They needed help. The kind of help that meant swallowing their pride and doing the one thing their daughter demanded they never do—contact the man listed on the birth certificate. Asher Westbrook.

  I dressed quickly and grabbed my gun from the bedside table, tucking it against the small of my back. I closed the door to Journey’s room behind me. I passed her house manager in the hallway.

  “Mr. Westbrook.” She nodded, pressing her lips together. Her hair was pulled in a tight bun.

  “Claudia.” I hurried past her.

  “Is Miss Tessier awake?” she asked. She held a large tablet in her hand, scrolling through the day’s itinerary I was sure.

  I stopped at the top of the staircase. “No. She’s not. Let her sleep.” My voice was terse.

  “But she has that photoshoot this afternoon.”

  “And she won’t be happy if you wake her up early.”

  Claudia huffed. “All right. I’ll give her another hour. But that’s it.”

  I started down the stairs. I had to be out of the house before Journey started looking for me. I didn’t have time to argue with Claudia about Journey’s schedule. It was something we seldom agreed upon anyway. My role as her bodyguard was always in direct opposition to how Claudia ran the house and the schedule on the property.

  I rushed through the kitchen, narrowly bumping into the chef.

  “Would y
ou like an omelet this morning, Asher?” Sasha blocked my exit. “I can have it ready for you in fifteen minutes.” She was busy, tying an apron around her waist.

  “No. No thank you. Not this morning.”

  “Are you going to take the coffee up to Journey?”

  I shook my head. I stood in the doorway to the herb garden. On the other side was the garage and my car. It was the last hurdle.

  “No,” I answered, closing the door on my way out.

  It was better this way.

  One day she might understand. One day she might forgive me.

  One

  Asher

  Two Years Later

  The coffee was hot. Too damn hot. I abandoned it on my kitchen counter. I pulled up my itinerary, scrolling through today’s meetings.

  There wasn’t room to fucking breathe today.

  It was my own creation. My own triumph. And days like today, my own prison.

  My dark hair was still damp from the shower. I’d already run five miles on the treadmill before sunup.

  The first meeting on the schedule was with acquisitions. I was in buying mode. Snatching up as many of the small security companies that I could get my hands on. It was the quickest way to expand without spending a fortune on infrastructure development. I had thirty minutes to read the team’s report on the ten companies we were targeting. I’d choose the top three and hope we landed one.

  My phone beeped. It was my assistant Mickey. She called at 8:30 every morning, like clockwork. She was punctual and meticulous. I trusted her about as much as I trusted anyone. She was the first person I hired when I started Westbrook Securities.

  “Yes?” I held the phone to my ear.

  “Good morning, Mr. Westbrook.” Her voice was warm, but firm.

  “Mickey. What do you have for me?”

  “I synced today’s schedule. Are there any changes? Should I add anything for you?” she asked.

  “No. Nothing was missed.” It never was.

  “Ok. I’ll confirm all your meetings and upload the finalized version for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  I sat on the couch. The TV ran in the background. The chatter of the broadcasters made my penthouse feel a little less sterile. A little less isolated.

  It was bound to feel that way. Everything inside was made of steel and reinforced glass. It was a fortress. I had personally supervised the installation of Westbrook Securities’ latest tech. It was impenetrable. I used the penthouse to test all our prototypes. If it didn’t meet my standards, it never moved beyond research and development.

  I glanced at the screen as the anchors ran through back-to-school hacks for parents. They clutched cups of coffee and grinned, showing off their white teeth. I muted the TV.

  “Is there anything else, sir?” She asked the same questions each morning. It wasn’t a mandatory script, but Mickey knew I liked consistency. I valued productive habits. I admired routines and people I could count on.

  “There aren’t room for adjustments, so if something pops up today, you’ll need to fit it in later. You’ve done an excellent job of managing my time today, as usual.” It was a compliment.

  “Of course, Mr. Westbrook. There will be no changes. The schedule is locked.”

  “You have the information on Avajean’s return?” I pressed. I had already asked yesterday and the day before, but when it came to my daughter I would ask a hundred times to make sure every detail was secure.

  “Yes, I spoke with her grandparents last night, again, and she will be on the early flight back to New York first thing tomorrow. She has a first-class ticket.”

  “The nanny is sitting with her?”

  “Of course. Always, sir. I bought two tickets together.”

  I twisted my lips together. I considered how much I disliked this arrangement. Four times a year I sent my daughter to visit her grandparents in Valencia. Part of the agreement was that she didn’t travel without, Nicole, the nanny I hired the minute I had taken custody. The grandparents had pushed back, but there wasn’t much they could do. I had full custody and it was my decision. Avajean traveled with the person I trusted, or she wouldn’t travel at all.

  Gene and Shelly were good people. I had gotten to known them through bits and pieces of conversations that revolved around their granddaughter. It didn’t change the circumstances. Their daughter had walked out and never returned. Avajean didn’t have a mother. I was the one left trying to navigate single parenting. Over the past two years I had built a securities empire, while managing fatherhood. I seemed to succeed at one more than the other.

  “I think I’ll give Nicole a call once I know everyone is awake on the west coast. I don’t know that she would appreciate a 5:30am call.”

  “I’m sure they’d love to hear from you, no matter what time you called, sir.” Mickey could get away with lies like that because of the kind tone in her voice. Anyone else would sound flat and fake.

  I chuckled. “Thanks, Mickey. I’ll see you in the office in an hour.” I ended the call and tossed the phone on the coffee table.

  I walked to the doorway of the master suite. The brunette from last night was tangled in my sheets. Her long legs were toned. Her toenails painted red.

  Savannah Green and I met for drinks last night in the lobby of my building, under the guise of her wanting a marketing contract. She claimed to be an expert in online data. She threw out snappy catch phrases like SEO and high CPC returns. I drank bourbon and listened, knowing full well her only intention was to make it upstairs to my bed.

  Serious businesswomen didn’t meet clients at 9:00 pm wearing fuck-me heels and mini-skirts. The way her boobs spilled out of her top didn’t give her much professional credit either. I took her cues and after two drinks took her to the penthouse.

  There wasn’t going to be a contract. I didn’t do business with women I slept with. Savannah didn’t believe me. She wanted to change my mind with her body. Westbrook Securities didn’t do business like that.

  Her eyes opened. She smiled like a satisfied cat.

  “Good morning,” she purred.

  “Good morning.” I watched her from across the room. “Should I have a car take you back to your place?” I offered.

  She pouted. “I thought we could have breakfast together.”

  “I already had coffee. I could bring you a cup.”

  She nodded. “That sounds lovely. Would you?”

  “Sure. There are towels in the cabinet next to the shower. Why don’t you get ready and I can drop you off on my way to the office?”

  “Want to join me?” Her long legs slid from the sheets and she strutted in front of me, naked and proud of her physique.

  “I’ll get the coffee, Savannah.”

  “Want to have dinner at my place tonight?” she asked. Her fingertips rested against the doorframe. “I think it might be hard to top what we did last night, but I’d like to try. Are you up for the challenge?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t date. I didn’t see women more than once. I had a rule about getting attached, or letting anyone into our lives.

  “I’m afraid not. My daughter will be here bright and early tomorrow. I don’t do sleepovers, Savannah. Enjoy the shower.”

  I turned for the kitchen, pausing for a second. Wondering if I should go into greater detail about my situation with Avajean. Questioning my tactics. I realized when I talked to women about Avajean, they had one of two reactions: complete adoration for the single dad burden I carried, or fear that they were going to be trapped in an insta-family. I couldn’t tell what type of woman Savannah was, and it didn’t matter. The one-night rule kept me from having to worry about it.

  As I strolled through the living room to retrieve her cup of coffee my eyes fell to the TV. I caught a glimpse of the breaking news banner flashing on the screen. There was a special report. I took another step toward the kitchen, but stopped.

  I reached for the remote, increasing the volume. I tried to listen to each word. Confused. Numb
ed with shock. The buzzing that had started in my ears muffled the sound of the anchors’ voices.

  I saw the pictures. The chaos. Flashing lights and sirens blaring. First responders were running back and forth behind the reporter on the scene. I stood there, watching it unfold.

  “Actress Journey Tessier has been rushed to L.A.’s Saint Simmons Medical Center. Authorities say her attacker is still on the loose and should be considered armed and dangerous. We are waiting for Tessier’s spokesperson to update us on her condition. We can confirm she was shot this morning as she exited her gym in Hollywood. Witnesses at the scene say there was blood, and the beloved actress was unconscious.

  “There is a second victim in the attack. We’re awaiting details while this story develops. Miss Tessier was recently nominated as Best Actress for her role in Under Water Love. We will bring you news of her condition as soon as our reporter at the scene has more information.”

  I blinked, scanning the news scroll. I saw her name. I saw the blood splatters on the sidewalk. I heard what they said, but putting the words and the scenes together was like trying to make the opposite ends of magnets meet. Everything in me wanted to reject them.

  “Ash, baby. I forgot to get the towel.” I heard Savannah call for me from the bathroom. Her voice felt far away as if she were in a tunnel.

  I swallowed hard. My chest tightened. I picked up my phone and pressed for Mickey’s number.

  “Sir? Did I forget something?”