Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby

by Julia Kent

  It always is.

  “Still not an apology,” Declan says, voice low, each word a distinct, clipped sound, a guillotine blade being dropped.

  “It absolutely is,” Paul argues, those hands on his chest changing shape, one dropping, the presence of a single palm now signaling his own offense. Sympathy floods me, the feeling unorthodox and shocking. I feel bad for him. He doesn’t understand what he’s done.

  Not only does he not care about hurting other people, he doesn’t understand he’s doing it.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Declan says, his arm moving, hand and wrist a flick of dismissal. Declan gets it. “We’re done.”

  Paul makes a huffing sound of outrage. “Because your wife pretended to be someone else in your store downstairs?”

  “Because you were a dick to my staff,” Declan shoots back.

  “You confuse high standards with being a dick,” Paul counters. Behind him, I see Dave in the doorway, mouthing the words You okay?

  I just shrug. Because yes, I’m fine. I mean, Declan’s right here. But am I okay?

  I don’t know.

  “Don’t call us, Paul. We’ll call you.” Declan turns me away from the man, our backs the final insult. That’s it. No conflict. When you have all the power, you don’t need to use it.

  “I’ll see you out,” Dave says from behind us, his voice remarkably cheery. Buoyant, even. For a grousing anarcho-primitivist curmudgeon, he sure can code-shift quickly. “Our barista downstairs, Andres, even made your favorite drink in a to-go cup.”

  Paul’s protests fall on deaf ears as Declan firmly brings me into the lounge between our offices and quietly, effortlessly closes the door. A slow head shake and somber body language greets me. Normally fierce when he’s defending me, Declan’s behavior rolls out second by second, deepening to something gravid and mournful.

  “Good riddance to egotistical rubbish,” I chirp, trying to lighten the mood.

  “You deal with that crap all the time, don’t you?” he says slowly, chin lifting up, eyes meeting mine with military precision. They’re blazing green, wide with fury, the flash of emotion intense and bright like a shooting star.

  “Guys like that? Sure. I mean, Steve was like that.”

  “Right.” His finger traces a line along the seam of the leather couch, his footsteps languid. Pensive and deep in thought, yet clearly brimming with emotion, Declan becomes an enigma.

  I can’t stop watching.

  “But you deal with men who dismiss you. Minimize you. Turn you into whatever stereotype they have in their mind before you even get a chance. And even that–‘get a chance.’ Get a chance to prove yourself, to display knowledge, to provide insight. You have to prove yourself. It’s a given for you.”

  He’s plumbing hard doctrine here. I’m not sure what to say. When in doubt, go with the truth.

  Finding that truth isn’t so cut and dried, though.

  “Yes. I had to do it with you.”

  Wrong answer.

  The change in his body is extraordinary, his tightly controlled movements suddenly open and expansive. As he turns to face me, his shoulders drop, head tilts, eyes go soft with confusion.

  And disbelief.

  “With me?”

  “With you. When we first met.”

  “Finding you in the toilet stall with–”

  “Not then. In the meeting later that day. When we closed the mystery shopping deal between Consolidated Evalu-shop and Anterdec.”

  “I treated you with nothing but respect as a fellow business person.”

  “You called me Toilet Girl in front of my boss, your father, and your brother, Declan. That’s hardly ‘respect.’”

  A grin pulls at his lips. “I was surprised it was you! That the same woman I’d met that morning at the bagel store, with her hand down a toilet and the ends of her hair wet, was suddenly in front of me at my own company’s table. I’d thought about you all day, and...” He sighs. “You know the rest.”

  “I do.” I reach for his hand with my own left one, intentionally, so our wedding rings will connect. “But you asked me about proving myself in business. I’m being honest.”

  “You’re saying I’m like him?” He points to the door, referencing Paul. “I reject that. Categorically.”

  “I never said that, Declan.”

  “But when you’re working with men, you start from the assumption that you have to prove yourself?”

  “Not quite. It’s more that when I work with men, I start with the assumption that they think I have to prove myself.”

  “Jesus.”

  “He, remarkably, doesn’t have conditions regarding me.”

  “Sounds like he’s the only guy who doesn’t. Other than your husband.”

  “You have plenty of conditions I have to meet,” I reply with a smile. “Fortunately, they’re all conditions I enjoy.”

  “I don’t like this,” he says, troubled. “I don’t like the way that guy treated you just now. I don’t like the idea that you walk into a business meeting with baggage no man has to carry. I don’t like the idea that women come into business situations with me and assume I have a different set of standards for them than I do for a man.”

  “It’s reality.”

  “Then we need to change reality.”

  I go silent. I don’t say it, but I think to myself how odd this is. I’ve never thought of Declan as an idealist. Or naïve.

  It’s both cute and bizarre.

  Mostly bizarre.

  Our phones buzz simultaneously as my eyes graze over the couch where, just fifteen minutes or so ago, we were close to making love.

  “It’s Dave,” we say in unison.

  Tap tap tap.

  “Come in,” I call out, beating Declan to the punch.

  Dave enters, eyes wary but bold. “Got rid of him. He’s an ass. Always has been.”

  “Always?” Declan perks up, studying Dave with renewed interest. “What do you mean, ‘always’?”

  “He’s been in here on and off for the last few months. Asking questions about our milk and cream. I figured out quickly who he was. Business development for a dairy-farming conglomerate. Mr. Big Deal. Dime-a-dozen guy in business school.”

  “You went to business school?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Where?”

  “Wharton.”

  “Nice. What did you do there?”

  “Experienced a deep existential crisis. Developed an interest in agriculture. Rejected corporatism.”

  “The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  “They are when you spend seven months living in a redwood to protect it.”

  “THAT kind of ‘interest in agriculture.’”

  “Right.”

  “You get arrested for that?”

  “Several times.”

  “Ever finish your MBA?”

  “I got a master’s degree in a different subject.”

  “Which is...?”

  “Folklore.”

  “What the hell do you do with a graduate degree in folklore?”

  Dave smirks. “You work as a barista and make artisanal chocolate in your bathtub.”

  Declan makes a half-scoff, half-laugh sound that I’ve never heard before.

  “Look, Shannon told me about your assistant problems,” Dave begins.

  “My what?”

  “You need to get a handle on it. I found some apps that can help.”

  “I don’t need apps. I need a competent, capable professional who can perform at the executive level.”

  “What’s stopping you from hiring one?” Dave challenges.

  I snort.

  “You said you have apps?” Just as Declan asks Dave that question, my phone buzzes again. It’s Amanda.

  Lunch? her text reads. Thursday?

  My calendar app says I have an appointment with a paper cup supplier.

  Sorry, I text back. Paper cups are more important than you.

  As long as I’m n
ot bumped by tampon machines, I’ll still be your BFF, she responds.

  I don’t tell her Friday is the tampon machine meeting.

  How about Saturday? Get together with the guys? I ask. Declan and Andrew see each other regularly at the gym, but we don’t get many nights out with other couples.

  Nope. Next Wednesday? she texts back.

  How about next Saturday? I ask.

  My period is due in nine days. She knows this. Or, at least, she should know this. Since Declan and I started trying, it’s all I’ve been fixated on. If I get my period on Wednesday, then I’ll be a weeping mess.

  By next Saturday, though, I should be recovered.

  Mostly.

  Let me check with Andrew. Hang on, she says. I wait.

  Sure, she types back.

  Where? Your new house? Yes, I’m inviting us over. Sisters-in-law can do that. As a wedding present, Andrew bought the McCormick family estate in Weston, Massachusetts. Declan bought me a nationwide coffee chain. These guys are subtle.

  Fine. We have the wine. You bring the sushi, she orders.

  If I’m pregnant, I won’t be able to eat sashimi. I’ll have to stick to cooked fish. No wine. Every decision in my life takes on a completely new meaning when I consider pregnancy. My hand flutters to my belly as Dec and Dave talk shop over Declan’s smartphone screen. I hear words like “concierge” and “legal research” and “efficiency protocols” and “third-party integration,” but all of it fades as blood rushes to my ears, pounding like a second heartbeat.

  A second heartbeat.

  Deal, I text back with hands that shake. A warm glow diffuses through me, pores tingling, my nipples suddenly hard and on alert. Flushed skin ripples along like I’ve turned on a motherboard, circuits connecting. I stand still, enjoying the sensation. Separated from meaning, it just is, a physiological response to some emotion I don’t understand.

  I like it.

  I like feeling so much.

  “What are you smiling about?” Declan asks, breaking his conversation with Dave. “You look...” His voice tapers off.

  “Joyful,” Dave interjects.

  “Joyful,” I repeat, almost on the edge of tears. Instead of crying, I straighten my shoulders and smile at them both. “That’s a good word.”

  Declan’s eyes lock with mine.

  Joyful it is.

  Chapter 4

  One day past Shannon’s expected cycle

  * * *

  Shannon

  * * *

  I slept with my hand on my belly all night, curled up around it like I’m cradling a priceless item. A fragile robin’s egg. A rare jewel.

  Declan’s balls.

  My eyes open, the sound of male slumber beside me so much a backdrop to my life that I don’t notice it most mornings. His warm body is next to me, curled on his right side, shoulder peeking out from under the covers. Declan needs a haircut, his hair longer than usual. Without an assistant to run his life, he’s forgetting those little details. A good wife would help him out. A good wife would schedule a haircut for him. A good wife would step in and take over.

  Screw that.

  Also, I like his hair this way. Wavy and rakish, it makes him feel a little less controlled. More dynamic and dangerous, like I’m sleeping with someone familiar yet new.

  A fullness in my lower torso brings me back to the reality that today is the day. We’re here. Yesterday, my period was due and it didn’t arrive. Day one of Babywatch begins. I should jump up and take the pregnancy test and get it out of the way. My bladder is screaming for relief. I should march into the bathroom and confidently face my future. I should make one single, simple move toward resolution. Information is power.

  Instead, I stare at the ceiling, inventorying my body for answers.

  Why? Why do I do this when the answer is a few steps away?

  I don’t know.

  Heaviness fills my limbs. My uterus feels like a polished, warm rock inside me. Declan makes a low, breathy sound, then turns over, wrapping one arm around my waist in sleep. The light pressure of his forearm against my bladder makes me wince, but I don’t move.

  We’re at the very edge of an abyss. The minute I know I’m pregnant, life changes.

  The reality is what it is.

  It’s the knowing that terrifies me.

  Eyes opening slowly, Dec looks at me, a sleepy, satisfied smile making his face a world of its own. “Morning,” he says, coming in for a quick kiss. “Did you test yet?”

  “No.” Tears come, small and bright.

  “What’s wrong? Did your period start?” A soothing hand begins to rub my elbow, as if he already knows the answer to a question I’m trying to hold back.

  “No.”

  He brightens more, long lashes closing over the tops of his cheeks as he kisses my shoulder. Our baby could have those beautiful green eyes.

  Our baby.

  “I’m just being emotional,” I say with a laugh, wiping the not-quite-tears from the corners of my eyes.

  “Maybe that’s a sign.”

  “Breast tenderness is a sign, too, Dec.”

  He takes that as an invitation, filling his hand with my loose breast under my pajama top. “Hmmm, let me see.”

  “How would you know if my breasts are tender?”

  “It will take a great deal of careful, detailed study, Shannon, but I’m dedicated.”

  I laugh, then wince. “My bladder is killing me.”

  “Go, then. Go do the test.” He slaps my ass playfully.

  “I’m scared.”

  “Scared of the test? It’s just pee.”

  “Scared of the answer.”

  “You changed your mind?”

  “No, no.” I sigh. “It’s just hitting me now. How big this is. We’re Declan and Shannon right now.” I turn on my side and face him, arm tucked under my head. “If I’m pregnant, we’ll never be just us.”

  “Isn’t that the point of having kids?”

  “It’s one of them. I want a family. I want to raise a child with you. I want all of that. At the same time, I’m afraid we’ll change.”

  “Of course we’ll change.”

  “Maybe you’ve made life too good for me,” I tell him, grasping at the right words to describe the feelings inside me. “I think this is your fault.”

  “For giving you too good a life?”

  “For loving me so well. I can’t imagine it being even better.”

  If I thought his smile was radiant before, he practically glows now, tenderness filling those hard features, showing me the man I have the privilege of knowing intimately every day of my life. This is the Declan no one else sees. This is the raw, real person who may have just fathered a child growing inside my body at this very moment.

  “I love you, Shannon. If this is all we ever have, it will be more than enough.” His hand flutters over my belly. “And if there is more, I’ll cherish more as much as I cherish you.”

  I cry. Of course I cry. Wouldn’t you?

  “Stop!” I gasp. “I’m going to pee the bed.”

  “So much for sharing my feelings with you,” he says, joking. Our kiss is sweet and hot, fueled by truth.

  But a larger truth is weighing heavily on me.

  My bladder.

  I climb out of bed and gingerly walk into the bathroom. The pregnancy test kit is on the counter. Dec leaves the bedroom, gloriously naked, his butt muscles a work of art as I watch him disappear down the hallway. We have a routine. He makes coffee. I shower first. Except today, it’s all different.

  Today, everything is different.

  I examine the pregnancy test box. Answers, it’s called. What a boring name. Sure, it’s true, but the neutrality of it is a little offensive. Some of the other names for these products are silly. This one is brutal in its honesty.

  Answers. I’m seeking answers, all right.

  Dec comes back, wrapping his arms around me from behind, his body hard and warm through the thin jersey cotton of my pajamas.
“Ready?” he whispers in my ear.

  “No. But...”

  I start to pull down my pants and sit on the toilet, but pause mid-movement and look at Dec. “Do you mind?” My arched eyebrows and pointed look at the door are meant to convey the message Get out.

  “Why? I’ve seen you pee before.”

  “You’ve never watched me pee before.” I frown. “Or have you? Is this one of those ‘getting to know you’ moments that comes after years of being together? Do you have some secret pee-watching fetish I don’t know about, Declan?”

  He doesn’t even blink as he glides with that Gene Kelly grace the man holds in every cell of his body, strong fingers wrapping around the doorknob, a twinkle in his moss-green eyes as he winks at me. “Bye, Shannon. See you in three minutes.” His eyes drop to the pregnancy test in my hand as he shuts the door.

  I prepare to pee alone.

  Or... maybe I’m not alone.

  I’ll find out in three minutes.

  And then I realize he didn’t technically answer me. Hmmm.

  Taking a pregnancy test is basically peeing on a stick. It’s not rocket science. You don’t need a degree in chemistry. You pull down your pants, sit on the toilet, and aim your stream at a little felt absorbent strip that performs some biochemical magic and in the end determines the course of the rest of your life.

  Not bad for an $11 box you can buy at any convenience store when picking up lottery tickets and a forty of beer in a brown paper bag.

  My hands shake as I tear open the box and find the instructions. They unfold like an old road map. Which is strangely appropriate. The test points you in the direction of your future, so... Maybe Rand McNally should come out with a line of pregnancy tests.

  In the end, the test itself is easy. I open the thin foil package, take out the long, slim device and point it down. The tip looks like a permanent marker without ink.

  Spreading my legs, I firmly hold the end of the pee stick and promptly urinate all over my hand, the edge of the bowl, the inside of my knee and, judging from the arc, part of New Hampshire.

  First morning urine is precious cargo. My Kegel muscles kick in and I halt midstream, panicking, my wet thighs making me slip slightly forward on the toilet seat, and–