Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby

by Julia Kent

  I try to think about anything but sex with Steve.

  And babies.

  * * *

  Declan

  * * *

  The Ice Bar isn’t my first choice for grabbing a drink with Andrew, but it’ll do.

  Besides, it gives me a chance to scope out the coffee offerings at The Fort. So far, Anterdec has refused to give Grind It Fresh! the exclusive coffee contract for the entire operation, but I’m working on my little bro. Consumer testing shows our product is superior, his own wife loves our coffee, so I know the only reason he’s holding out on me is ego.

  And knowing Andrew, that’s one hell of a big reason.

  “Shannon pregnant yet?” he asks, drinking pisco out of an ice shot glass.

  “No. You know that. Amanda’s over at our place. I saw period sweatpants on Shannon’s chair in the bedroom and the grocery delivery service brought nothing but sweet and salty junk food, so...”

  “Right. Glad I’m not you.” He sucks down his shot and knocks the glass on the bar lightly, the bartender doing a long pour instantly.

  “Not me? Why?”

  “Going home to all that estrogen.”

  “Half of it is your wife’s!”

  He nods as he sips. “That’s why I’m glad I’m not you. I know how bad it can get. When you walk in the door at home, you’ll want to hold your breath. Estrogen dominance can have serious health consequences.”

  I throw a coaster at him.

  “Hey! Cut it out.” The chair is ice cold and smooth. My balls crawl up. Normally, I ignore it, but Shannon’s incessant talk about fertility makes me remember that cold is good for sperm. Heat destroys them. Suffering builds character and, apparently, it builds sperm, too.

  A year or so ago, Anterdec added an optional coat service in response to women who complained about the cold here at the ice bar. Men then complained about the coats, citing nipple viewing as one of the three key features in decor. The coats covered the women’s chests and suddenly male attendance dropped thirteen percent.

  “Got rid of the coats, huh?”

  He shrugs. “It wasn’t just the nipple thing. Someone got lice from a hood.”

  I shudder. “Oh, the glamour of running a hospitality chain.”

  “You’re the one having a kid. Think about all the head shaving and nit picking you have ahead of you.”

  “That’s what other people are for. You hire them and they do that for you. Like a night nurse or a nanny.”

  He’s looking at the liquor on the shelf behind the bartender, but suddenly turns toward me. “Shannon’s letting you do that?”

  “Do what? And Shannon doesn’t let me do anything. I do what I want.”

  “Sure, bro. Keep saying that enough and maybe it’ll come true in your dreams. There is no way Shannon will want night nurses and nannies.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Amanda told me.”

  “You and Amanda talked about Shannon and… nannies?”

  “The topic came up.”

  “How?”

  “When Amanda and I were discussing having kids.”

  “Already?”

  “Remember, man–she’s really hot to have one. Baby fever has kicked in.”

  “Bullshit. I think your competitive streak has kicked in. Amanda’s not ready for kids.”

  “How do you know?”

  Two can play this game. “Shannon told me.”

  “You two talk about us?”

  The staredown begins.

  He breaks first. “Amanda told me there’s no way she wants her kids–our kids–being ‘raised’ by nannies and night nurses. And she said Shannon would feel the same way.” He takes another sip. “Does she?”

  “Does she what?”

  “Feel the same way?”

  “No! Of course not. She’s perfectly fine with having the comforts of whatever staff we need to hire so life can proceed smoothly.”

  “You’re having a baby, Dec. Or trying to, at least. Nothing about that process is smooth.”

  “Just because other people can’t get their act together as parents doesn’t mean we can’t,” I explain. “There is no process that can’t be project managed into a well-oiled machine, babies included.”

  Andrew snorts. “You really believe that.”

  “A baby is like a disruptive new technology. But our first deliverable is still eight months to a year away. That leaves us plenty of time to update our practices and diversify into new areas. Find the best people, incentivize them, and keep them in their swim lanes.”

  I’m getting major raised eyebrows here.

  “Optimization protocols, testing, fine tuning, and putting together the right team is all it takes. Drill down to the essentials, find people who are the absolute best at what we need, and that’s it–we build a life based on optimal outcomes.”

  “You sound like you’re making a robotic dog, Dec. Not a human.”

  “This baby will have a hands-on father. Plenty of love. And with a mother like Shannon, how could we go wrong?” Mother. Calling Shannon a mother does something to my gut. A tug, hard and emotional, destabilizes me for a second.

  “That’s all good. Dad sure was about as hands off as you can get.”

  “But Mom wasn’t.”

  “No,” he says quietly. “She wasn’t.”

  “We still had nannies. Coaches. Mom told me they used a night nurse to teach you to sleep through the night.”

  “She did?”

  I nod. “Said you were the stubborn one. Terry and I were trained easily.”

  “Trained? There goes the dog talk.”

  A tap on my shoulder makes me jump. I turn around to find Dave standing there, face impassive, beard making him look grim.

  “Here.” He hands me a folder.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “You weren’t answering your phone. I tracked you down.”

  “How?”

  Dave points to Andrew. “His assistant, Gina, has an app on his phone that tracks him. She helped me find you both.”

  “Gina tracks you?” I ask Andrew, agog.

  He shrugs. “It’s great for when I forget shit.”

  “Like charging your phone,” Dave says, looking at me while he says it.

  I frown. I pull out my phone.

  Dead.

  “Here,” he says, handing me a small, slim external battery with a charging cord attached. “We’ll make sure you have this on you at all times.”

  “We will?” I take it and plug my dead phone it, the screen showing the paused icon that means it’s unusable for a minute or so before minimal charge is in place.

  “You should.”

  He’s right.

  “Grace never did any of this,” I say.

  “I’m not Grace.”

  “I noticed.” This is a crossroads. As Dave opens the folder, showing a contract that I had assumed wasn’t coming through today, and that is extremely important, I realize I can draw a boundary and establish dominance, or I can let Dave show me how he does the job and make flexible decisions based on the needs of the moment.

  Dave’s topping from the bottom right now, so to speak.

  In purely business terms, of course.

  “How’s the new job working for you?” I ask him, offering a seat next to me. Andrew’s met Dave before, mostly when Amanda’s dragged him into the store for her favorite breve latte. No need for introductions.

  “It’s fine, but my boss is a Luddite,” he says, making Andrew damn near snort his fresh pisco up his nose.

  “Luddite? I don’t object to using technology. I just don’t have time to learn and adapt to it.”

  “Then excuse me. I was wrong.”

  I nod, acknowledging his mistake.

  “You’re just plain lazy.”

  Andrew’s about to lose his nasal passages at this point.

  “Look, Dave. We need to talk about your attitude. Work performance is great. Bedside manner? Not so much. Yo
u’re a little aggressive.”

  “I’m not a doctor, Declan, so bedside manner doesn’t count. I’m a straight shooter.”

  “Could you miss the target occasionally? I need less friction with my right-hand person.”

  “Fine. Boss wants to be handled with kid gloves. Fragile ego.”

  Andrew smiles at Dave. “I really, really like you.”

  My phone buzzes as it restarts. Text from HR.

  We have a paperwork snag with David Amari’s hiring forms. Can you call? Mindy, my HR director, says.

  The music in the bar picks up. I can’t. Text what you need.

  She replies: This is awkward, but some health insurance paperwork and his birth certificate say he’s female. It’s a glitch, but we can’t process benefits until it’s cleared.

  He’s right here with me. I’ll talk to him and we can fix it in the morning, I answer.

  Just have him contact us, please, Declan.

  Will do.

  Andrew claps his hand on my shoulder and slides carefully off the ice stool. “I need to go check out some inventory issues in the back. We’re in the probationary period with a new olive supplier. So far, so good, and we expect to use them for every property in North America. Back in a minute.” Dave’s next to me, putting the paperwork away and getting ready to go.

  “Dave, there’s an HR issue with your hiring.”

  “Fired already?”

  “No,” I say, laughing. “But somewhere in your paperwork, you’ve been listed as female. Says it’s even on your birth certificate. Hell of a glitch, huh?”

  He goes completely serious. Not one pore twitches.

  “You just need to let Mindy in HR know it’s a mistake. They might need to re-copy your birth certificate.”

  “It’s not a mistake.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “You heard me. It’s not a mistake.”

  “Well, uh–it has to be.” I gesture at him. “You’re clearly all male.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Which is it?”

  “Both.”

  “Look, Dave, if this is some kind of riddle–”

  “I was born female. I’m now male. Does that clear it up for you?”

  “Oh.”

  “Is this going to be a problem? Because I’ll quit on the spot if it is.”

  “No. No problem.”

  “You sure? I don’t have any tolerance for bullshit, Declan. I am who I am. My paperwork is only about my history. It has nothing to do with the present.” Underneath the stoic bravado, I see a guy who is ripshit pissed. I believe him when he says he’ll walk. I believe him when he says his past is his past.

  And I believe him when he says this can’t be a problem.

  “I care about competence. You have that in spades. I assume you know how to handle this with HR?”

  “I do.”

  “Then do it. Make the issue go away.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Then do what you can, and any help I can provide, just call me.”

  The stoic shield drops, slightly. “Good.”

  “Good,” I echo back.

  “Bye,” he says, marching straight for the door, back straight, broad shoulders carrying a load I can’t fathom.

  “That was abrupt,” Andrew says as he returns.

  “Dave’s a guy of few words.”

  “I caught that.” His brow drops. “You okay?”

  “Do I look like I’m not?”

  “You’re not exactly the most emotional guy, Dec. But you seem bothered.”

  “Tired. I’m just tired.” I throw on my coat. “I’m headed home.”

  We hug. I blame Shannon. She started the ritual and now I do it, too.

  Dave’s revelation shouldn’t rattle me, but on some level it does. Not the facts themselves. His life is his own to lead. It’s the fear I saw in him, his eyes going to a dark place inside I can’t understand. Nothing about what he said back there changes my opinion of his work. I don’t know the guy well enough to have an opinion about him personally.

  But those eyes are going to haunt me for a good long time.

  As I set out for home, the unfamiliarity makes me want the long walk even more. I need more change in my life. It shakes me up, makes me more resilient. People get too comfortable, too easily, if they don’t pay attention. It’s not just about taking life for granted. It’s about not seeing all the potential in the everyday.

  Building our coffee chain is a joint effort. Shannon and I are a team. Like making a baby, we both have something to bring to the table, the combined effort more powerful than our individual work. Seeking out entirely new experiences to challenge myself isn’t going to be enough to make a huge difference in my life, but growth, like change, is a constant.

  I hope.

  And tonight just proved one more constant:

  I don’t need to seek out new challenges.

  Lately, they seek me.

  Chapter 8

  Shannon

  The pregnancy test is like my mother. It’s always there, waiting to pass judgment. Sometimes it tells you what you want to hear.

  And sometimes you want to hurl it into the trash and pretend it doesn’t exist.

  Three days ago, I was in my period pants, chowing through junk food, waiting for Aunt Flo to arrive and become the houseguest from hell for five days.

  But so far, she’s no-showed.

  I can’t get my hopes up. I just can’t. Living like this month by month–and this is only month two–is going to shred me.

  So I am packing my purse with tampons, wearing a white skirt, and going to work.

  Dec’s already at the office. My head hurts a little and my body aches, so maybe it’s only a matter of time before the biochemical dam of hormones in me releases and washes my womb out.

  The alternative is more appealing, but hoping I’m pregnant is like walking around holding my breath. Not okay.

  Dec uses a car service to get to the Grind It Fresh! headquarters in Fort Point, but I prefer to walk. If I were going to the office at five a.m. like he did this morning, I’d have a different approach, but I’m not a workaholic. Don’t get me wrong: I love my job. I love our company.

  I also like living.

  The streets are thronged with people coming out of South Station, peeling off to State Street, Congress Street, grabbing cabs and walking with purpose. It’s almost eight a.m. and this is no time of day for casual meandering. You have goals if you’re click-clacking along on the uneven pavement, walking past the fake Boston Tea Party ship, ignoring the water of the harbor that chops up in waves against rotted piers from old bridges that have been replaced by steel and determination.

  I rush along, not because I’m in a hurry, but because human waves of mass movement act remarkably like ocean water. Move along with it. Resistance is futile. I can relax at the office.

  Street people dot the walk, always catching my eye, ever tugging at my heart. Declan doesn’t even see them, it seems, but I can’t help it. From babies in carriages to students kissing on a park bench to an unwashed man with a long, messy beard and a mangy dog, begging for spare change, the walk to the office is a sensory stew for me. Sight, scent, sound, touch–everything but taste.

  That gets covered as I walk into the storefront. Dave’s there, ready with my morning latte.

  “You okay?” he asks, frowning.

  “Huh?”

  “You look peaked.” He says the word in two syllables. PEE-ked.

  “Peaked? Dave, are you secretly a ninety-two year old woman wearing a plastic head scarf to protect your hair? Who says peaked?”

  He pales slightly and flinches, then turns away. “Did Declan say something to you?”

  “About what?” I’m honestly baffled.

  He gruffly says, “Nothing,” one shoulder going up.

  I’ve offended him, and I have no idea why, but he’s given me yet another clue: I am definitely PMSing if I’m upsetting him that much.
<
br />   “Thanks,” I say, fighting instinct as I go up in the elevator to the fifth floor. Mumbled words, coming in a one-way conversational pattern, leak out from behind Declan’s closed door. I know he’s working on supply issues from Indonesia and Mauritania, so it’s anyone’s guess which time zone he’s talking to.

  We designed our shared work space to be like a suite with our two offices, a galley kitchen, and a small dining area all opening off a common lounge. Separate bathrooms with showers. But we have one major rule: a closed door means no interruptions. My doorknob clicks with a finality that makes me sigh with relief.

  The coffee helps, too.

  Deep in my computer bag, there is a package with two pregnancy tests in it. I can’t bring myself to look. So I don’t.

  A tickle in the back of my throat makes me sip the coffee, but a niggling fear slips in. That’s the feeling I get before coming down with something. Half the downstairs coffee shop staff has strep.

  Oh, no.

  The latte instantly soothes my throat, but not my worry. I’m staring at a pile of paperwork on my desk, my email has triple the amount, and I owe a ton of people quick phone calls or return emails. Approvals for major purchasing decisions have backed up. When Dec and I decided I’d be better at operations and he’d be better with the networking and business negotiation, I knew my life would revolve around thousands of small decisions that add up to bigger ones. Part of my job now is training and teaching people I delegate to. We’re still on-boarding new employees, and it’s a terrible time to try to have a baby, but when is the perfect time?

  It’s a paradox. There is no such time.

  Turning on my desktop, I reposition the two enormous screens and sip more coffee. No amount of caffeine is going to kick this exhaustion. My couch looks like a bed right now, and my eyeballs are swimming in my sockets. How can I be so exhausted, so early?

  We’re here, says a small voice in my head, the image of the pregnancy test box plastering itself in my consciousness like a well-lit billboard on a dark night.

  “No way. I’m not getting my hopes up,” I mutter as I take a sip of coffee, which goes sour in my stomach. Building a company together is tiring. I’m run down. My period is just a few days late.