The Baby Bargain_A Steamy Billionaire Romance

by Layla Valentine

  His frown deepened as he prepared to continue. “You can believe this next part or not, but it’s true: I knew, the second I arrived at the house, that he’d died. That I’d just missed him. Maybe it’s because the ranch was so much his that, without his presence, the entire property didn’t make sense. It was the same place, but it was no longer alive.

  “I sprinted inside, and was immediately greeted by Colin, my father’s long-time assistant. And he said…he said—”

  Ashton broke off, I could feel my body trembling, urging me to comfort him, but I knew I needed to hear out his story. That was the only peace I could give him right now.

  He continued, “Colin informed me that my father had died an hour before. I’d missed his last breaths by a single goddamn hour. Nobody but Colin was by my father’s side when he died. Can you imagine that? This man spent his life building an empire, and that’s what he had to show for it.

  “Colin handed me a picture frame, and I turned it over to find that it was an old photo of me and my dad, taken on my graduation day. Apparently, it had been on my father’s bedside table for a few weeks before then, and in his final moments, my father requested that it be given to me when he was gone.”

  “I was surprised, to put it mildly, that my father would want that to be his last memory of me. I had been graduating summa cum laude, but all he could focus on was the fact that I hadn’t yet secured myself a job. We had a terrible argument about it; even though it came as no surprise that that’s what he cared about, still—it stung. I wanted to play it off like it didn’t matter, like I didn’t need his approval but…I did. I always have.

  “He made what should have been a wonderful moment into a terrible memory. He had a habit of doing that, frankly. Clouds followed him. But I guess it doesn’t do to speak ill of the dead. My father was a stickler for the truth, though, and the truth was that he was a complicated man. Fiery, brilliant, and hard-working to a fault. He didn’t live well, but he lived hard, something akin to the American dream.”

  Ashton trailed off, lost in his thoughts, in his memories. I stared ahead, helpless. No more words came readily to my lips; I had to wait for him to move the train forward.

  Seeming to realize the onus was on him, Ashton pushed back his hair and straightened his tie, appearing to brush away the pain with it.

  “Anyway,” he said, more lightly than I believe he could have possibly meant, “I apologize for being out of touch this week. I’ve had…a hard go of it. I’ve been berating myself for missing out on the final moments, the possible reconciliation, with my father. These past few days have shown me sides of myself I almost wish I hadn’t found.

  “And his final gift, the picture. What was that about? Was it a last, cruel reminder of the pain I inflicted upon him during his lifetime, the endless disappointment I was? Or was it meant to be an olive branch, a token of goodwill? I don’t know. I’ve been up for days on end, and I still can’t crack the code. No surprise, though; he was never the most forthcoming man.

  “I got my lawyers to go over his will. Not out of any financial motivation, obviously, but because I thought it might contain some kind of explanation, or special note. But no. That was too high of a hope. It was just a plain old-fashioned will: it divided up his remaining, and considerable, assets. Nothing emotional, or fussy.

  “And the will, in a way, was the most accurate recount of his life. Straightforward, material-oriented, and painfully professional. I read it looking to find a man that he wasn’t, and it was a hard but necessary reminder that people don’t change just because you want them to; that to keep expecting a shift is like waiting for oil on a barren plain—taxing, and ultimately worthless.”

  His words were broken off by a strangled sob, which he quickly tamped down, so fast I wondered if I’d heard it.

  Those blazing brown eyes looked up from their fixed position on the floor, and gazed into mine, searching for a reaction.

  “Well?” he asked finally. “What do you have to say?”

  Wait, what? Was he looking for some kind of apology?

  Unsure, I replied, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I saw his mouth snap into a hard line, as if it were a crack in the sidewalk.

  “That’s it?” he questioned. “You don’t want to, I don’t know, say you’re sorry for berating me while I’m grieving the loss of my father? For accusing me of abandoning you? For jumping to the worst conclusions about me, in spite of how well you know me?”

  I was most definitely not going to take that lying down.

  I fired back, “Did you ever think that maybe you’re not the only one having a hard week, Ashton? That, maybe, other people have shit going on, too? No, don’t bother. I know it didn’t cross your mind.

  “Wanna know why I came here today? It’s because I’ve been kicked out of my apartment. And they moved my eviction date up, illegally, so I have less than 24 hours to clear out. There’s no affordable housing left in San Bravado, so I’m moving, to Oxnard. Not because it’s some kind of cultural haven, but because that’s the only place I can afford to live. Not that I even have my own place set yet; I have to live with my cousin, on her couch.

  “On a couch! I’m 25, with a child, and I’m sleeping on a relative’s couch. I guess I’ll be able to find a job there, but who knows? Maybe, maybe not.”

  I punctuated my sentence with an exaggerated huff, which felt childish even as I was doing it. But who cared? He was being equally childish. A grown man wouldn’t try to make everything about him all the time, especially not when said grown man had behaved very poorly, not even a week ago.

  Ashton’s mouth had fallen open, as if shock had a literal weight.

  “You’re…leaving?” he asked, eyes darting back and forth. “Leaving the company?” The rest of the sentence—“leaving me?”—hung unasked.

  “You heard,” I replied sharply, my words like daggers. I could see that they cut him, but I didn’t care; I wanted Ashton Swann to feel a fraction of the pain that he’d inflicted upon me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? You can’t leave.”

  I gasped, “What?”

  “You can’t leave. Please, I’m…I’m asking you to stay.”

  “You don’t get to ask for anything from me, you entitled asshole.” I was on a roll now. “And how could I have possibly told you, when you spent the entire week ignoring my calls? That’s—”

  He interrupted, shouting, “My father died. What part of that don’t you understand?”

  “And I’m really, genuinely sorry about that. I just don’t understand why, when the going got tough, you bowed out. That’s what couples do, don’t you get it? They lean on one another when they need support.”

  “Who said we were a couple?” Ashton bit back.

  I could feel tears beginning to spring into my eyes, but I held them back, not wanting to be vulnerable in front of a man who had just proved all of his detractors right; I’d been the fool all along.

  “You’re right. We’re not a couple. Because I can’t trust you. I need a man who will be there for me and my son, not one who’s half in, half out. And, you know what else? I need a man who will show his emotions to the world, not just the woman he’s dating. You’re so riddled with this toxic, bullshit masculinity that people think you’re an asshole. It’s not their fault for not digging deeper, getting under the surface—it’s yours, Ashton. Your reputation is the one you deserve.”

  I broke off, panting. The air had been drained from my lungs. The room was painfully silent as I waited for him to beg my forgiveness. That’s what came next, right?

  Apparently not. Ashton’s face was devoid of emotion, his cheekbones seemingly made of marble, his brow set in stone. I realized, then, that I was arguing with a statue, someone who could hide their feelings whenever they chose. How could we ever be equal in this, when I so stubbornly wore my heart on my sleeve? It wasn’t fair.

  He responded coolly, “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “What?” I sp
uttered. That wasn’t where I’d seen this going.

  He seemed almost pleased by my confusion, and I resented him for that cockiness, a confidence that only comes from having won the game. But this wasn’t a game; it was my life.

  “Maybe I can’t be the man you and your son need,” he continued, hammering one nail after another into the coffin. “I refuse to playact at being someone I’m not. I can’t change myself to suit your demands.”

  “You can’t mean that,” I said in disbelief. “I know this isn’t the real you.”

  “Sure it is, whether or not you like it. This is pure Ashton Swann, no play-acting, no pretense. Not pretty, is it? But you wanted to see me, so here I am.”

  He stood up from his desk, towering over it. I saw a mythical figure; he was no longer a man I’d liked—possibly loved, even—he was a monster carved in a semblance of a person. The dramatic cut of his jaw, the stiffness of his torso. It all seemed unreal, as though painted by a troubled artist.

  “I hope it works out for you,” he finished coolly.

  The world stopped spinning. Or was it spinning faster? Either way, I was dizzy. Where was the kind, caring man I’d seen at our first dinner, or throughout (almost) the entirety of the vacation? Had I imagined him? Had I so desperately wanted to like Ashton that I’d crafted him into something he wasn’t? I realized, then, that everything he’d warned me about was true. Perhaps I was, indeed, the one who’d been in the dark all along. The thought was a punch to the gut.

  I needed to leave, to get out, before I could make things worse, before Ashton could hurt me more than he already had.

  “Goodbye,” I said quietly. Then, louder, “And fuck you.”

  With that, I turned and stormed out the door, my heels echoing on the hardwood floor, tears clouding my eyes as I yanked the door open and slammed it shut behind me. Striding away, I thought I heard the muffled sound of shattering glass, but I didn’t care.

  Let it break, I thought. Let everything break.

  Chapter 19

  Ashton

  Harley left in a way that told me she wouldn’t be coming back, and my heart, which had always beat steadily under pressure, raced wildly. I’d learned to repress my feelings in the midst of confrontation, but now, my emotions threatened to overwhelm me.

  Because, of course I’d wanted her to stay. How could I not? Regardless of how she’d just talked to me, Harley was still the best woman—the best person—I’d ever met. She was a magnetic force, and I’d been lucky to exist in her orbit for even a fleeting moment.

  But I had to push her away. She wasn’t ready for all of my issues; she had problems of her own, and she deserved better than to have me piling more onto her.

  I cared about her too much to let her get involved with a man like me, a man who would inevitably let her down again. Her life was fragile, and I wasn’t ready to toy with it, or to introduce myself as the person I wasn’t sure I could ever be. Self-doubt and shame flooded my body, a foreign, horrible feeling.

  I wasn’t good enough. I’d never be good enough. I would never have a wife, or a family. I’d die alone, just like my father. That was the Swann legacy, I now knew. Loneliness.

  In desperate need of a distraction, I looked across the floor and saw the picture frame my father had left to me, now shattered in the haste of Harley’s departure.

  I strode over to the fractured remains and carefully sifted through them to pick up the photo. My hands gently clasped around it and I turned it over, examining it for damage. That’s when I saw a smooth, cream-colored envelope taped to the back. In small, neat print was my name; I recognized the handwriting—it belonged to my father.

  “What the hell?” I muttered.

  I ripped open the envelope and slid out a few pieces of paper, all similarly covered in his handwriting.

  He’d written me a letter.

  This was his real final gift to me.

  My heart-pounding, I began to read the note.

  Ashton,

  I am an old man, and my time is near. I can feel it as tangibly as the sun on my skin. I don’t have long now. I’m writing because I have one final message for you, one last lesson that I must impart before I have to go.

  Son, my beloved son. I’ve spent these past few months realizing all the mistakes I made, all the ways in which I hurt the ones I loved. Ever since your mother’s death, I’ve pushed people away, put up walls so they couldn’t get in. I closed myself off from friends, from family—from you. I made my work my life, and refused any form of companionship.

  Ashton, I can’t tell you how wrong I was. I thought that removing feeling from the equation would prevent me from ever feeling hurt again, would protect me from the tidal wave of pain that came with your mother’s passing. I thought I was doing the best thing for my sanity, and for your safety, but God…how I regret it.

  I’ve debated trying to reestablish contact with you. I toyed with the idea for so long, but I thought you would never be pressed to forgive me, and I wouldn’t make you. After all, you’d be right—I don’t deserve forgiveness. Not after how I raised you in the image of myself, the image of a man doomed to wander the world alone. I made you something that nobody should ever have to be.

  Pride, and fear of your rejection, held me back. Even knowing how fair it would be of you to turn me away, I didn’t think I could handle it. My heart would simply stop beating, for what else would chain me to this world? Nothing, and no one. So, I kept my distance. It was a foolish error by a prideful man. Sadly, I haven’t changed.

  I am keenly aware that I failed to show you love after your mother’s passing—a time when you so desperately needed what affection I had to give. But I too was raised by a cold father; I didn’t know how to convey that I loved you. I would make a go at opening up, only to decide that it was safer for us both if I just remained at the office. Providing you with every luxury in the world was the only way I knew to show you that I cared. I realized, too late, that money didn’t translate into affection.

  And I never told you how proud I was of you. I chose this photo because it was proudest day of my life—watching you graduate summa cum laude made my heart swell to the point of bursting. But instead of telling you that, and risking too strong a deviation from the norm of our relationship, I resorted to chastising you. It was a poor, mean defense mechanism. At this time in my life, I can only hope that a part of you knew what I was trying to say. The realistic side of me says that couldn’t possibly be true.

  Ashton, I am sorry. My regrets outweigh all of my earthly possessions. I’ve gone through this thing we call “life” all wrong, and you received the blowback of my incalculable errors. I failed at being a father, the one job that truly mattered.

  I’ve concealed this letter because I’m not sure I want you to find it. Even now, as my days draw to a close, I fear you knowing the man I really am. Perhaps it’s better for you to live with the image of me as a cruel, distant figure, rather than a feeble, regretful father.

  Don’t follow in my footsteps, Ashton. Carve your own path. One filled with love, and laughter, family and friends, marriage and children. Fill your world to the absolute brim; that’s what it means to be human.

  I love you more than you can ever know.

  Sincerely,

  Your Father,

  Harold Swann

  I sat back on my heels. In less than two minutes, my whole world had changed. The letter…my father’s words…nothing could be the same, now.

  I wouldn’t become the man he’d been. A man who concealed his deathbed confession because he couldn’t bear to tell me he loved me. I couldn’t.

  The only way to move forward was to respect his final message—to love freely.

  “Harley,” I whispered. Bounding to my feet, I stuffed the letter in my breast pocket. There was only one thing to do: I had to get the girl back.

  I ran full tilt out of my office, down one corridor after another. The faces of my colleagues turned through glass dividers as they saw my t
ie fly over my shoulder, my leather shoes skid across the slippery floor. Maybe they thought me deranged, or possessed. I couldn’t care less.

  As if by fate, the elevator was waiting for me. I hopped in, hammered the ground floor button, and bounced on my toes as the car descended. Too slow, too slow, I thought. I’ll never make it in time.

  Blessedly, no one called the elevator during my ride. Once more, the universe assisted me. I wasn’t a superstitious man, but I couldn’t ignore the signs—this was meant to be.

  The box touched the bottom floor, and the doors had barely opened a full half foot before I leaped through them, my suit buttons scraping against the metal, one popping off in the process. Screw it. I had a million suits. There was only one Harley.

  My head swung left to right, scanning the building for her. She couldn’t have left, not yet, not when there was so much left for me to say. There were dozens, maybe hundreds, of people in the lobby, but no sign of the woman I needed more than anything.

  And then, as if out of nowhere, she materialized. She was about a hundred feet away, and walking out the front door, for what would be the last time if I didn’t move fast.

  I sprinted from the elevators, past the front desk, past the coffee bar, until I was mere yards from her.

  “Harley,” I called.

  She spun around mid-stride, and her eyes landed on me. I knew with certainty that I wanted to see those eyes every morning and every night for the rest of my life. Only now, they contained traces of red, obviously the remnants of tears. I kicked myself internally for making her cry. I was cruel, just like my father.

  No, an inner voice told me, one that sounded oddly like that of my deceased father. This isn’t how your story ends.

  “Harley,” I repeated. “I need a do-over.”

  She remained silent, seemingly unmoved. I had no idea what to make of her reaction, but I wasn’t ready to quit.

  “I was wrong,” I said, my voice trembling. “About you, about me, about all of it. I’ll explain later, but I got a…message that showed me just how much I’d misjudged everything. I was stupid, and blind, and I could make excuses for my behavior, try to justify it with my history and upbringing, but I won’t. I’ll just say that I’m sorry.”