Surprise Daddy: A Billionaire Doctor Accidental Pregnancy Romance

by Hunter Rose

  Physically, he’s a beautiful man. There’s no denying that. I think part of the problem is that Doctor Roman Wheeler knows just how beautiful he is. He uses his good looks and his position as a surgeon like weapons aimed at targeting and bedding as many women as possible. I know his type. Probably a little too well.

  I can’t really argue that on top of his good looks, he’s a charming man. But I could tell in that brief, maybe five-minute conversation we had, that he’s also arrogant. You can see that in a person not just in what they say, but in how they say it as well as the way they carry themselves. He’s got that bearing about him that just screams ‘snobby elitist’.

  And yet, despite all of that, I can’t deny, not even to myself, that I find him incredibly attractive. It was hard keeping up that pretense of being completely repulsed by him. But the last thing I’m going to do is allow myself to be interested in him. I’m not in a mental or emotional place where I want to let myself get too into somebody – anybody.

  I’ve been burned horribly in the past, and I’m not looking to get anywhere near that particular fire again. Not anytime soon, anyway – I’m still recovering from my last scalding. So to avoid any potential romantic complications in my life, I’ve tried to wall myself off from all of it. I’m focusing on what I’m doing here at the hospital, and on nurturing the few friendships I’ve made while I’ve been here – like my friendship with Andrea. To me, those are far more important than dealing with the mess that comes with emotional attachments. And I’m not the kind of girl who’s simply looking for a hook up. That’s never been my thing. Which means that there is really nothing Roman Wheeler has to offer me.

  So why is it that I can’t stop myself from stealing glances at him?

  “You know, I can introduce you to him.”

  It takes me a second to realize Andrea is talking to me. I turn and give her a sheepish look. She looks over at where Roman is sitting with Doctor Clarke, then gives me a very pointed look.

  “What?” I gasp. “Oh God, no.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure?” she teases. “Because I can see the way you’re looking at him – while you ignore me, I might add.”

  “I am not ignoring you.”

  “No? Then what was the last thing I just said?” she presses.

  I open my mouth to reply, then close it again, realizing that she was right about me not paying attention. I actually have no idea what she’d just said. My cheeks flare with color, and I clear my throat. Her laughter rings through the small bar, but when she speaks, she pitches her voice low to avoid being overheard. Thank God for small favors.

  “That’s what I thought,” she grins. “You’re totally into him.”

  “I am not,” I protest. “Like, not at all.”

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” she chirps in a sing song voice.

  “Oh, shut it,” I laugh.

  I feel my eyes drifting over to where he’s sitting and have to force myself to keep my gaze on Andrea – the last thing I want to do is give her more ammunition to use against me. She leans closer to me, a wicked grin on her face.

  “He’s gorgeous, why wouldn’t you be interested in him?” she asks.

  “He’s not my type.”

  “Please, a man that beautiful is everybody’s type,” she declares with a giggle.

  I take a drink of my beer and grimace as the bitter liquid hits my tongue. I’m normally not a beer girl, but I know I can’t exactly get a cosmo in this place, so I’m making the best of a less-than-desirable situation. Which, believe me, is not easy.

  It’s not easy to explain to her why he’s not my type without sounding exactly like the thing I hate – a snob. I mean, I don’t even know the guy, but being able to dismiss him based on a brief interaction and my personal read on how he carries himself might sound a little snobby. At the very least, it would probably sound bitchy. But I’ve had some bad experiences with guys who seem just like Roman at a first blush. I just have no desire to waste my time or energy on somebody like that. And I’m sure as hell not about to let myself get caught up in somebody who thinks they’re better than others. Not again.

  I shrug. “I just don’t think he’s all that.”

  She smiles. “Yeah, I can tell by the way you keep looking at him like a particularly nice cut of meat.”

  “I’m a vegetarian.”

  A burst of laughter escapes her. “That’s bullshit.”

  I return her smile and look down at my bottle before lifting it and taking a long swallow. I cut a glance over and see Roman looking back at me. I quickly turn away and feel the heat flooding my face. I’m sure it’s a horribly unnatural shade of red right now.

  “Yeah, I can see how not into him you are,” Andrea laughs, obviously not missing a thing.

  “He’s a beautiful man, you’re right. I can’t deny that –”

  “Damn right you can’t,” she interjects.

  “But personality wise, I just don’t see it happening.”

  She nods. “And you can tell this after speaking to him for five minutes?”

  “Oh, please. Don’t even tell me you didn’t get that arrogant, holier than thou vibe off him,” I chuckle softly. “It was so thick I practically choked on it. I mean, did you hear the smug way he introduced himself? Doctor Roman Wheeler.”

  She nods. “I caught it. But name a single surgeon you’ve met who doesn’t have that sort of attitude.”

  “Doesn’t mean I want to put up with a guy with a God complex.”

  She takes a drink of her beer and sets the bottle back down on the table. “Fair enough, I suppose,” she says. “But I’m not suggesting you marry the guy. All I’m talking about is just – having a little fun while you’re here.”

  I give her a long look, a small grin tugging one corner of my mouth upward. It’s been so long since I’ve been intimate with a man that I sometimes wonder if I would even remember what to do if I ever find myself in that position again. But I’m not the one night stand kind of girl. Never have been, and never intend to be. It just isn’t my style.

  “You know I’m not like that,” I tell her.

  “Like what? A warm, red-blooded woman who’s got needs?”

  I laugh but can’t deny the truth in her words. I do have needs. Needs that I’ve denied myself for so long, some days it feels like I’m going to explode out of sexual frustration. But I respect myself enough that I’m not just going to let somebody use me. I’m not a toy or some plaything. I’m a woman with feelings. Emotions. I have value, and I’m not just here for somebody else’s pleasure. I’m not just here to help some guy to get his rocks off when he feels the urge.

  The force and anger behind my thoughts is surprising and leaves me feeling sheepish. I guess I’m carrying around more baggage from my past than I care to admit – even to myself, apparently.

  “I do have needs, but I’m not just some faceless, anonymous hole for somebody to stick their dick in whenever they see fit to do so,” I explain. “Not even somebody as good looking as Roman Wheeler.”

  Andrea drains the last of her beer and signals for another round. The bartender gives her a look of annoyance before turning away from his soccer game and bringing a couple more bottles over to us. I’m not usually much of a drinker, but it’s bloody hot outside, and the beer is ice cold – which is a nice surprise in a place as run down and worn out as this.

  I pick up the fresh bottle and hold it to my head for a moment, letting the cool glass rest against my skin.

  “You’re looking at this all wrong, you know,” Andrea starts.

  “And how should I be looking at it?”

  “That as much as they’re using you, you’re using them,” she states simply. “If you’re doing it right, you’re getting just as much out of it as they are.”

  I laugh then take a drink of my beer. Andrea is so cavalier about it. In some ways, I sometimes wish I could be more like her. I really do miss the feel of a man’s body pressed to mine. I miss feeling passion.
That intense, intimate connection with somebody. I miss being kissed. I miss the feeling of having a man inside of me. His hands on my body. The way he looks into my eyes as our bodies settle into a sensual rhythm.

  Of course, most of the men I’ve been with – not that there have been all that many – have only been interested in their own desires and their own pleasure. I had a generous lover once – one who really took his time and made sure I was pleased, and all of my needs were being met. He made me feel incredible, and sex with him was always amazing. But he moved away, and that was that.

  After him, I’ve had a string of men who only want me for what’s between my legs. I’ve only slept with a few of them, but I’ve been naïve. I let myself believe that things are sometimes more than they appear to be – usually because they lead me to believe that – only to get burned in the end when they ghost me after screwing me a time or two. I’ve made some bad decisions and put my heart out on the line only to get it smacked down.

  All of my experiences have combined to force me deep into my shell to prevent any further abuse of my heart. But I definitely miss good, passionate, mutually pleasurable sex. I just haven’t mastered the art of being able to separate the physical from the emotional. I don’t know why, but I tend to gravitate to the men who just want to fuck me, rather than the men who respect me.

  “How do you do it?” I ask. “How do you separate the physical from the emotional?”

  She shrugs. “Because I just look at it realistically,” she says. “I’m not looking for Mr. Forever here. I’m looking for somebody to spend a little mutually beneficial time with. And I know that I’m getting just as much out of it as they are.”

  I pick at the label on my bottle. “I’m not looking to get emotionally involved with anybody,” I admit. “And I have a hard time separating the sex from the emotions behind it.”

  “That’s what I’m saying – you don’t have to be looking to get emotionally involved. You shouldn’t,” she continues. “This is all just a temporary gig here, and sooner or later, we’re all going to go home. So why not enjoy spending some mutually beneficial time with somebody while you’re here?”

  “I don’t know how to do that,” I admit. “I always let my heart get the best of me and wind up getting hurt.”

  “Just be realistic about what it is – two people enjoying the feeling of making each other feel good,” she nods. “Don’t put any pressure on yourself to make it any more than it is.”

  I sigh and take a long swallow of my beer. She makes it sound so simple. And yeah, part of me wishes I could do that. Wishes I could just enjoy some good, no-strings-attached sex. God knows it might improve my attitude some. I just don’t know exactly how to keep my heart out of the bedroom.

  “Look, I enjoy sex. Like, really enjoy it. And despite what some uptight people out there would have you believe, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that,” Andrea goes on. “And it doesn’t have to end up with you and your partner walking down the aisle. It can just be what it is – sex. You just need to get to a place in your head where it is just that.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. Believe me, I’d love to have a fuck buddy,” I explain. “I’ve just made some bad decisions in the past and don’t want to get hurt again.”

  She nods. “I get that. And I’m not suggesting you just go throw your panties at the next guy through the door,” she says. “I’m just saying, you should loosen up a little bit. You’re young, gorgeous, and should enjoy yourself. You should most definitely not be alone.”

  I take a long swallow of beer and look up at Andrea with a grin. “Why does whether or not I’m getting laid seem so important to you?”

  “Because you’re my friend, and I care about you,” she smiles. “And I see you walling yourself off and shutting yourself away from everybody. You control everything about yourself so tightly; I just think you’d be happier if you opened yourself up and had a little fun.”

  I laugh. “And in your estimation, I’d be a happier person if I were getting laid regularly?”

  “Well – yeah. Obviously,” she laughs, though I can tell she’s serious. “But it’s not necessarily about the sex, Scarlet. It’s about not being so tightly wound. It’s about enjoying yourself and your life. And to do that, you’ve got to learn to open up a little bit and take some risks.”

  There are some things she says that resonate with me. As much as it galls me to admit, I can’t say I’m a particularly happy person. I mean, I’m not unhappy. I’m not a miserable wretch who walks around all day under a dark cloud. But I’m definitely not as free and open as Andrea. I admittedly don’t smile as much as she does.

  And though it would be really nice, I don’t know that sex is going to fix it all.

  “This isn’t just about the sex,” Andrea says as if reading my mind. “This is about opening yourself up to new experiences and actually enjoying your life.”

  I drain the last of my beer and set my bottle back down on the bar. I have nothing to really say to that. It’s not like I can refute what she’s saying. I just don’t know how to let myself relax and open up.

  “I’m not great at letting my guard down,” I admit.

  Andrea’s eyes drift over to Roman, and then she turns back to me, a smile flickering upon her lips.

  “Just like sex, letting your guard down takes practice,” she beams. “Practice, practice, practice.”

  “Oh my God, you’re horrible,” I laugh.

  We talk for a little while longer, and when Andrea returns from the bathroom, I’m planning on calling it a night when I feel a presence behind me at the bar. He’s standing too close – so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on my neck. I assume it’s Roman again, back for another round, but when I catch a whiff of the man’s breath and body odor, I know it’s not him. I feel the man lean closer, feel his mouth near my ear, and it sends a cold chill creeping down my spine. I freeze in place, goosebumps marching across my skin.

  “You’re a very pretty woman,” a dark, gruff voice whispers in my ear. “You should come home with me.”

  My fear gives way to anger. I spin around on the barstool, coming face to face with the man. His skin is pockmarked and oily. He’s got a thick head of hair that’s more gray than black and looks like it hasn’t been washed in weeks. The stink wafting off him is offensive. I have to put a hand up to my face to keep from breathing him in. And apparently, he thinks he has the right to be a disgusting pig by demanding I screw him. The man is repulsive in every way possible.

  “There is no amount of money you could pay me that would get me to go home with you,” I snap. “Now leave me alone.”

  He steps closer, his eyes wild but unfocused. He’s obviously drunk – not that I accept that as an excuse for his disgusting behavior. The man grabs hold of my wrist and leans closer, his face scant inches from mine. I feel the fear as well as the anger welling up within me.

  “I don’t think you heard me,” he sneers. “I said –”

  He doesn’t get to finish that statement, because a hand snakes in, seemingly out of nowhere, and clamps around his wrist. I look up to see Roman standing behind the man, a scowl on his face. Roman’s other arm slips around the man’s neck, and I see the muscles in his forearms start to bulge as he squeezes.

  “The lady said she’s not interested,” he growls. “So, piss off already.”

  The man sputters something and releases his hold on my wrist. Roman drags him back a few steps and then gives him a little push, putting himself between me and the man.

  “Get out of here,” Roman growls. “And if I ever see you in here again, I’ll end you.”

  The man starts to shout and curse at Roman – who laughs in his face. The stinky man lunges at Roman, who coolly steps aside, making him miss entirely. His momentum threatens to carry him past Roman – and send him crashing into me – but Roman snatches his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. He then bends stinky man’s wrist backward, drawing a pained
cry from him.

  Roman continues to bend it, the angle of his wrist getting more awkward by the moment. I’m almost afraid Roman is going to snap the man’s wrist. I grit my teeth, waiting for the snap and crack of bone. Stinky man screams in agony and falls to his knees, his face a picture of anguish. Roman immediately drives his knee into the man’s face, and I hear a sickening crunch. At the same time, he releases stinky man’s wrist, and the man pitches forward, blood spilling from his nose. He looks up at Roman, cradling his injured wrist, tears standing out in eyes that are already starting to darken.

  “Apologize to the lady,” Roman growls.

  The man sputters and shakes his head, spitting a glob of bloody snot at Roman’s feet – which prompts Roman to squat down, so he’s at eye level with the man. Roman holds his gaze, his jaw clenching and unclenching, a look of absolute fury on his face. Without hesitating, Roman delivers a vicious backhand to the man, the crack of flesh meeting flesh louder than a gunshot. The man groans as his head is rocked to the side.

  “I told you to apologize to her,” he says, his voice low and menacing. “Now.”

  The man looks at Roman a moment longer, and I see his face fall. He suddenly looks like a defeated man. His eyes drift up to me, and I see more fear than defiance in his face.

  “I – I am sorry,” he stammers.

  Roman looks hard at the man for a moment longer before he nods. “Good. Now get out of here and do not come back. Ever.”

  Stinky man, blood still pouring from his nose and spilling out onto his shirt, turning it into a crimson mess, jumps up and streaks out of the bar, never once looking back. Roman turns to me with a cocksure look on his face – obviously expecting praise, a pat on the back, and knowing what I’ve gotten to know about him, probably a blow job on top of it all.