Famously His Baby: A Billionaire Boss Secret Romance Page 13

  “But Wade doesn’t actually want to be gone. He wants you. He’d probably be thrilled you guys were having a kid. Once he got over the complete and total shock of it, I mean.”

  I rub my heart. “I know he’d do the right thing. But that’s not the same as being thrilled.”

  “How the fuck would you know that?” Duke asks, exasperated.

  “Because he told me about how a pregnancy scare ended his last relationship. As soon as they found out she wasn’t pregnant, he realized he would have been miserable with her and broke it off. If I tell Wade the truth, it will be exactly like that, but worse, because I’m actually pregnant.”

  “No it won’t. Because it’s you,” Duke says, like I’m missing something incredibly obvious. “It wasn’t having a kid that would have made him miserable. It was forever with someone he didn’t love. He loves you, you doofus.”

  I feel shaky, like I have a fever. Duke can’t be right. Can he?

  And if he is … do I love Wade enough to risk being hurt again? To risk losing custody, when I already love this baby so much?

  “And even if I’m wrong, which I’m not, I think you should tell him,” Duke says.

  “What?!”

  “He’s the best guy I know. He’d be good for your kid, he’d be good for you, and he deserves to know. Also, not to be crude, but he’s a literal billionaire and you’re in an apartment with no furniture.”

  “Duke,” I scold.

  “Oh come off it.” I can practically hear Duke rolling his eyes. “It’s more money than any human will ever need, under any circumstances, and I say that as someone who works on wall street. Plus, it’s Wade. I bet it took all his self-control not to buy you a drum set when you said you were saving for one.”

  “That is not the point,” I say, and Duke sighs.

  “I know,” he says quietly. “I know.”

  I slowly sit down on my mattress. It’s awkward, given my fun new weight distribution, but I manage. I really should have thought about the inconvenience of using a mattress on the floor while pregnant before I broke the bed having mind-blowing sex.

  “Just think about it,” Duke says. “It’s absolutely your choice. But just be brave when you make it, ok? The world’s better than you think.”

  I nod, then remember he can’t see me.

  “Love you, Stella,” Duke says.

  My throat tightens. We’re not an I-love-you family. “I love you, too.”

  I hang up, Duke’s words running through my head. It’s absolutely your choice. But be brave when you make it.

  I fall asleep trying to figure out what brave even is.

  A few days later, I’m still trying to figure out what the brave thing to do is in this situation, when I get a call from Rock-A-Holics Anonymous.

  Someone’s donated drums. They have drums for me to play. They’ll be ready for me to play tomorrow.

  I hang up feeling like I’ve won the lottery.

  “This is what Mama needs,” I tell T.L.D. “A way to think. Life lesson number one: It’s always easier to be brave when you’re making a shit ton of noise.”

  T.L.D. doesn’t say anything, but I’m pretty sure they agree.

  The next day I walk in to Rock-A-Holics Anonymous like it’s the first day of school.

  I’m greeted by an easy-going black man a few years older than me, who introduces himself as Isaiah Jones, founder. He takes me on a tour of the space, which is one big room where all the instruments are stored, plus a bunch of small, windowed rooms for playing. “This place used to be a radio station,” Isaiah explains, “so most of our rooms are actually sound proof. But there are a few in the back that aren’t.”

  “Normally you can check out an instrument and reserve a room up front, but the keyboards and the drums are already set up.”

  My jaw drops open when he takes me to the room and I see the drums. I was expecting some battered, long-suffering beauty of a drum set, but this: this is brand new, gorgeous, and expensive.

  I grab the sticks and sit down behind the set almost reverently. “Is there anything else I have to do?” I ask. “Sign a waiver?”

  Isaiah chuckles. “Not unless you’re planning to play yourself to death.”

  I grin at the drums like a kid at Christmas.

  Isaiah laughs. “See, that expression is why we do what we do. I’ll be in my office meeting with a donor if you need me. We also have a reporter coming to do a piece on a big donation we just got, so I’d be out of here before 2 p.m. if you want to keep your anonymity.”

  I nod, and start playing before he’s even left the room.

  God, I missed this. I missed the way I can make a rhythm build and build until it explodes. I missed how physical it is. I missed how easy it is to disappear into the flow of it.

  Marking out rhythms with my drumsticks on the apartment floor is not a good substitute.

  But now I’m home.

  I scoop my hair into a hasty ponytail away from my face, crack my neck, and start playing every song I’ve ever loved.

  And with each song I play, I get a little closer to being brave enough to tell Wade.

  18

  Wade

  I’m sitting in Isaiah’s office, going over some final paperwork that probably could have been done via email, but I’ll admit it’s kind of cool to see where my money’s going. One of the rooms I passed on the way to Isaiah’s office had a group of grungy teens with acoustic guitars. Another one had a tattooed grandma shredding the bass.

  Isaiah’s office decor is evenly split between photos of a younger him playing with various famous musicians, and diplomas, books and certifications about addiction treatment.

  I’m finishing the paperwork, when suddenly there’s a swell of drumming. I look up, curious.

  Isaiah’s rolling his eyes. “Sometimes it gets stuffy in the booths, and the musicians get tempted to prop the doors open. When there’s other people using the space I stop them, but sometimes when it’s just me around, I kind of like the free concert. I’ll go ask her to close the door.”

  Her. My heart leaps, wondering if it’s Stella.

  But that’s ridiculous. The odds of her being here, on the exact day I am, are pretty damn low. Besides, even if she is here, it’s not like I can go back and see her. The whole point of this donation is to put a final punctuation mark on our last sentence.

  We’re done. Through. Moving on.

  Isaiah starts to rise, to go tell the drummer to close the door, when he notices the clock. “Shit. We should get you out of here. There’s a reporter doing a story on us, and you said you wanted to stay anonymous.”

  I leave the signed papers on his desk, and stand as his phone buzzes.

  “Crap. She’s already here. Let’s go out the back way, then I’ll go meet the reporter out front.”

  I nod and follow him down a dim hall decorated with band stickers, away from the front room. The drum room must be in the back, because the sounds getting louder as we go.

  Isaiah glances through the glass window to the drum room. “Hold on, I’m just going to ask her to close the door—”

  My hand shoots, grabbing his shoulder to stop him. “Wait.”

  Because it’s Stella. Cheeks flushed, pink hair flying, power and skill in every movement. The wave of sound hits me in the chest, traveling through my body. I’ve never seen her like this.

  I didn’t know that she could do this.

  I mean I knew.

  But I didn’t know.

  And to think, Duke and I thought we were helping by getting her to shove herself behind a computer.

  Stella is almost hidden behind the drums, from this angle. But I can tell she belongs there.

  Isaiah peels my hand off his shoulder, and I automatically apologize, but I can’t take my eyes off Stella.

  “You know,” Isaiah says firmly, “Most people think the ‘Anonymous’ part of our name is just for the pun, but we do take our patrons anonymity as seriously as we take yours, so we should keep mo
ving. Especially before that reporter shows up.”

  I nod reluctantly, and start to move, when the movement catches Stella’s attention.

  Her eyes widen, and the pulsing rhythm comes to a grinding halt.

  “Apologies for disturbing you,” Isaiah says as he reaches for the door handle. “If you could just keep your door closed, I’d appreciate it, for the other patrons.”

  He starts to close the door. Stella’s eyes fly between the drums and me, and back again.

  “Wait!”

  Isaiah hesitates, looking between Stella and me with curiosity.

  “Wade, did you buy these drums?” Stella demands.

  “I should go. There’s a reporter …” but my feet won’t move. And apparently hers won’t either, because she stays behind the drums.

  “I told you I was disappointed they didn’t have drums. And then suddenly they have drums. You fixed it for me. Even after I broke up with you, and turned you down, and kept texting so you couldn’t forget me …”

  “It wasn’t just for you,” I bluff. “Rock-A-Holics is a great program. I’ve been a supporter for years.”

  Isaiah snorts a laugh, then tries to cover it up with a cough.

  “It wasn’t for you,” I lie. “But if it helped you, I’m glad.”

  “Oh.” She looks uncertain.

  Fuck, was that the wrong thing to say? I just want to go back in time, before I showed up and stole the joy from her face. Back before she knew this had anything to do with me.

  “The reporter is coming,” Isaiah reminds me.

  “Right.” I try to smile at Stella, so she won’t see my heart is breaking. “See you around, Marigold.” I turn to go.

  “Wait!”

  I look back for the second time, but this time she’s standing, coming out from behind the drums.

  And that’s when I notice: she’s pregnant.

  She’s pregnant with someone else’s kid. She’s not that far along, so it probably wasn’t planned, but it still hits me like a semi-truck. I’ve been telling her I love her, trying to cling to the past, and she’s been moving on in the most definitive way it is possible for someone to move on.

  She is literally making a new life.

  A new family.

  With someone who’s not me.

  “This is why I couldn’t just go back to you, go back to how things were, when you showed up at my apartment that day.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” I say, and for some reason her shoulders sink.

  Shit, I’ve said the wrong thing again.

  What are you supposed to say when the love of your life is starting a family with some other man? Congratulations?

  Yes. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to say.

  “I think that you two have some clarifying to do,” Isaiah says, neutrally. “I’ll go stall the reporter. But if you’d both like to preserve the ‘anonymous’ part of your respective titles, I’d recommend you take this outside.” He points to the door marked EXIT at the far end of the hall, then heads back toward the front room with all the instruments.

  I swallow past the giant mound of jealousy in my throat. I said I wanted her to be happy. I said I wanted her to know the world has good things in store for her.

  I just didn’t picture it like this.

  “Congratulations,” I say, trying to mean it. But my mouth is as dry as the desert. “Thank you for telling me. I’m really happy for you both.”

  And then I turn to leave, before the urge to smash something takes over.

  “Is that all you have to say?” Stella asks, fury rising in her voice.

  “What do you want me to say?” I demand, wheeling to face her. “I’m trying, but I’m so jealous I can’t see straight.”

  “What do you have to be jealous about?!” she shouts, throwing her hands up in the air.

  “Him.”

  She blinks, confused. “Who?”

  Jesus, she’s going to make me say it. “The father. I’m jealous of him, ok? I know I never gave you any reason to think I was serious about this, and I know I’m supposed to be getting over you, but I realize some part of me thought … some part of me wanted …” I blow out a breath. My jaw is so tight it feels like it’s going to snap. “I just wish it was me, ok?”

  Her eyes widen in shock, and that’s a blow too. How bad was I at showing I care, that she’s so completely stunned to hear I wanted a future?

  I close my eyes. I can’t fix the past. But maybe I can say the right thing now, so at least she knows I cared.

  When I open my eyes, Stella’s walking toward me. She smoothes a strand of hair out of my face, and that soft, kind touch is the best pain in the whole world.

  I look down into those beautiful eyes, so she knows I mean every word. “You are going to be an amazing mom. You are going to be an amazing music teacher. And I hope whoever this guy is deserves you. Because you’re the best person I know. And he is so damn lucky that his kid has you for a mom.”

  Her eyes brighten with tears, but she’s smiling, so maybe it’s a good cry.

  Maybe I finally said the right thing.

  “Wade,” she says. “It’s you.”

  She says it with this brilliant smile, and I thought I knew all of Stella Harrington’s smiles, but this is one I’ve never seen before. My heart rises in my chest, responding to the brilliance of her smile, even if my brain has no idea what she’s talking about.

  “What are you saying, Stella?” I ask, my heart pounding.

  “You’re the father, Wade St. George. I love you, and I want to be with you.”

  I kiss her so hard and fast it’s like I’m falling on her mouth, ravenous. The salt of her tears, or my tears—I don’t know, somebody’s tears—becomes another a taste of this incredible, impossible moment I’ll never forget. Her hands are sliding through my hair like she’s never going to let me go.

  I can’t believe it. I get Stella Harrington. I get to keep her. I wonder how long I have to wait before I ask her to marry me.

  I’ll check with Duke.

  And God knows keeping her would be good enough, but we’re having a kid.

  I’m going to have a kid. And that kid is going to have a fearless pink haired rocker demon for a mom.

  I’m the luckiest man in the world.

  I break away from the kiss, as everything I’ve ever heard about parenting explodes in my brain at once.

  “Fuck, I need to buy a car seat. I need to update my life insurance. We need baby food. Wait, no, baby food expires. We should wait on the baby food.”

  Stella laughs and catches my face. “Wade. Don’t overthink it.”

  I don’t want to ask but … “Are you sure?”

  Her face goes fierce, and she releases me, taking a step back, wrapping her arms around her stomach. “I’m sure I want this kid.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I mean, are you sure you want me? Because if you’re settling for me because of the pregnancy, I’ll support this kid no matter what, you don’t have to—”

  “I’m sure,” Stella says, with quiet certainty.

  I’m almost scared to believe her, because I want this so damn much.

  “If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have told you,” she points out, and I know I should probably be mad at that, but I knew I was falling in love with a woman who didn’t play by the rules. And knowing she’s telling the absolute truth gets rid of my last shred of doubt.

  Fuck waiting. I’m never hiding anything from Stella again.

  I go down on one knee. I’m dimly aware of footsteps approaching, but I ignore them, to focus on Stella, whose hand has just flown to her mouth.

  “Wade, are you sure?” she breathes. “We don’t have to … We can wait …”

  “I’m sure.” I watch her smile blossom, tentatively, like she’s scared to believe me. “If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t be asking. Although you’re going to have to just imagine the ring.”

  Stella laughs, delightedly, and God, I’m going to get to listen
to that laugh for my whole life.

  I open my mouth to speak, when Stella’s eyes dart to something above my head.

  “Hold that thought. The reporter’s coming. And it’s fucking Judy. Quick, stand up!”

  “No. I don’t give a damn who sees.” I hold out my hand, and Stella takes it, her face awash in happiness. “Stella. I don’t have a ring, but I love you with my whole heart, and I always will. I can’t wait to raise our kid together.”

  She’s crying now, straight up crying happy tears, staring into my eyes like we’re the only two people in the world.

  I kiss her hand. “How do you feel about marrying me, Stella Harrington?”

  “Yes and always, Wade St. George,” she says through the biggest smile in the world.

  I rise and kiss her the way I intend to love her: with everything I have and everything I am.

  Behind me Isaiah chuckles. “I guess you clarified things.”

  “I knew it!” Judy says smugly.

  I ignore them both, and kiss my future wife.

  Epilogue

  Stella

  I’m swaying side to side, rocking Rosalind Harrington St. George to sleep. It’s way past her bedtime, but she’s still resisting sleep.

  It was a big day. The guests, the ceremony, the dancing. Plus, little miss Rosalind is now officially one-year-old.

  But as I sway in the dark, singing under my breath, she relaxes into my arms. She doesn’t like the beading on my dress, but when I scoot her up my body so her soft little face can rest on my bare skin above the dress’s strapless neckline, she sighs happily, and finally eases into sleep.

  I could lay her down in her crib now, but I hold her a little longer. There are days when being a mom, and a teacher, and the partner of a man who has to fly all over the country for business, makes me want to tear my hair out.

  But then there are times like this. When I just want to savor the moment forever, because life changes, and I’m sure the changes ahead are going to be wonderful adventures.

  But right now, with my baby girl sleeping soundly in my arms, everything is perfect.