Boardroom Baby Surprise

Jen Woolworth, another teacher, one with more seniority who had weathered the latest round of cuts, had been particularly vocal against Morgan leaving the state.

“Hon, you’re due soon. You shouldn’t be traveling, let alone moving. Stay here with us,” she’d urged.

The offer had been tempting. Jen was a dear friend and the two of them often grabbed a cup of coffee after school or hooked up on the weekends for a little shopping and girl talk. But Jen shared a small bungalow-style home with her husband, two rambunctious prepubescent boys and an incontinent miniature poodle they had named Puddles for obvious reasons.

They had enough chaos and no room for another adult, let alone an adult and an infant, even if Jen claimed it would be no big deal to make her boys bunk together in one of the small bedrooms, freeing up the other ten-by-eleven-foot space to serve as Morgan’s living quarters and nursery.

The baby fussed. Morgan pulled down her gown, recalling the instructions she’d received in her prenatal classes. Nursing should have been easy. It was the most natural thing in the world, right? But Brice seemed as baffled by it as she was, and he grew fussier by the minute. Finally, he all-out wailed. It was a pitiful sound, heartbreaking. As tears brimmed in Morgan’s eyes, she felt demoralized.

We’re going to be fine.

The words mocked her now. Had she really said them to Bryan less than half an hour ago? Had she, even for a moment, really believed it herself?

She wanted to join Brice in crying, but she didn’t. She’d never been a quitter and she wasn’t about to become one now. Her son needed her. He was depending on her. She couldn’t let him down. The luxury of tears would have to wait.

“Let’s try this again,” she murmured resolutely.

He finally latched on after a couple more false starts.

The flowers—a huge vase full of festive daisies, lilies and delicate irises—arrived as Morgan was putting Brice back in the bassinet. She couldn’t imagine who would have sent her such an expensive bouquet. No one back in Wisconsin knew Morgan had given birth and she didn’t know anyone in Chicago. Well, no one except for… No way.

She plucked the little white envelope from its holder among the blooms and tore it open. Sure enough, written in slashing bold cursive under the card’s pre-printed congratulatory message was the name Bryan Caliborn.

The real Bryan Caliborn.

She blinked. Who would have guessed that hard, brooding man could be so thoughtful? An hour later, when a couple of orderlies came to move her and the baby to a private room down the hall, Morgan added the word accommodating to his attributes. This room was far more spacious and included amenities such as a plush rocking chair, cable television, a padded window seat and framed reproductions of museum-quality art on the walls.

Just about the time Morgan was beginning to think she’d completely misjudged him, Bryan ruined it with his edict.

That’s what the typewritten missive amounted to. It was delivered the morning she was to be released from the hospital by the same snooty receptionist who’d brought Morgan’s suitcase by the day before: Britney. The young woman arrived just as Morgan finished dressing in a shapeless, oversize dress. Of course, Britney looked slender and runway chic in a fitted jacket, flirty skirt and peep-toe high heels.

“This is for you.” Britney set a large shopping bag on the bed and handed Morgan a note. It was from his highness.

Though Morgan was curious about the contents of the bag, she was even more so about the note.

Morgan,

I have sent a car to deliver you and the baby to new accommodations that you may use for the rest of your stay in Chicago. Your bill at the hotel has been settled in full and I’ve taken the liberty of having your belongings collected and moved.

I have asked Britney to accompany you. I will be in contact later this evening to ensure you have everything you need.

Bryan

Relief came first. This was the answer to her prayers. Just the thought of taking Brice to that dingy hotel room that reeked of stale cigarette smoke made her nauseated. And housekeeping and laundry services were included. What new mother wouldn’t appreciate help with those time-consuming chores? But Bryan’s motive puzzled her. Was he doing this because he believed her or was he merely interested in keeping a closer eye on her? She read the note again, but still was unable to decipher any clues. This time, however, relief wasn’t all she felt. It chafed her pride that he’d made the arrangements and moved her things without at least running his plan by her first. She didn’t like being told what to do.

Nor what to wear, she added, when Britney scooted the bag closer and said, “Mr. Caliborn told me to pick up an outfit suitable for your trip home from the hospital.”

“I have clothes,” Morgan objected.

Britney eyed her dubiously before going on. “Yes, well, I brought a couple of selections for you to choose from. I had to guess your size, but I went with loose-fitting styles,” she added, her gaze straying to Morgan’s midsection.

Morgan knew she still looked pregnant. Not the ready-to-pop balloon she’d appeared to be at her first encounter with the svelte Britney, but a good four or five months gone.

“I have clothes,” she said a second time. The words came out forcefully, causing the baby to rouse from his slumber.

“Mr. Caliborn felt you would be more comfortable in fresh things,” Britney clarified.

“You can tell Mr. Caliborn—” Morgan began, fully intending to decline the offer, but that was as far as she got before Britney pulled a subtly printed dress from the bag. Then Morgan’s only concern was, “God, I hope that fits.”

Britney’s brows arched. “I can tell Mr. Caliborn what?”

“That I said thank you. And that I will reimburse him.”

It did fit. Morgan had to hand it to Britney. The woman not only had a good eye for fashion, she had a good eye for what would look best on Morgan’s post-pregnancy body. While nothing could completely camouflage her tummy, the dress Britney had picked certainly minimized it, while accentuating a couple of assets that also had been enhanced by pregnancy. She just hoped Brice wouldn’t need to nurse between now and the time they reached wherever it was they were going, because the dress, which zipped in the back, wasn’t made for that function.

“Much better,” Britney said when she saw Morgan.

Her tone bordered on astonished, but it was hard for Morgan to be offended when she agreed.

“Thank you.”

With a curt nod, Britney glanced at her watch. “I’ve called for an orderly to bring a wheelchair. You’ve signed your discharge papers, right?”

“I did that before you arrived.”

She nodded again and pulled out her cell phone. “Noah, it’s Britney. Have the car waiting at the main entrance in fifteen minutes.”

Morgan might have felt a bit like Cinderella then, except Britney was hardly fairy-godmother material and, of course, she had no Prince Charming.

Then Britney said into the phone, “If you see any photographers, call me back immediately and we’ll go to plan B.”

“Photographers?” Morgan asked as soon as the other woman hung up.

“Paparazzi. Every effort has been made to keep news of you and your son under wraps, but it pays to be cautious.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”

Britney huffed out a breath. “The Caliborns are a big deal in this city. They’re in the headlines regularly for business and philanthropic reasons, but scandals always sell more papers than straight news.”

Great. Morgan was a scandal, her son’s birth fodder for the tabloids. No wonder Bryan had been eager to find her “alternative accommodations.”

CHAPTER THREE

MORGAN stepped into the apartment foyer behind Britney and gasped. She certainly hadn’t expected her new place to be a penthouse that offered views of Lake Michigan and the famous Navy Pier from windows that ran the length of the exterior wall.

In the large living room the color scheme was heavy on beige and other neutrals with nary a punch of color. The furniture was tasteful and obviously top quality, and included a baby grand piano that had Morgan’s fingertips tingling to play just looking at it, but the place didn’t look lived-in. Indeed, every last inch of it seemed as cold as the foyer’s Italian marble floor.

“Who owns this place?” Morgan asked. She swore the question echoed.