Boardroom Kings: Bossman's Baby Scandal

“Sure. Why not?”

Thinking of her sailboat drawing he’d kept framed in his home office gave her the courage to step into the romantic setup he’d prepared. On the corner rested the same black lacquer tray he’d used to bring her breakfast. A couple of cooking utensils—grill tools?—rested on the edge. This time, the wineglasses contained…

“Grape juice. I thought it was only fair you enjoy grapes in some form, since you have to bypass California’s amazing wines for a few more months.”

Tucking her robe around her knees, she sank onto the comforter. “How was work? Was everyone grilling you for details about the Vegas nuptials?”

“Some natural curiosity. Lots of congratulations.” He glanced over his shoulder quickly, then went back to work on the fire. “Everyone wants to get to know you better, of course. There’s a dinner party this weekend for the big Prentice account.”

“Of course I’ll be there. That’s why we did this whole marriage thing, right?”

He jabbed the fire, his pause overlong. “The office also goes to a local hangout for drinks every now and again. We don’t have to go this week if it’s too much for you. You’re working all day, as well.”

“Drinks are fine—well, water with lime—but I don’t have a problem spending time with the people from MC.” Except for Celia. That could be damn awkward now that she thought about it. Suddenly she didn’t want to talk about work anymore. “You have a way of making the no-furniture thing work… well, other than your furnished office upstairs.” She glanced out the corner of her eye, watching for any telling reaction from him.

“I brought a few things from New York with me.” He nodded toward the packing boxes. “Linens. Kitchen supplies. My clothes and some books.”

“And your computer desk?” And the sailboat she’d drawn.

“Sure.” He pressed a hand to the plush comforter. “This was my bedspread back in New York.”

“For freezing winters, but not milder San Francisco temperatures, so it’s stayed in the box so far.” How strange to lead an unpack-as-you-go kind of existence.

“Exactly. Not so cold here.”

“But chilly enough for a fire tonight.” She angled forward to inhale the rich woodsy scent of an authentic fire. No gas logs here.

“And warm enough for gardens.” He rolled up his shirtsleeves as the temperature in the room rose. “I was wondering if you would take a look at the flower beds and offer some suggestions.”

A full-out plan already grew through her mind like vines clinging to a trellis, much like the one she could envision in his backyard leading to a hot tub. But this wasn’t her house. She wouldn’t be staying, and right now she wasn’t sure she could take having more things to regret leaving behind when she returned to NewYork. “Wouldn’t you rather hire a landscaper?”

“I would rather have my highly talented graphicartist wife draw up a plan and put the landscaper to work. But only if you have the time, of course.” He dipped his head into her line of sight. “I mean it. I’m not BSing you here.”

She would probably regret this later, but… “Okay then, I’ll take a look and sketch some ideas.” She stared at her wedding rings. “It’ll be fun thinking of things the baby will enjoy when we come to visit.”

“Great,” he said, smiling—another thing she would miss seeing when she left. “And speaking of the baby, I brought late-night snacks to go with the grape juice, if you’re hungry.” He reached behind the packing box and lifted a small grocery sack.

“I’m always hungry at the end of the day now.” The baby fluttered inside her as if already anticipating whatever he had inside that bag.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” He pulled out graham crackers, marshmallows…

… and Godiva chocolates.

Her mouth watered. She eyed all the ingredients in his hands. “We’re making Godiva s’mores?”

“Unless you don’t want them. I understand about finicky cravings.” He tucked the gold box against his chest. “I can eat them myself.”

“Do it and die.” She snatched the box of chocolates, tore off the ribbon and popped one of the truffles in her mouth. “Mmm.”

His smile went downright wicked. “I take that to mean you do want a s’more.”

“Or three,” she said, relaxing into the makeshift camp. Although they hadn’t stocked Godivas in the tent when she’d been a Girl Scout.

She sat cross-legged on the thick comforter, leaning back on a packing box, the fire warming her as much as the romanticism. Jason put together the s’more and rested it on a grilling spatula with efficient hands. The way he read just what she needed touched a part of her she hadn’t known sought tending. She prided herself on her independence, her competence. And while she could have fed herself, she never would have come up with Godiva s’mores.

While she may have known Jason for a year already, he was still surprising her more and more by the second. Like how well he’d handled the discussion on the plane about her mother’s mental-health issues. “Thank you again for everything.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “Wait until you taste it first.”

“I meant thank you for how understanding you were about my mother.”

“I’m sorry she upset you on the phone.” Firelight illuminated the genuine concern in his brown eyes. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“It’s okay. I don’t really need her approval anymore.”

“But she still has the power to hurt you,” he observed too damn astutely.

“I guess maybe there’s a part of us that never gets past wanting to see our artwork on Mom’s refrigerator. The problem is, my mother only wants me to paint her kind of pictures. Her dreams.” A dry laugh slipped free. “Although she certainly can dream big.”

“Big is good.” He placed the heated s’more on a small plate, chocolate and marshmallow oozing from the sides, and passed it to her.

“No. I mean big. Mount Everest big.” She smiled her thanks and took the plate. “My mother had those grandiose kinds of fantasies. Two days into my tap lessons she was making plans for Broadway. A dive into the pool and she was talking Olympics.”

“That’s a lot of pressure for a kid.”

“She had the same sort of plans for herself and her artwork. She always talked about how marrying Dad—” she dipped her finger into the warm, soft goo seeping from the treat “—and having me cost her Paris.”

“Your mother is an artist?”

“An amazing talent, but the high-brow kind, which means she thinks I’m a sellout.”

She popped her finger in her mouth and sucked off the chocolate-marshmallow mix just a smidge purposefully, enjoying the way he reached to loosen the neck of his shirt—only to find the top two buttons already undone. She couldn’t deny the rush of pleasure, even the slightly hopeful edge after the torment of showering alone.

“You’re a sharp businesswoman.” His eyes tracked her every move, eyes turning as dark as the charred wood.

She couldn’t help but revel in the appreciation in his gaze. What pregnant woman wouldn’t be happy to feel desirable and sexy? “So sharp my bookkeeper is enjoying all my profits on some island retreat.”

She took a bite of her s’more, her tongue chasing every drizzle. Was that moan from her or from Jason?

“Crap like that happens.You’re recovering.” He shifted on the blanket, adjusting his jeans covertly. Well, almost covertly, except she couldn’t miss the growing bulge pressing at his fly. An answering heat flamed inside her.

At least until her thoughts went back to her mom.

“I just question myself at times like this, examine every move I made for mistakes, carelessness. Lack of focus.” She set her s’more back on the plate. The fun of the evening faded. “What about your parents? Have you called them yet?”

“I don’t speak to my folks.” He turned back to the grocery sack, preparing a second graham-cracker treat for the fire.

“That’s sad.”