The Bachelor's Baby Surprise

“If you say so, but would it kill you to get your feet off my desk?” He glared at his cousin’s wing tips.

Zander rolled his eyes before planting his feet on the floor and sitting up straight. “I need to talk to you about something. But first, what’s wrong? You’re not dying or terminally ill, are you? You’re never late.”

“It’s 7:35 a.m.,” Ryan said flatly.

Zander’s only response was a blank stare.

“I’m not dying. I was just...” He cleared his throat. “Delayed.”

“Delayed?” Zander smirked. “I get it now. This is a bachelor-specific problem.”

He cast a pointed glance at the framed magazine cover hanging above the desk. Gotham Names Ryan Wilde New York’s Hottest Bachelor of the Year, the headline screamed.

Six weeks had passed since Ryan had learned about his “coronation,” as Zander liked to put it. His feelings about the matter had remained unchanged since that snowy morning at the newsstand in the West Village. Namely, he loathed it.

He especially loathed seeing the magazine cover on the wall of his office every day, but it was preferable to having it on display in the Bennington lobby, where Zander had originally hung it. Ryan suspected it had been a joke and his cousin had never intended to leave it there, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The terms of their compromise dictated that the framed piece made its home on the wall above Ryan’s desk.

Oh joy.

“Let me guess.” Zander narrowed his gaze. “You were out late last night fighting women off with a stick.”

Hardly.

Ryan hadn’t indulged in female company for weeks. Six weeks, in fact. Although his recent abstinence wasn’t altogether related to the Gotham feature article.

He couldn’t seem to get Evangeline Holly out of his head. A couple of times, he’d even gone so far as to visit her building in the Village. He’d lingered on the front steps for a few minutes, thinking about their night together.

It had been good.

Better than good.

It had been spectacular, damn it. The best sex of his life, which was reason enough to let it go and move on. That kind of magic only came along once. Any attempt to recreate it would have been in vain.

Maybe not, though. Maybe the night hadn’t been magical at all. Maybe she’d been the magic.

He’d considered this both times he’d nearly knocked on her door. Then he’d remembered how eager she’d been to get rid of him on the morning after, and he’d come to his senses. The woman had refused to give him her phone number. That seemed like a pretty solid indication that she would’ve been less than thrilled to find him knocking on her door.

“I watched the Rangers game and then went to bed,” he said. Then for added emphasis, “Alone.”

“So what gives? Why are you late?” Zander frowned. “Wait. Don’t tell me the groupies are back.”

Ryan wanted to correct him. The groupies weren’t technically back, because they’d never gone away. They’d been hanging around the Bennington for nearly two months—since the day the New York Times had decided to throw a wrench in his otherwise peaceful life.

He should have seen it coming. The Bennington had been the subject of a wildly popular series of columns in the Times’ Weddings page. A reporter for the Vows column had speculated that the hotel was cursed after several weddings in the Bennington ballroom had ended like a scene from Runaway Bride.

But that was ancient history.

Should have been, anyway. Ryan had negotiated a cease-fire with the reporter. In exchange for exclusive coverage of Zander’s recent nuptials, the reporter declared the curse over and done with. But Ryan hadn’t anticipated that the last line of her column would imply he was on the lookout for a bride himself.

It had been brief—just a single sentence. But that handful of words had been enough. Women had been throwing themselves at him in a steady stream—morning, noon and night. His photo on the cover of Gotham had only made things worse.

Ryan sighed. “There are half a dozen of them waiting for me in the lobby. I had to go around the block and come in through the service entrance in the back.”

“You had to?” Zander let out a snort. “Here’s an idea. Call me crazy, but why don’t you go to the lobby right now, talk to the lovely ladies and ask one of them out on a date?”

He couldn’t be serious. “Absolutely not.”

Those women knew nothing about him, other than the fact that he was single. And rich. It didn’t take a genius to know why they wanted to marry him, a total stranger.

No, thank you. He’d nearly been married once already, and once was enough. Never again.

Zander rolled his eyes. “You realize almost every man in New York would trade places with you in a heartbeat right now, don’t you?”

“Is that so?” Ryan crossed his arms. “You wouldn’t.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. I’m a happily married newlywed.”

Precisely.

Ryan was thrilled for Zander. He really was. But that didn’t mean he was going to pick a woman at random from the marriage-minded crowd in the lobby. This wasn’t an episode of The Bachelor. This was his life.

“Good for you. I prefer my dalliances more temporary. Short-term and strings-free. Can we talk about something else now?” Anything else. “You said you needed to speak to me. I trust it’s about something other than my personal life.”

“It is.” Zander picked up his discarded newspaper, spread it open and slid it across the desk toward Ryan. “Have you seen this?”

He glanced down. The New York Times. Not his favorite media outlet of late, for obvious reasons.

At least it wasn’t open to the Weddings page.

“The food section?” Surely he hadn’t merited a mention in one of the cuisine columns. “No, I haven’t.”

“The restaurant column contains an interesting tidbit. Right here.” Zander indicated a paragraph halfway down the page.

Ryan scanned it.

Carlo Bocci was spotted checking into the Plaza last night, fueling rumors that he’s in town for his annual month-long restaurant tour on behalf of the Michelin Guide. This time last year, Mr. Bocci visited a total of thirty-five New York eateries, ultimately bestowing the coveted Michelin star on fewer than ten. Only one of those restaurants, The White Swan, was awarded three Michelin stars, the highest possible ranking. The White Swan was recently named America’s finest restaurant by Food & Wine magazine.

He looked up. “Let me guess. We’re upset that he’s staying at the Plaza instead of the Bennington.”

“No. It doesn’t matter where he stays. What matters is...”

Ryan finished for him. “The Michelin stars.”

“Precisely.” Zander’s mouth hitched into a half grin. “Do you have any idea what a three-star Michelin ranking for Bennington 8 would mean?”

Bennington 8, the hotel’s premiere fine dining restaurant, was located in the rooftop atrium. With its sweeping views of Manhattan, it already performed remarkably well as far as bookings went. But three Michelin stars would keep their reservations calendar full six months out.

It would mean money.