Page 57 of Baby for the Bosshole
Chapter Eighteen
Emmett
Amy passes out after the last orgasm. I hold her, feeling more at peace than I can ever remember.
It’s the sex, my dick says.
It’s not the sex. Well, okay, it’s partly the sex. But I’ve never felt this way after sex with another woman.
It’s Amy.
Making her lose herself isn’t just fun, it’s satisfying. I could spend the rest of my life doing it. Cash out my stake in GrantEm, let Grant take over the firm. Or maybe provide capital, but stay out of day-to-day management.
On the other hand, that probably isn’t something Amy would want. She’s too driven to be with a man who doesn’t have some ambition of his own.
Somewhere, my phone buzzes.
It’s Sunday. Can’t be anything that important.
I let it go to voicemail, but a few moments later, it buzzes again.
Amy’s brows start to pinch.
Fucking asshole. I don’t know who’s on the phone, but it has to be an asshole to be calling on Sunday when I’m trying to have some quality time with the woman I’ve been obsessing over for almost two years.
I pull away gently and tuck her in, making sure sheets are covering her all the way to her chin. I find my pants on the floor and pull out my phone, then tiptoe out of the room, ready to ream the butthole.
The screen says: Dad.
I feel my face scrunch. What the hell is going on?
He never contacts us. Not for holidays. Not for birthdays—ours, not his. It’s kind of a shock that he even knows my number. Whenever he wants to convey a message, he has Joey gets in touch via texts.
Probably a butt dial. Or maybe Dad has decided to dispense with assistants and harass me directly.
Dad calls again. I’m tempted to ignore him, but he might go nuclear, call Mom on her well-deserved luxury Mediterranean cruise and ruin her vacation because nobody should be happy when he isn’t. Or come over to confront me in person. And I’d rather eat my shoes than risk having Amy meet him. It’d be too embarrassing.
Suck it up and answer it. Humoring him is easier than fighting him.
I wait until I’m at the bottom of the staircase so I don’t bother Amy. “What?”
“Son of a bitch. That took a while.”
“I was napping,” I snap, then reach into the fridge and grab a bottle of water.
“I’m calling about my birthday.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve decided what you all can give me this year.”
“Okay…”
“I want a baby.”
What the fuck? I’m glad I was in the process of twisting the cap open, not actually drinking the water. “Well, Dad, you know what to do. Just have another vasectomy fail. The baby won’t come in time for this birthday, but next year you’ll have a new little human to bounce on your knee.”
“Not my baby! Your baby!” Dad booms.
