One Big Little Secret: A Secret Baby Romance (The Rory Brothers Book 2)

My one-night stand is my boss.

The biggest life-scorching mistake I’ve ever made is my boss.

The father of my child is my boss.

Inwardly, I’m screaming, and I can’t show it.

Because the handsome stranger who turned my life upside down without ever knowing it is my flipping cockamamie boss, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

This is the sort of Twilight Zone coincidence that’s only supposed to happen in movies and stay there.

But this is real life and I’m hilariously screwed. I’m too paralyzed to even laugh.

I linger on the rooftop after he leaves, still holding the dirty towel in my hands like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality.

It’s definitely ruined, just like he said.

Just like this shiny new job after a morning that’s been one long cataclysm after the next. Except now they all pale in comparison to finding out Grumpybutt is my unknown baby daddy.

“Mommy? Is everything okay?” Arlo asks, his eyes wide.

It’s so not okay.

I’m pretty sure this day is the textbook definition of anti-okay.

He stares at me with those big blue eyes, just like Patton Rory’s. Hopefully, that’s something he didn’t notice.

But I need to sit down before I throw up.

Wouldn’t that be the rancid cherry on top of my crap-luck sundae? Arlo spills hot chocolate all over Patton Rory’s suit, and I hurl all over his precious leather chairs.

“Everything’s fine, baby,” I whisper, bending to soak up more cocoa on the floor.

“Mr. Grumpybutt was mad.”

Yes, he was mad.

And oh, does the Grumpybutt nickname fit him too well. Odd because that’s not the man I remember.

Even through the casino haze of laughter and cocktails, I remember having fun. He was relaxed, kind, and actually decent to be around for a random evening of reckless gambling and sex with life-altering consequences.

But we were both younger and less burdened then.

Maybe grinding away at business for years ruins a person’s sense of humor. I know it’s all but obliterated mine.

“I think he’s just busy, Arlo. Also, you did spill your drink all over him.” I take his hand, leading him to the elevator. “Remember, you can’t call him Mr. Grumpybutt anymore.”

“But he is grumpy.”

Sigh.

“Even if he is, we’re polite to people, okay? Be nice.”

“Nice, yeah. Or you don’t say anything at all.” He recites it from memory.

It’s a lesson I don’t recall teaching him, but he’s somehow internalized it, which is fine by me.

“That’s right, big guy. Good job.” I lead him back to the meeting room and hand him a pen and more paper. Next time—if our lovely babysitter ducks out on us again—I’m bringing his tablet.

Screw the recommended screen time.

When I’m at work, I need to focus, and he needs something to do for entertainment besides drawing unflattering pictures of my boss.

The Grumpybutt portrait is still on the table, right where we left it.

Wincing, I give it a quick glance as I fish my laptop out of my bag. Today was supposed to be an introduction, but after this morning, I need to make a good impression.

Or, you know, try to paper over this disaster.

Ideally, without letting him know he’s been a daily factor in my life for half a decade.

This string of horrendous luck has to end sometime, doesn’t it?

Maybe I’m due for some good.

Maybe he’ll come into work tomorrow and see what a fab job I’ve done and forget about today.

I am, apparently, a girl who daydreams miracles.

While Arlo scribbles—drawing more pictures of Patton Rory breathing fire, no doubt—I look over the operating fund. Even our quick, messy tour showed me this place specializes in personal touches.

The Cardinal aims to make people feel special, just like the smaller properties owned by Higher Ends.

With that in mind, I check the small part of our funds that hasn’t been allocated to upkeep. There’s just enough in the flex budget to add a few little odds and ends.

Complimentary beer, wine, and nonalcoholic beverages.

Fresh flowers in every room sourced from local florists.

In my experience, nothing makes people feel valued like flowers. Or maybe that’s just because I never get them unless Mrs. Gabbard chips in a few bucks to put Arlo up to it for Mother’s Day.

“Mommy?” Arlo asks. “When’s lunch? I’m hungry.”

“Soon. We’ll find someplace nice,” I say, scanning my order list for other ideas like fine soaps or extra toiletries.

“I want more hot chocolate.”

“Another one?” I frown at the screen.

My son loves chocolate more than life itself, like almost every kid.

“I didn’t get to finish before it spilled!”

“You have a point. We’ll get you some later,” I promise.

That gives me an idea. A seasonal cocoa bar.

A warm drink and marshmallows for the fire in the lobby could add to the cozy atmosphere here, especially in winter. From what I’ve gathered, keeping up good traffic during the colder months is high on our priority list.

If the cocoa stand is well received, I’m sure we could come up with something similar and refreshing for summer. Fresh juice, smoothies, or iced teas.

Satisfied, I lean back in my chair and hash it all out in my head, looking out the window.

How they managed to get such prime land for this place when they’re a smaller start-up, looking out over the Missouri River like that, I don’t know.

Patton Rory might be a perfectionist asshole, but he’s clearly doing something right. This venture is worth a few nightmares for his mentorship, I suppose.

If he continues to mentor me, that is.

There’s no ignoring the fact that I’m one more disaster away from a pink slip, I’m sure.

“Come on, kiddo. Let’s go exploring,” I say to Arlo a little later, who looks like he’s on the cusp of death by boredom again.

The Cardinal is good for a walk since it’s absolutely huge.

Besides the rooftop pool with its fancy igloos, there’s a basement gym and a bar. Everything is exquisitely presented, though some of the décor looks a little bland and too neutral. Almost like it’s trying to appeal to everyone and doesn’t stick with any style.

I make a mental note to study up on modern interior aesthetics when I get home. Art and design aren’t my forte, but if a place ever looked like it could use more accents, it’s The Cardinal.

I know I can’t make that decision alone, but I can add weight on bringing in a good designer.

I buy Arlo a club sandwich and hot chocolate for lunch from the deli down the street, noting the many shopping opportunities right outside.

Location is everything and The Cardinal nailed it. The place has all the right Kansas City amenities with none of the bustle and noise of downtown.

By the time we’re ready to go home, my life feels a little less daunting.

Not that I know what I’m doing.

I may be on knife’s edge of getting fired, but at least I’m less likely to get lost, and that’s an important first step in managing an entire freaking building.

“That was fun, Mommy,” Arlo chirps happily from the back of my car as we head home to our apartment. “I wish I could come to work with you every day.”

I give him a surprised look in the rearview mirror. Can he feel that pang in my heart?

He’s like that sometimes, becoming the sweetest little angel when he knows I’m upset.

“Don’t you like it at Mrs. Gabbard’s house, sweetie?”

“She’s nice,” he says after some thought. His tone hints he’s bending the truth for my sake. “But you’re way nicer.”

“I suppose I have to be. I’m your mom and you’re stuck with me.”

He giggles. “I had more fun this morning than I ever had with Mrs. Gabbard!”

Mrs. Gabbard, the sitter, lives in the apartment below us, and she’s always been amazingly reliable—aside from today, when her daughter went into emergency surgery for a premature baby.

“I’m glad, Arlo, but it was just for today. Tomorrow, you’re back to kindergarten.”

“Aw, no. But Mom—”

“No, don’t you ‘Mom’ me. I have to work if you ever want to see a new toy. Never mind keeping us fed with a roof over our heads. We don’t make the rules of the game called life, honey, and sometimes you just need to play it.” I pull up on the street outside the apartment and start to help him out of his car seat.

“This game isn’t fun.”

Well, no argument there.

I try not to laugh as he springs out the second he’s free from his car seat and hurries ahead of me to the front door. “I don’t wanna be stuck with Mrs. Gabbard, Mommy. I wanna go to work with you.”

“But work gets boring, sweetie. You were getting tired drawing, cooped up in the room.” I unlock the door and it clicks shut behind me. Like always, the small lobby is empty, and I usher Arlo to the elevator. We only live on the second floor, but I’ve taken him up and down too many staircases today.

“I thought it was fun,” he insists matter-of-factly.

I boop his nose gently.

“A little too much fun, if you ask me. No more grabbing food and drinks without my permission. Definitely no more jumping around on furniture. Oh, and no more drawing people you know—unless you draw them the nice way.”

“Hmph. Grumpybutt wasn’t nice. And his hot chocolate was yucky.” He’s devastatingly honest in the way only kids can be.

“I don’t know how you’d know,” I say with a shake of the head, “seeing as you spilled it all over his shirt.”

“The other hot chocolate, Mommy. It tastes like twigs and mud.”

I laugh, wondering how old he’ll be when he changes his mind on coffee.

The elevator dings and we walk over to our unit.

The apartment is dim as usual. At first glance, you might think it’s okay.

It’s spacious enough for a bare-bones one-bedroom, at least, and the silhouettes of furniture look nicer than they really are.

But the instant you switch on the lights, you’ll see the ugly truth.

Everything I own is secondhand, beaten within an inch of its life.

“The other chocolate wasn’t sweet enough either. It was so… bleh!” Arlo rattles on about cocoa as he takes a running leap at the sofa. It bulges under his weight. He sticks out his tongue for emphasis.

“You mean bitter?”

“Yeah! Bitter.”

So was Mr. Rory, I think, shaking my head to dislodge the thought.

“Your tastes change as you grow up,” I explain. Especially the rich clientele The Cardinal wants to be serving soon.

One more reason we need that cocoa bar. Surely, someone might appreciate a little whipped cream or cane sugar to go with their exotically sourced ninety percent cocoa nibs.

“It was nice of him to get you a hot chocolate at all, even if you didn’t like it much,” I say, running out of adjectives.

There are only so many times I can say ‘nice’ when I’m describing Patton Rory without sounding like I’m mangling the word.

Arlo shakes his head until his dark hair falls across his face. He’s about due for a haircut again.

“I dunno. You think anyone has fun with Mr. Grumpybutt around?” His bottom lip juts out.

Smiling, I sigh affectionately.

Then it’s time to get to work on dinner.

I open the cupboard and scrounge around for some boxed pasta and a jar of marinara sauce.

Poor boy, I think while I cook. He has no freaking clue he’s talking about his father. But let’s keep it that way.

If he ever finds out Mr. Grumpybutt, a man who clearly doesn’t like him, is his dad—

Nope. Can’t do it.

I can’t let that happen.

Go ahead and call it unethical or selfish or what the hell ever.

One night with Patton Rory blew my life to smithereens once. I’m not letting him do it a second time.

Also, this life was my mistake—not his—and I’m not dragging him back for money or involvement with a kid I’m sure he’d be allergic to.

At the end of the day, it’s better for Arlo to think his father’s a ghost than a man who wants nothing to do with him.

The sauce starts spitting out of the pot while I’m busy overthinking it and prepping some garlic bread to go in the oven. I almost burn my hand while I turn down the heat.

If I hadn’t let myself go and had too much fun that one time—one time!—I wouldn’t be in this epic mess right now.

Lesson learned.

No more fun.Upstodatee from Novel(D)ra/m/a.O(r)g

No more randomness.

No more room for chaos.

It’s work, money, and Arlo, just like it’s always been.

That’s been plenty over the last six years of my life, and it should be enough for the next six years too.

I chew my lip as I look at the artwork lining the corridors of The Cardinal.

It’s perfectly nice, yes, if you like pastoral landscapes and nothing else.

They’re all prints of famous paintings in the big galleries, mainly nineteenth century scenes of rural life, as I discovered last night when I looked them up. But that doesn’t mean they’ll be popular.

In fact, considering I didn’t even know they were famous paintings until I did some research, they might not catch a second glance from a lot of our guests. And my research into the trends at other competitive, high-end modern hotels tells me they like color.

Daring. Bold. Bright.

Not bland and subdued.

I make notes of which paintings could be replaced with a splash of color. I imagine a real designer could make better choices, but if I can prove I’ve done my homework when I send these improvements to Mr. Rory, maybe it’ll raise my abysmal standing in his eyes.

Maybe—and I might be shooting for the moon here—it’ll undo some of the bruising damage Arlo did to my reputation.

Mr. Rory didn’t even show up this morning to the senior staff meeting.

Something else that sets me on edge.

Here I am, waiting breathlessly and dreading his arrival equally.

I want him to be impressed. I want this mentorship on my résumé more than anything, but ideally, I don’t want to see him again beyond the necessary meetings, once I’ve got my bearings.

And no, I don’t have a clue how to reconcile these two desires.

My phone buzzes and my heart jolts until I see the caller.

Not Mr. Rory calling to arrange another meeting—probably to fire me. It’s Kayla.

I should ignore it. I want to ignore it.

Honestly, I’m supposed to be working, so the best thing to do is ignore.

But I can’t, and we both know it.

Sighing, I swipe to accept the call. “Hey, Kay.”

“Oh my God, you’re alive! It’s been forever, Lemmy.” It’s actually been about three days, but Kayla’s attention span rivals a goldfish. “How’s it going?”

“Um, it’s fine.”

“Just fine? I’ve heard The Cardinal is to die for. It’s their big new thing, you know. The brothers’ money-maker.” She practically squeals with delight. I hold the screen away from my ear. “And now you’re working there! How glad are you that I got you this gig?”

“Super glad,” I gush, knowing she won’t pick up the sarcasm.

My heart sinks into my stomach.

That’s the real reason why I can’t ignore the call—Kayla put me here. And because it’s Kayla, she acts like I should fall to my knees in gratitude for this magnificent act of charity.

“What’s it like? Is it as lush as everyone says it is? Are the people nice?”

“It’s gorgeous. We’re just getting up and running, so no customers yet,” I say, and for once it isn’t a lie. “Especially the pool. They have these cute little igloos on their rooftop bar where you can sneak away. You’d love it. Very private.”

“Ohhh, cool. Yeah, I know I would. I’m tempted to come stay to see what it’s like.” She giggles. “Maybe I could show it off on my Instagram. I’m sure the Rory bros would appreciate that if I tag them.”

Oh, the things rich people do to get in each other’s good graces.

I’m not sure if Patton Rory even has an Instagram, though. He doesn’t strike me as the type to leave much time in his life for the rampant social media addiction that’s swallowed Kayla whole.

“Sure,” I say cheerfully. “Nobody as driven as them ever passes up free PR.”

“Have you met them yet? The younger one, I mean—”

“Patton Rory?”

“Patton, yeah.” I can practically hear her holding her breath. “Who else? There’s no one else interesting there. I know Dexter Rory’s married off now and the older one, he’s like divorced or something. Woof.”

Charming.

“Oh, okay. You know I don’t keep up with the local gossip mill. Patton, I’ve met.”

“Oh my God.” This time she holds in a squeal, and I wince. “So what’s he like? You need to tell me everything, Lemmy. He’s pretty much the hottest goods in KC. Did you know I had him at a party years ago and I stupidly dipped out before I said hello? Daddy got on my case for being rude.”

I keep walking, heading for the elevator, and press the button for the rooftop. Just to make sure everything’s in place, I tell myself, but I know the real reason.

The view. I could use some serenity now.

“Um, well, let’s see, he’s tall.”

“Duh! Nobody’s jonesing over a guy if he fits in a cabinet. I know what he looks like, Lemmy. But what’s he like? He’s a walking thirst trap and I bet his personality—mmmm.”

Holy hell, this hurts.

I want to tell her what a monumental prick he is, but honestly, she’d probably love the ‘challenge’ more.

“We just had a quick business meeting, Kay. There wasn’t a lot of small talk,” I tell her. “It was pretty down to brass tacks. He wore a suit and tie. We discussed The Cardinal. He tried to give me a rundown on my job.”

Tried, yes. I don’t elaborate. She doesn’t need to know Arlo ruined said suit.

By the way, did I mention he’s the father of my son?

“He wasn’t shirtless?” She pauses dramatically before she bursts in my ear. “Kidding!”

Ha-ha.

I force a laugh so awkward my throat hurts.

“I mean, you could have discussed other stuff,” she says. “You know, small talk. Smiled.”

“He’s my boss. It’s my job. That’s how this works.”

I hate that I have to explain what it’s like to work for a living. But honestly, I do when Kay’s powerhouse father has pulled the strings for everything she’s ever done.

“So you can introduce us?” She steamrolls right over me. “You’ve got an in now, lady. Help a girl out. I need to get serious. These good looks won’t last forever.”

I step out on the rooftop and stroll past the heated pool.

On the edge of the balcony, the breeze feels a touch chilly, but they’ve done a remarkable job of keeping this place warm.

“Look, Kay…” I stop to consider my next words.

Telling Kayla Persephone ‘no’ is not something that happens.

She takes it about as well as you’d expect. I’m pretty sure there are still royals in the world who can hear it without throwing a tantrum bigger than hers.

“I’m not trying to let you down, but this is my job. And it’s new for me, y’know? I’m trying to keep things professional.”

“Your job, yeah. Which I got you. You’re welcome, Lemmy.” Her voice is flat.

“Believe me, I know—and I appreciate it, Kay. This is such an amazing opportunity. But you know my dating life. I’m just not much of a matchmaker when I’ve been on the shelf for so long. Also, um, I don’t want my boss to think I’m trying to hook him up with my friends.”

“Oh, fine. Your job, your life, whatever. I get it.” I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Still, not to trash the vibe, but you could be a teensy bit grateful.”

My throat tightens.

It takes real effort to restrain the violent insults that want to claw their way up my throat.

“I am grateful. You helped me tremendously as a friend and I appreciate it,” I clip.

“Well, yeah! Anytime. I mean, you’re not hooking us up. You’d be introducing us. Where’s the harm in that? Anything that happens later would be totally on me.”

“Yes, but—”

She’s animated again, acting like she can convince me to do her bidding through sheer guilt tripping force of will.

“You know he’s hot stuff on the market. The most eligible dude in KC, some say,” she tells me. “He’s also a lot less accessible than he was before, I hear. Girls used to see him at bars and such, but ever since he got on this Cardinal thing, he’s been scarce. The dude’s a workaholic and he’s not easy to flag down.”

Right. Like that makes me feel better about setting her up with my boss, the man who legitimately rocked my world so hard it’s never been the same.

“Sure,” I say.

“You know what? All the brothers are hot, but he’s the only one left who’s really available. Without a kid, I mean.” She pauses. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I lie. “But Kayla—”

“Salem. All my single friends would kill for an in like this, and you’re holding the key.”

So will Kayla, judging by her tone. She’s already murdered her pride to go after Patton Rory like a cheetah chases down its prey.

“I get it,” I tell her. “I really do. He’s hot—I guess.”

“Smokeshow.”

“And you’re no hag, of course. You’d make a lovely couple. But I wonder, maybe if you just walked in one day, would it be enough? I bet he’d notice you. Surely you can—”

“Oh, Lemmy, Lemmy. I can’t believe this,” she complains. “I’ve been such a good friend to you. I gave you this job and everything, and now you wanna dip on me when I ask for a teensy little favor?”

Yes.

Hell yes, you entitled frenemy brat.

If you were so desperate to snag Patton Rory, maybe you could’ve tried harder to hit on him at your riverboat party years ago or gotten yourself this job.

It’s eating me alive, along with a hundred other things I can never say to her.

She’d never speak to me again if I did, and she’d absolutely find some new way to make my life a living hell.

Sometimes, I think I wouldn’t mind the consequences, but I’ve been in her orbit too long to risk it.

Sadly, she did get me this gig and the mentorship, courtesy of her oh-so-important father, who made the recommendation to Dexter Rory personally. Even if it’s becoming likely this was all a ruse to get her an in she wanted, there’s no denying Kayla is the reason I’m here.

“Fine,” I say firmly. “I’ll see what I can do. But just so you know, he’s not the smiley bachelor man you think he is. He’s short-fused and grumpy and kind of a hardass, just between us. But Kay, I have to go.”

I hang up before she can say anything else, barely resisting the urge to throw my phone off the building. I certainly can’t afford to replace it.

As it is, I’m going to pay for sassing her by doing her bidding.

A man clears his throat from behind me and I whirl around.

Apparently, I’ll pay for my sass right this second, because His Highness, King Grumpybutt himself, stands there in his full glory.

Today, he’s decked out in a silvery grey suit that makes him look more imposing than ever.

He’s a businessman through and through and he just heard me insult him on the phone. While I was supposed to be working.

Screw the phone. Can someone throw me off the roof instead?

There’s an apology in me somewhere—another one, I mean—but I can’t quite find the words. Nothing except a whispered, “I really hope—”

“I came by to let you know I’ve secured a company sitter for Arlo. A backup, if you need them.”

“What?” I don’t understand.

“So there won’t be a repeat of yesterday,” he explains, his face unwavering.

“Um, that’s—wow.” Real coherent, Salem. Way to show him you’re a consummate professional. “Thanks, but there’s really no need for that. He’s back in kindergarten this week and our babysitter, Mrs. Gabbard, she’s over her family emergency, so—”

“No.” The word is hard, clipped. His gaze is steely ice, almost like the rest of him. “Parts of this position are on demand, Miss Hopper. Weekends, evenings. You knew that when you signed the contract.”

“I knew that. You’re right.” I gulp and dip my head. Pride doesn’t work here, I tell myself. Just get over it and take the damn offer. “Thank you. That’s very kind. I’ll call them if I need a backup plan for sure.”

“She’s available on call. Anyplace, anytime,” he adds.

“Super generous.”

There’s a flash of suspicion in his blue eyes.

Obviously, he heard the conversation with Kay—and he knows I don’t think he’s kind or generous.

“We’ll be touring the city tomorrow so you can see more of the properties in our portfolio,” he tells me. “You won’t be managing them directly, of course, but it’s important for you to see the full scope of our operations. A broader view of the company might help you optimize things here.”

I don’t realize I’m pressing myself against the balcony until he steps back.

“Right,” I say, trying not to sound breathy. “Thanks. Sounds wonderful.”

“Don’t be late, Miss Hopper.”

I wasn’t late today, was I, prick?

“No. I wouldn’t dream of it,” I agree, biting my tongue and ducking my head so he can’t see the way my expression tightens. Hopefully, he thinks it’s deference.

He nods and strides away like he can’t get rid of me fast enough.

Joy to the world.

An entire day gallivanting around the city with a man who treats me like a human mosquito? Who doesn’t have a clue he knocked me up? Alone?

Without even touching on our past?

I’m half-glad he shows no sign that he remembers that night.

The other half of me wants to confront him right now—at least about the hookup.

But even that feels impossible. It doesn’t matter if it’s a trillion times easier than telling Patton Rory he has a son who ruined his precious suit and tie.

There’s only one way this goes down, and it’s not well at all.