Page 7 of The Billionaire’s Paradise (My Billionaire #4)

Cal and I sat side by side on a tweed-upholstered couch that squeaked every time one of us breathed. He was sipping chamomile tea like some kind of Zen monk, except for the fact that he was drinking it out of a Goldman Sachs thermos.

I was holding a clipboard with trembling hands, realizing I’d just listed “Sunday brunch” as one of our shared values.

“I think I might throw up,” I said.

Cal smiled without looking up. “Just aim for the plant in the corner. It’s already given up.”

There were inspirational quotes framed on the wall, like “Love comes in all shapes and sizes,” and “Family isn’t always DNA… Sometimes it’s just destiny,” and “Welcome to True Path… Your journey begins with a cup and a dream.”

Before I could try to calm myself down, I heard the entrance door down the corridor fly open with a bang.

“Right, then!” exclaimed a voice that could only belong to one person. “Where are my boys?”

I blinked. “Mrs. Mulroney?”

A split second later, Mrs. Mulroney stormed into the waiting room wearing a floral dress and a knitted cardigan.

She had a tote bag over one shoulder and wielded a Tupperware container like a weapon.

“There you are. What the hell were you thinking? You didn’t assume for one moment you were doing this without me, did you? ”

“I— what— how—”

“I knew something was up when you called in sick this morning. No -one’s had polio since last century.”

“I thought I sounded convincing.”

“And I thought you were having a mild stroke, you sounded so off your rocker. Then I thought, no—he’s probably trying to create life.” She plopped down in the chair across from us. “So I called the one person who always knows everything.”

“Rashida,” Cal and I said in unison.

“She told me the whole thing,” Mrs. Mulroney said, folding her arms like a general who’d just completed a military op.

“You’ve got an appointment with the surrogacy woman.

Tessa. Ten a.m. And let me tell you, if she doesn’t give you boys five gold stars and a baby on a velvet cushion, I’ll be chaining myself to reception with a sign that says ‘ Wombs for the Willing!’ ”

“Mrs. Mulroney, we love you, but you can’t be involved in this meeting,” I said. “This is for me and Cal.”

“How very dare you?” she gasped. “I’ve been emotionally invested in your reproductive journey since before Riverdance healed my sciatica… briefly, but still!”

“ Riverdance? ” Cal blinked. “That was before Matt and I even met.”

“I felt it coming ,” she said ominously. “You don’t ignore the signs. Dreams, tea leaves, Rashida’s Christmas cards—there were clues. Besides,” she added, holding up the Tupperware. “I brought cake.”

I exhaled with relief. “Oh, thank Christ. I thought you were expecting us to fill that thing.”

“Sweet Jesus in a swear jar, Matthew! How many times have I told you not to use the Lord’s name in vain.

Not to mention the fact that I went to the trouble of baking something appropriate for the occasion.

This is a fertility-friendly pineapple cake.

I found the recipe on a blog called Ova Easy .

” She turned to Cal. “You’re supposed to eat pineapple for optimal… conditions.”

“I think that’s for the person carrying the baby,” Cal said gently.

“Well, you never know where modern science is headed,” she sniffed. “Might as well cover all your bases.”

She leaned forward then like she was about to give us the birds-and-bees talk.

“Now listen, if you’re not going to let me sit in, then make sure they don’t push you around.

You’re both very capable, sensitive men.

You’ll make wonderful fathers, provided you get enough fibre and don’t name the child after an IKEA product.

I’ll not be babysitting a toddler named Flornbjorn. ”

I buried my face in Cal’s shoulder. “Make it stop.”

Cal patted my knee. “You’re doing great, babe.”

“Here, I brought a blanket,” Mrs. Mulroney continued, digging into her tote bag. “In case you go into labor.”

I held up the clipboard. “I haven’t even finished filling out the application form.”

“I know! I know! But you’d be surprised how quickly things can happen. You want a baby, don’t you? Who’s to say they don’t have some spares floating around in one of the rooms out back.”

I was about to tell her—somewhat vehemently—that’s not how surrogacy works, when we heard the door at the entrance bang open again.

“Sorry I’m late!” came an overly excited voice. “Did I miss anything?”

A moment later, Angus darted into the waiting room wearing a hoodie with a rainbow dinosaur on the front. He was holding a helium balloon that read “It’s a Boy! Or a Girl! Or Whatever They Choose to Be!”

“I brought vibes!” he announced triumphantly, holding up the stress ball. “I think I nailed the whole Pride thing. ”

Cal stood up. “Angus. What— how— why—”

“Mrs. M texted me. Said it was a family emergency. That a gayby was finally on the way.”

I planted my face in my hands. “Oh my God, can we please not call the baby a gayby? And nothing is on the way yet.” I held up the clipboard again. “Form! Unfinished! Need I say more?”

“Stop stressing,” Mrs. Mulroney said. “I told you, it takes a village.”

“And a balloon,” Angus added. “Does anyone wanna hear what I sound like when I suck on helium?”

“Absolutely not,” Cal and I said at the same time.

Angus shrugged. “Your loss. How else do you think I convinced security I was from Munchkinland and got us backstage at Wicked ?”

He tied the balloon to the arm of my chair with great ceremony, then sat down and pulled a juice box out of his hoodie pocket like he was prepping for battle. “I’m emotionally ready,” he said, piercing the bendy straw through the little foil circle. “Bring on the baby.”

I turned to Cal, whispering, “If Mr. Banks walks in next, I’m going to fake a seizure.”

Which was, of course, when the door opened again.

“Am I late?” Mr. Banks called out. “Have the waters broken?”

He shuffled into the waiting room in his brown tweed blazer and a pair of plaid pajama pants. His shoes didn’t match. One was a slipper. The other looked expensive and might well have been Cal’s.

“Mr. Banks?” I said, blinking hard. “Why are you here?”

“Angus texted me. He told me there was a medical emergency. Something about a gayby. So I packed a toothbrush and took a cab.”

“Why the toothbrush?” Cal asked.

“In case it’s an overnight. ”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. “What… what do you think is happening here?”

“I assumed someone was going into labor.” He looked around, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Do we need to boil water? That’s what we always did in the war. Whenever someone was wounded or having a baby or in need of a cup of tea, we always boiled water. Seems to fix everything.”

“Nobody’s boiling water,” I said, my fuse running out fast.

“Oh,” he said, sounding vaguely disappointed. “Then what are we doing here?”

“We’re having a meeting,” I said slowly and clearly. “With a surrogacy case manager. To discuss the possibility of maybe starting the process of potentially—someday—having a baby.”

Mr. Banks considered that. “So, no one’s crowning?”

“Correct.”

He nodded solemnly and reached into his jacket pocket.

“Nevertheless, I brought a compass,” he said, producing an antique-looking brass circle with a cracked glass face. “For the baby. So they’ll always find their way.”

There was a pause.

“That’s actually kind of sweet,” Cal said.

Mr. Banks turned it over and frowned. “Although it does point mostly east. And sometimes toward magnets. Or ham.”

Angus leaned in. “Still. Strong symbolic energy.”

“I licked it clean this morning,” Mr. Banks added.

Angus recoiled. “Less strong now.”

Mrs. Mulroney dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “God, I love this family.”

I clutched the clipboard tighter. “If Rashida walks through that door, I’m going to need sedation.”

Which, naturally, was when the door down the corridor opened again.

With a satchel in one hand and a grande Starbucks in the other, Rashida stepped into the room and took one long, pursed- lipped look around.

“Why does this feel less like a fertility consultation and more like a casting call for a very low-budget, misguided nativity play? I see the three wise men came bearing gifts already. Mrs. Mulroney with baked goods, Angus with balloons, Mr. Banks with… is that a compass?”

“It’s symbolic,” Mr. Banks said.

“He licked it,” Angus whispered.

“I’m not even going to address that,” Rashida replied.

She settled herself into the chair beside Mrs. Mulroney. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to intrude on your meeting. I’m here for moral support, particularly if either of you come out of this meeting crying.”

“That’ll be Matt,” said Mrs. Mulroney, Angus, and Mr. Banks all at once.

Rashida raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a smile at one end. “I’m not so sure. I think that bet could go either way.”

At that moment, an office door opened.

“Hi there. I’m Tessa,” said a woman in a crisp white blazer, holding an iPad and exuding a calm confidence.

She paused in the doorway and looked at us all in one slow sweep. Not alarmed. Not judgmental. Just… processing .

“Matthew Darcy?” she said.

I stood, a little too fast. “Yes. Hi. Hello. That’s me.”

She smiled and shook my hand. “Tessa Burke, your surrogate case manager.”

All my nerves came flooding back. “Pleasure to meet you. And this is Cal Croft,” I said, gesturing beside me. “My husband.”

Tessa looked politely at the rest of the room. “And this must be your family.” She took it in stride. “It’s lovely to see so much enthusiasm from loved ones. Someone even brought balloons, I see.”

Angus sat up excitedly. “Would you like to hear what my voice sounds like when I suck— ”

I slapped my hand over his mouth to shut him up, then overcompensated with a laugh so fake even Cal winced.

“Well, I’m thrilled to meet you all,” Tessa said. “Now, since the appointment is just for the two of you, would everyone else like some herbal tea while they wait?”