Shopping for a CEO's Baby (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 16)

  Shopping for a CEO’s Baby (Shopping series #16)

  Julia Kent

  Copyright © 2020 by Julia Kent

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design: Yocla Designs

  Editor: Elisa Reed

  Contents

  Shopping for a CEO's Baby

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Shopping for a CEO's Baby

  It’s Andrew and Amanda’s turn… in duplicate

  We’re having twins.

  Twins.

  Which means my shooters are stronger than my brother’s. I win.

  Yeah, yeah, everyone can say it’s not a competition, but it is.

  And we all know it.

  Two babies at once means double the fun, and double the misery for my poor wife, Amanda. While I’m growing a Fortune 500 company, she’s growing two entire human beings out of nothing but orange cheese snacks and ice cream.

  Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked during this pregnancy, tracking down orange smoothies for her?

  Not to mention being forced to Facetime into a childbirth class on perineal massage, rescuing Chuckles the cat from being shaved bald by my two-year-old niece, and fighting with a wife who has named the twins Lefty and Righty.

  By the time we hit the ninth month, my entire world revolves around pleasing — and protecting — her.

  Even if it means humiliating myself in the name of love.

  Wait a minute. Wait a minute, now.

  Hold on.

  Is she the one who’s winning?

  Andrew and Amanda are BACK in the newest New York Times bestselling Shopping series book as they “beat” Declan and Shannon in the baby competition, but at what cost? As their future awaits them in the form of twins, Amanda and Andrew face ghosts from the past with wit, humor, and most of all — plenty of love.

  1

  Andrew

  My wife is orange.

  She is caked with orange dust, on her fingers, in her cuticles, and her lips are the color of a traffic cone. She's in the kitchen, standing in front of the blender, drinking something–

  You guessed it.

  Orange.

  “Mmmmm,” she moans as she drinks straight from the blender itself. “Isss izz soooooo goooo.”

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Eeeto-eenie.”

  “What?”

  A swallow later and she says, “Cheeto-cini.” When my sister-in-law, Shannon, was pregnant with my niece, Amanda created a special orange smoothie for her out of Cheetos, marshmallow cream, and orange sherbet.

  My wife has modified it to remove the sherbet and replace it with coconut milk, which does nothing to change the fact that it's vile to the core.

  It's just slightly less gross now.

  “Another one?”

  “It's the only thing that stays down.”

  “And the doctor really says this is okay?” I say, staying far away from the blender, knowing how territorial she is about her food. She's pregnant and still stuck deep in morning sickness.

  For the last few weeks, all she's eaten is this.

  Cheeto smoothie.

  And nothing else.

  “It's full-fat coconut milk. One big leaf of kale.” She makes a gagging sound. “Apple juice. One banana. And Cheetos. I freeze the fruit and it tastes like a milkshake.”

  “Our babies are made up of that.” At least she added the kale, banana, and apple juice this time.

  “I choke down a prenatal vitamin, too, Andrew.” Her eyes tear up and her chin quivers.

  Damn.

  “It's fine. Good. I'm so glad you can eat something. Really. Not judging you. I know you are doing everything possible for our babies.” I rub the spot between her shoulder blades, hoping I can calm her down before a full-blown meltdown kicks in.

  “I am! Everything,” she says before gobbling down more of that candy corn-colored monstrosity. “I've lost two pounds. The doctor said the placenta looks fine and the babies are growing within range, but this morning sickness is horrible. If I drink water, I puke! If I drink this–” she points at the blender, “–I don't.”

  “Then by all means, drink that.” I hold back a shudder. My trainer, Vince, would have an unexpected coronary if he saw Cheetos in a Vitamix.

  “I–I know I'm not doing this the way another wife would. A better wife. A wife who is stronger and who...” Her lower lip begins to quiver.

  Here we go again.

  I come in for the hug before I wince, feeling like a jerk. Being supportive isn't hard. Not at all. Being pregnant with two babies–my babies–has to be impossibly hard. And poor Amanda has to shoulder that load. I can't do one bit of it for her.

  But I could do without the drastic personality change. It's like someone swapped my wife out for the most insecure woman on the planet.

  Ever.

  The woman who could do anything, fix anything, mediate anything has become a sniffling puddle of overly apologetic goo, who makes insecure celebrities look like they invented arrogance.

  And who has convinced herself that she's terrible at being pregnant.

  “Amanda.” I kiss her, gently, tasting salt and cheese and sugar. “You're perfect.”

  “I'm incompetent.”

  “All you have to do is let cells divide inside your womb.”

  “And grow a placenta. I'm terrible at this. I'm failing at basic biology!” Wide eyes, big and beautiful, tear up like someone's pumped her full of salt water.

  “It's not a college course,” I joke. “It's just nature.”

  She stiffens.

  Uh oh.

  “It's not 'just' anything.”

  Declan warned me about this stage of pregnancy. The super-sensitive stage. The you-can't-say-anything-without-opening-the-portal-to-demonic-possession stage.

  That's his phrase. Not mine. Don't pin that on me.

  “Of course it's not 'just' anything,” I soothe. “I'm not trivializing it. I'm saying you're doing a great job.”

  “If it's ‘just’ nature, how can I be doing a ‘great’ job at something I have no control over?”

  She's got me there.

  “You're the most loving woman I know,” I tell her. “Which means you'll be the most loving mother I know. Which makes me the luckiest man alive, because you're going through such a huge sacrifice to give me two children. Not just one. Two. At the same time.”

  Uncertainty flickers across her face. Aha. Now I'm on firmer ground. We're just in the middle of a slippery negotiation. The other party is insecure and needs reassurance.

  I’ve got this.

  I've totally got this.

  A few more sentences and she'll be eating out of my hand.

  Not that Cheeto-smoothie crap, though.
/>
  I splay my hand over her belly. It's surprisingly flat, though her nice, curvy hips make it easy to cuddle. “Our babies are right here. You're growing them. Your body nurtures them.”

  She gives me a shaky smile.

  Score! I did it. I talked her down. Declan is such an amateur. He can't compete with my ability to–

  Amanda's shaky smile turns into something... green.

  My wife has gone from orange to turquoise. She's the Miami Dolphins in pregnant form.

  Casually, like I've done this a thousand times before (hint: it's been seven, but I've perfected my move), I reach for a small bucket in the kitchen and hand it to her so she can do the inevitable.

  Reject every calorie she's trying to consume.

  “I hate this,” she moans as I rub her back and try to console her. Secretly, though, I'm relieved.

  At least this time, she didn't get my shoes. Can't just hop on a plane to Italy today and get a replacement pair in Milan like I used to.

  “I hate it for you,” I assure her. I do. I really, really do. You know how some men claim they'd get pregnant for their wives, to spare them the pain of everything they go through to bring a new life into this world?

  Yeah. I'm not one of them.

  But I'll hire people to help with that pain.

  And I'll be there with her, in sickness and in health, 'til Cheeto smoothies do us part.

  Because we're definitely parting ways on this. If I'm eating something orange out of a blender, it'll be something my trainer, Vince, made for me, and it won't come out of a foil bag.

  Though it might come out of a former Soviet-bloc country's experimental performance enhancement lab.

  “Andrew?” Amanda calls for me, the sound of the bathroom faucet stopping. I hear sniffling, then she emerges, red-rimmed eyes and wan smile breaking my heart a little.

  Yes, I have one.

  “Oh, honey. I'm so sorry.” Compassion doesn't come easily for me. It can't, when you run a big corporation. Compassion gets tucked away in a walled-off safe, deep inside a chamber of my heart, the path to reach it one my wife has to traverse everyday. It's like working in a maximum security prison, I imagine.

  You're not a prisoner, but you have to go through all the layers of security to enter the facility.

  When she's upset, though, all the security measures go into a reverse lockdown, my compassion flying out to find her, protect her, keep her happy.

  Sound cheesy? Too bad.

  “It's okay. It's temporary. Everyone says it'll be over soon.” She frowns. “Except for Carol. She said her morning sickness lasted for thirty weeks.”

  “You won't be Carol,” I say automatically, hoping like hell I'm right.

  “But I have two inside me. Two! All bets are off.”

  I rub her belly, moving my hand along an imaginary infinity symbol. “This is the best bet ever.”

  Her smile spreads. “Yeah. It is. We made babies. I'm growing humans inside me.”

  “You are.”

  Every day, we have this conversation. Every single day, at some point, we stare at her navel and pat ourselves on the back for doing what Neanderthals did long before you could order a coffee on a phone or book a seat on a private space shuttle (I was number three in line when they took deposits). From the dawn of man until now, hormones and desire have made it possible to procreate.

  And I hear the desire part is optional for some people.

  Definitely not us.

  “You know what's missing here?” I grab my phone.

  “You working?” Her tone goes sour.

  A few taps, and the opening chords of the first song on Yes's The Yes Album begin on the kitchen speakers. Her shoulders drop, a long, slow inhale making her ribs widen, increasingly bigger breasts rising up, my palms curling in as if imagining how I'm going to cradle them momentarily. Neurology is complex, the complicated weaving of personality, basic functioning, biology, impulse, perception–the whole mix of what makes us fully human–coming to the fore as the melody finds its way through all the interconnected channels to tap into emotion.

  That heart of mine, tucked behind the iron door of a safe?

  It's tapping its toes now as she lets me put my arms around her, the back of her head pressed into my chest, her weight melting into me as we close our eyes and do exactly what all expectant parents should do.

  Be.

  Just be.

  2

  Amanda

  “I can't believe you gag on saltine crackers but you can eat that,” Shannon says as she points to the roe resting on top of a carefully molded chunk of rice.

  We're having lunch together at a trendy new “we serve a little bit of everything” restaurant in Beacon Hill in Boston, the kind of place where you can order black bean penne tossed with arugula/sunflower seed pesto, or various kinds of sushi, or vegan ice cream with pour-over coffee.

  It's like a cafeteria for hipsters.

  “It's orange. Apparently, I can eat salty orange things and nothing else.”

  She snorts. “You told me this when we talked on the phone, but I thought you were kidding!”

  “Not kidding.”

  “I can't believe we're both afflicted by the same orange food problem in early pregnancy.”

  “You rubbed off on me,” I say with a glare.

  “Carrots?”

  “Only carrot chips, like potato chips.”

  “Oranges?”

  “No. Not salty.”

  “Salmon?”

  “So far, yes, if it's more orange than pink.”

  “What else is orange and salty?”

  “Sweet potato fries.”

  Shannon waits, as if there's a longer list.

  “That's... it?”

  I shrug.

  “There has to be more. What about Goldfish crackers?”

  I smack my palm to my head. “I never thought of those! I'll add them to my list.”

  “I just expanded your dietary repertoire by twenty-five percent. You’re welcome.”

  “Shut up. You had weird foot behaviors when you were pregnant with Ellie.”

  “I did. No Cheeto smoothies, though.” Her shudder is so judgmental.

  “You weren't pregnant with twins.”

  “Here we go again. You're becoming as competitive as Andrew, Amanda.”

  “It's a statement of fact. Not one-upmanship.”

  “Okay. Fine.” Shannon flags down the server, who stops and gives us a patient smile.

  “Yes?”

  “You have microcreamery ice creams, yes?”

  “Sure.”

  “Any chance you have something orange and something salty?”

  “How about orange sherbet and salted caramel ice cream?”

  My stomach sings.

  “Yes!” I say. “Can you add a side of anchovies?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That was a bad joke,” Shannon tells her, laughing and rolling her eyes.

  But it wasn’t.

  “Two servings of orange sherbet and salted caramel ice cream,” I say.

  “God, no!” Shannon practically screams. “Not two! Only one. I want a double scoop of chocolate peppermint, like normal people.”

  I look at her like she’s crazy. “I wasn’t talking about your order!”

  “Okay, then,” the server says, backing away slowly. “Two orange sherbet and salted caramel ice creams, one double scoop of chocolate peppermint,” she mutters as she walks away.

  “‘Normal people’?” I throw out at Shannon.

  “You know. Women who aren't eating for three.”

  “You typically eat a pint of ice cream in one sitting, Shannon. Those pints say 'serves four.'”

  She pats her stomach. “Then maybe I'm having triplets.”

  “The older you get, the more you sound like your mother.”

  We laugh, but I'm not kidding this time, either.

  “How's Ellie?”

  “She’s marvelous.”

  “
That Mommy and Me class working out?”

  “It's going slowly. We're working on getting her used to the playgroup at the preschool, and next month, we're going to try leaving her there. We can't have a repeat of the gym daycare fiasco.”

  I wince. “Did the daycare worker's toupee survive being torn off like that?”

  “Yes.” She hunches over. “His ego was bruised more than his scalp, thank goodness.” Her eyebrows go up. “Dec says the guy got off easy. Ellie kicks Daddy's balls regularly, like her foot is a stick and his boys are a pinata.”

  “She just loves you. A lot.” I bring my water glass to my neck and press the wet side of it under my earlobe, hoping it'll quell the unease in my stomach.

  “And I love her a lot, too.” She eyes my belly. “Wait until you’ve spent almost a year holding a human leech against your skin twenty-four/seven.”

  “Andrew has his moments.”

  “Hah!” Sympathy takes over her face. “I'm sorry about the morning sickness, though.” A single orange globule of fish egg sits on my plate, taunting me, daring me to press my fingertip into it and lick it off the pad.

  “Thanks.” Who knew one little fish egg could make my entire stomach start to rebel?

  The server appears, tray aloft, setting my bowl of ice cream in front of me, delivering Shannon's with a flourish. Two napkins, two spoons–and then one intense whiff of Shannon's chocolate mint ice cream makes eating for three suddenly turn into nausea for three acres.

  The server loads our dirty plates onto the tray as everything in the universe warbles. Wobbles. Warbles and wobbles into a sickening vibration that's about to make me spew.