Pregnant By The CEO by Cassandra Dee

4

Pierce

Casey seems to have a place in mind. The curvy girl walks briskly in front of me as she crosses the street, but nothing can stop that big bottom from swaying. I’m entranced just watching it until I catch myself. This is your nemesis, the voice in my head warns. Don’t lose it.

Right. I’m here to take care of business of a sort. We end up at a brightly colored cafe called Le Pain Et Moi. It’s decorated with frilly curtains and slightly terrifying porcelain dolls that stare at you from the countertops. Who did the interior décor of this place? Super freaky, for sure. The barista, with his long, perfectly manicured beard, tamps and pulls away at the hissing espresso machine amidst a collage of old film stars.

But even if the décor is weird, at least the food looks good. The pastries under the glass counter are like something out of a fairy tale. Glazed cakes and pies are piled high in a variety of colors. Sprinkles abound, and there’s plenty of creamy mascarpone cheese as well as colorful whipped toppings.

A British girl with long dreadlocks leads us to a table. It still has sugar packets stuck to the table in a half-moon of leftover water. Gross. Looking bored, she wipes the water and paper away with a cloth and then yawns while handing us the menus, but I hand mine right back.

“Just an espresso for me, thanks.”

She nods before glancing at Casey. I also take this opportunity study my nemesis. The curvy girl’s craning her neck, seemingly peeking into the pastry case at the front counter. She glances back at her menu, then back at the case before letting out a gusty sigh. I shake my head ruefully, as this is already taking far longer than I wanted. I just want to cut to the chase and talk about the article.

But despite my anger, I have to admit that Miss Casey Henderson is still pretty damn attractive. I’d correctly guessed her hair color from the newspaper photo: rich chocolatey curls. She’s a bit flushed, perhaps from the warm spring day, and I can’t help but think it might be from me. After all, women have a tendency to fall at my feet. Heck, I could snap my fingers, and a couple females would appear from thin air, begging for attention.

But back to Casey. She must be dressed for work. Her blouse, a buttery yellow sleeveless chiffon, gapes a bit to reveal a peek of her ample cleavage. I can see a tiny peek of her bra, a soft pink in color. She’s in a charcoal grey pencil skirt, which accentuates both the round curves of her lovely tummy and her sizeable bottom. Her skin is smooth and creamy, like the palest milk spattered with just a few freckles here and there.

I quickly shake my head. Snap out of it, Pierce. She may be beautiful, but she’s also the hag who wrote that trash about you in the paper. Don’t let her charm you with her looks.

Finally, Casey looks up.

“I’ll have a cappuccino, please. And a raspberry croissant.” She smiles graciously at the waitress, who nods in response, scribbling our simple orders onto her notepad.

“You sure you don’t want a pastry?” the dreds-girl asks me. “We’ve got these lovely muffins that just came out of the oven—”

“No, my espresso will suffice. Thank you.”

The waitress shrugs again and leaves. I’m left staring at Casey, who is watching the bearded barista churn out coffee. Is she avoiding my eyes? I clear my throat. She notices and that amber gaze flicks towards me.

“So, how can I help you?” she asks, finally looking back at me, her chin quivering ever so slightly.

I snort in response and the woman breathes in deep and sits up straighter.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s do this. You expect women to put up with your shit, right ? The way you treated that girl, not to mention nearly plowing me down on the sidewalk …. Well, you’re a real piece of work, Mr. Lane.”

I feel anger flash through my brain. Even more surprising, I feel dismay at hearing this gorgeous woman speak to me with such dislike. Why does it matter? Why do I care what this person thinks, anyhow? She’s just a random journalist and I’ve dealt with journalists in droves before.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I say evenly, keeping my expression neutral.

“Sure I do,” she flicks her glance away as if impatient for her food. “I know enough.”

“Great. Who am I, then?”

She turns towards me and looks me straight in the eye.

“Let me see. You’re a playboy who thinks he runs New York because he’s rich. Right so far? Extravagant lifestyle, floats through life with moneybags at his feet. Raised to think he could do no wrong and actually deserves his luxurious possessions.”

She’s completely wrong, and it stings that someone I don’t even know thinks this of me. I’m angry, but there’s something else too. I hate to admit it, but I’m aroused. Being so close to this luscious female has made my male instincts go haywire, and I’m five seconds from sweeping her off her feet and into my bed. So I focus harder on my anger. This is your nemesis, the voice in my head warns again. Don’t lose it.

I glare at her. “Wrong, Miss Henderson. You are so wrong.”

She lifts a graceful eyebrow. “What about my assessment is wrong, exactly?”

The waitress returns to the table with our coffees. She places a little pastry in front of Casey, who promptly breaks it in half. Chocolate and raspberry preserves ooze out onto the plate. With a little eye-roll, she offers me some.

I shake my head, instead opting for a long sip of my espresso. The hot liquid scalds my throat.

I watch Casey swirl the chocolatey foam floating at the top of her cup. She dips the corner of her croissant into the frothy beverage, takes a nibble of the soggy pastry and sighs again with delight. Man, who knew food could be such an aphrodisiac? I glower in her direction even as my body heightens with arousal. The zip of my pants is positively straining now.

“Your assumption, Miss Henderson, is wrong,” I say flatly. “You don’t know where I come from. You don’t know who raised me. You don’t know anything about my values or what’s important to me.”

She laughs. “Oh, a self-made man, are we?”

I shake my head. There's never any use in lying to a journalist.

“No. I’m not,” I admit. “My father is Winston Lane.”

She raises an eyebrow, but is unfazed by the name-dropping.

“I don’t care who your daddy is, Mr. Lane. I care about how you treated that poor woman who wrote me.”

She takes a long sip of her coffee and a new wave of anger passes over me. What does she know about how I treated Maria? Maybe that whole letter was fake, for all she knows. This time, the frustration bursts out.

“Poor woman? Ha! You don’t know anything about Maria or who she is, any more than you do about me. You read her sob story, which, by the way, is missing huge amounts of information, and decided you’re the expert on what happened. What gives you the right? Do you also believe every piece of clickbait crap you see on social media?”

“No, of course not. I do my research,” she says haughtily. But I notice the tips of her ears have taken on a reddish tint. I must have scored with one of those accusations.

“Well, you didn't do a stitch of research on me. You just sounded off, without bothering to check your facts.” Now her face is red and slightly mottled, as her hands clench uselessly on air.

“Look, Mr. Lane. All I know is that you broke someone’s heart this month. You hurt a woman badly enough that she had to turn to me for help.”

Lowering my brows, I lean close.

“Riddle me this, Miss Henderson. If she was so hurt, and your advice was oh so helpful, then how come I never received the bracelet in the mail?”

I give her my most patronizing smile. A flicker of uncertainty passes over Casey’s face as she processes this new information. Flustered, she shakes her head as if it will get rid of me. No such luck.

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t hurt her,” the brunette insists. “Actually, it doesn’t really mean anything. I told her to do whatever made her feel comfortable, so I imagine she did.”

Feeling powerful, I press just a little further.

“I don’t think so. I think if she was really offended by my so-called ghosting, then she would have sent the bracelet back. Wouldn’t you?” Casey dodges the question.

“The jewelry doesn’t mean anything,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s just a material item. You always think that women can be bought off.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I muse, smirking. She merely rolls her eyes in response, as if that comment’s not even worth replying to.

I look Casey in the eye. She looks back straight, her lovely chocolate gaze full of disdain. But then I smile again.

“That bracelet cost me twenty thousand dollars. I bet Maria didn’t mention that in her letter to you. Now tell me, if someone gave you twenty thousand dollars, would you give it back over hurt feelings?”

By the shocked expression on her face, I can tell my tactic has worked. Obviously, the diamond bracelet was expensive, but Casey had no idea just how expensive. She probably thought it was some trinket bought from a jewelry mart, and I smirk knowingly. Because now, Casey’s played right into my hands … and I’m ready to devour the curvy woman.