The Billionaire's Reluctant Pregnant Bride: A BWWM Romance

The Billionaire's Reluctant Pregnant Bride

by Imani King

***

I just had the best sex of my life with New York's most eligible playboy bachelor, billionaire Preston Easterbrook. There are only three problems.

#1: He's my brother's best friend.

#2: I hate his guts.

#3: I’m now pregnant with his child.

Actually, make that four problems. After I told Preston he was going to be a dad, he chased me down on the street and proposed marriage. Unfortunately, the paparazzi were there too. I fell during all the commotion, hit my head, and now I can't remember anything.

When I wake up with amnesia, I'm being cared for by the New York's sexiest bachelor. Supposedly I hated this guy, but I can't figure out why. He's strong and successful. He's loving and patient. He treats me like I'm the only girl he's ever wanted. Was I too blind to see it all these years, or is there something really big I'm forgetting? Maybe it's best if I don't remember. There's a wedding coming up, and I don't want this fairy tale to end.

***

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Copyright Information

The Billionaire's Reluctant Pregnant Bride

Copyright © 2015 Imani King. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, celebrities, characters, places, businesses, trademarks and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons alive or dead is entirely coincidental. None of the celebrities, trademarks, works of art, artists, or businesses mentioned in this book endorse this book unless otherwise specified. All stock art and fonts were either purchased or made availalbe free for commercial use by the artists/designers. None of the models, photographers, artists, font designers, etc endorse Imani King or her work unless otherwise specified.

Chapter 1

Preston Easterbrook.

There isn’t a person in Manhattan that doesn’t know that name. He’s New York’s most eligible bachelor and most notorious manwhore. Men want to be him and women want to marry him—or at least be under him for one glorious, unforgettable night.

I knew him before he was all that.

Back then he might have been half the size, but his ego still burned as hot and bright as the sun. And every time he deigned to visit my humble childhood home, he made sure he’d burned his cocky visage into my retinas before he left.

At ten, he had the shiniest bicycle on the block with the loudest bell. At sixteen, the hottest car on campus with the loudest horn. And now, at the ripe age of 25, Preston Easterbrook decided to stick his office in the biggest building in Manhattan. I swear, the only reason you couldn’t see it from space was because he couldn’t secure the permit.

Was he overcompensating for something? Oh, most definitely. And I wish I could say it was for the size of his dick, but I unfortunately I knew from experience that it wasn’t.

Or should I say fortunately? Because that night was, hands down, the most…

I shake my head. No, I was
not
going to finish that thought.

“Arrogant ass,” I whisper under my breath. I know exactly how Preston would respond if he heard me say that:
But it’s a sexy arrogant ass, isn’t it?
And after he said it, I’d tell myself rather sternly not to encourage him, but I wouldn’t listen to my sound advice because when it came to him I just couldn’t let anything go. I mean, my blood is already boiling and we haven’t even started talking. This meeting was going to be hell, and my only comfort was that he’d be dragged into the flames with me.

The paparazzi circling the entrance for scraps of gossip like vultures pay me no heed, and why would they? Sure, I was a hot up-and-coming artist, but it wasn’t like my face was plastered all over every magazine in the city. With my paint splattered jeans and hair pulled back into a messy bun with one of those gigantic, neon multi-colored scrunchies from the 90’s, they probably thought I was here to clean the toilets. Little did they know I secretly carried what would have been the biggest scoop of their entire careers if they’d cared to notice.

Which they didn’t.

And thank God for that. I didn’t know how I was going to tell my brother. As Preston’s best friend and business partner, he wasn’t going to take it well. Still, he’d want to hear it from me, not from the front page of the
Times
as he leaned back to enjoy his morning coffee.

You can do this, Tachell
, I tell myself as I slip through the gold rotating doors. Preston first. The rest of the world could come later.

The inside of the building is even more decadent. The marble floor stretches out over the lobby like a black mirror, reflecting the emerald leaves of exotic plants. My boots clack as I make my way to the front desk.

An older man impeccably dressed in a black suit and tie raises his eyebrows instead of greeting me.

I drum my fingers on the dark, polished wood of the desk. “I’m here to see Preston.”

Those bushy salt and pepper eyebrows of his immediately drop into a frown. “Last name?”

“Easterbrook.” I’m tempted to say Easterbutt; I don’t because I’m no longer six.

His pointer finger starts clicking frantically. I bet I interrupted a game of Spider Solitaire. “I don’t see you on the schedule,” he informs me.

“That’s ‘cause I’m not on it.”

“I can’t let you see Mr. Easterbrook without an appointment.”

“Oh, he’ll see me.” Even though he had no idea what was coming, Preston never turned up an opportunity to infuriate me. Me showing up where he worked would make it easy. Hell, he’d probably be thrilled…at least until I opened my mouth.

The impeccably dressed man took a long look at my less than impeccable attire. “I’m sorry, miss.”

“Just give him a call,” I begin.

He sighs, reaching for the phone. “Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to leave—”

“And tell him Tachell Jones is here,” I finish.

The man tilts his head to the side. “Did you say your last name was Jones?”

I give him a dazzling smile. “Yeah. I’m Reggie’s little sister.” It wasn’t often dropping a name like Reggie got you anywhere, so I decided to milk the moment for all it was worth.

“Oh,” he says, as if that explains everything.

Wait a minute! I’ve never even met this guy, how would he know about me? But before I can ask, he’s on the phone and talking to whom I can only guess is Preston.

“Mr. Easterbrook, I’m so sorry to bother you—yes, I know you’re busy—”

My heart starts beating faster.

“However, a Miss Tachell Jones is here to see you and she’s quite insistent—”

Actually, I’m feeling a bit light headed. Maybe I should sit down. Get a coffee. Yeah, coffee sounds good. Vodka sounds even better. Too bad I wouldn’t be enjoying any alcohol anytime soon.

“Yes. Right away, sir. Of course, sir.” He then hangs the phone up quietly and looks at me.

“Preston’s office is on the 70th floor. You’ll find the elevators to your left.”

Even though I have never seen Preston’s office, I know exactly where it is and what it looks like. The man
will not
shut up about it and it’s glorious view of the water—a view that is especially beautiful at night and, apparently, best enjoyed when he’s “working late.” Still, I thank the man at the front desk for his directions and head for the elevators.

There are six of them all lined up in a row. I press the little up arrow closest to me and watch the numbers descend.

50…49…48…

I still have time to leave. I don’t have to do this in person. Actually, why
was
I doing this in person? I could do this over the phone. Text. Email.

22…21…20…

Yes, email was a brilliant idea! And then, I could cancel my phone. It was getting way too expensive, anyway. Despite the success I’d enjoyed at last month’s show, I still fit the description of a starving artist. Yeah, phones were overrated. So was checking my email. In fact, I bet I could get away with checking it once a month.

9…8…7…

Yeah, checking my email once a month was more than enough. And next month, maybe I’d be ready to talk to Preston.
Maybe
.

3…2…1…

The elevator doors open with a ding.

No, I can’t hide from this. It doesn’t matter how much I hate him, he deserves to know. And telling him face to face is the only way to do it. I push my shoulders back, straighten my spine, and step into the elevator.

Then, I hit the number 70. It starts glowing like a scarlet A.

It takes a
long
time to go up that high in an elevator, leaving me way too much time to think. I start to doubt the wisdom behind my decision to come here right after work. I look like a mess, and not a hot one. I should have gone home, showered, done my hair, and put on something nice. That’s what a smart woman would have done. But no, I didn’t want Preston to think I was dressing up for him.

But this might have been going too far in the opposite direction. My fingers are smeared with charcoal. My jeans and boots are covered in gesso, and the only reason my black shirt wasn’t covered too was because I’d been wearing my potato sack smock. Thank God I hadn’t decided against wearing that. Sometimes, when life turned to shit, you really had to step back and appreciate the small things.

Finally the doors open on floor 70. I strut out of the elevator like I’m dripping in diamonds instead of splattered in paint.

His very cute—and very blond—receptionist raises her perfect brows. “Miss…?”

“Tachell,” I tell her.

Her entire demeanor changes. In a flash, she goes from the stereotypically bitchy cheerleader captain to that sweet girl who bakes everyone brownies on Valentine’s Day. “Oh,
you’re
Tachell! I’m so sorry!”

Sorry for what? And why did she say my name like that?

She smiles. “I’m sorry, I’ve just heard so much about you. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

What the hell? What has Preston been telling her about me?

She gestures behind her. “You painted this, right?”

I glance behind her and stop.

It’s the still life from my first show. I’d done it for a class assignment, but had ended up turning in another painting because this one was too personal. We were supposed to paint something from our childhood. I’d picked a small bouquet of lavenders.

My father was the groundskeeper for a super exclusive k-12 prep school. Because of that, we were able to attend the school tuition-free. Every day, I saw him watering flowers, landscaping, and pruning trees on campus. Unfortunately, the other kids saw him too.

Is that your dad, Tachell?
They’d asked.
Is he a gardener?