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

Were you ever on a riverboat casino?

My heart stops ticking like a broken clock.

Patton Rory’s words bounce around my head like a stray bullet, lodging between my ears.

Oh, here we go.

I wondered if he knew.

Right from the start when he gave me that strange, slowly dawning look of horror.

But I didn’t think we’d do this now.

I didn’t think we’d do this at all.

I thought he’d just pretend to forget, to convince himself it never happened, just like me.

Nope. Remember how I said I’m Miss Unlucky?

And of course Mr. Honesty chose the best time to have this little talk after kicking me to the curb for being an idiot, proving he doesn’t have a single civil bone in his body.

Or is it some kind of twisted punishment? He’s been annoyed with me all day.

So maybe that’s partly my fault.

I’m sure I haven’t been a perfect angel. Maybe I have enjoyed the way he loses that mask of gruff professionalism, too.

God, there’s no maybe about it, and now it’s payback time.

He rests the edge of his hand against the steering wheel and turns to face me, a frown tugging his lips down.

“Salem?” he asks.

Shit.

I haven’t said anything yet.

I’m just sitting here mute because I don’t know what to say.

Panic and horror wrestle in my gut, threatening to turn me inside out.

What the hell do I do?

How does anyone respond to this?

“Yes,” I say. “Yes.” Say something besides ‘yes.’ “I think I was.”

“Good.” He sounds both relieved and annoyed.

“Yes,” I say again, trying not to smack myself in the head.

“It was a long time ago now,” he rumbles.

“Sure was,” I say miserably.

Holy cringe.

“We were so young.” He looks at me like he’s reflecting on just how young I was back then. Barely twenty-one. Just a fresh-faced baby in the merciless world who didn’t know better than to sleep with a man who was destined to become one of the most desirable men in the entire city.

I mean, from the way Kayla talks about him, he could be on the top one hundred hottest bachelors in America list.

“Young, yes,” I echo. At least it’s not just ‘yes’ this time.

Stupid.

He clears his throat like every word takes crushing effort. “Everyone in their twenties has bad hookups that might come back to haunt them. We all make mistakes.”

Mistakes. Right-o.

At least it’s taking him effort to get this out.

But is he really expecting me to answer? To throw my hands up and forget?

No chance.

Because his little ‘mistake’ changed my life forever and made everything ten times harder, even if I’d do it all again for Arlo infinity times.

Meanwhile, he’s been grumping along, getting rich with his brothers, and slurping fancy coffees every morning that would make me bankrupt.

I’m stuck grinding with a kid—his kid—all alone in this city. Desperately trying to get off the ground before I’m thirty and figure out a stable life.

He looks at me like he’s waiting for me to say something profound, to save us both from suffocating in the awkward silence.

Something better than one-word answers, which really are about the extent of my vocabulary right now.

My chest hurts like it’s swarming with angry hornets.

The same ache I felt when I found out I was pregnant and alone.

It tastes like stress and fear and it promises to crush my organs if I can’t make it stop. If I let it get the better of me, I’ll forget how to breathe.

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

Not in front of Patton Rory. Jesus, don’t do it.

If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s letting him know what he’s done to me.

I honestly can’t fathom how he seems so unaffected beyond losing his words.

But I push at the ache, forcing every raw emotion into a condensed ball at the pit of my stomach, and let numbness replace feeling.

That’s what helps me look back at him, feeling my face go safely blank.

If he wants a few pointless platitudes, fine.

“Sure. I wondered if you remembered,” I say, my tone too flat. An expression crosses his face that I can’t quite read. “You’re right. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“And I don’t want ours getting in the way of our business relationship. That’s why I’m dropping this on you—on us. Sorry if it makes you feel like shit.”

Yikes.

Frustration reaches through the numbness and pulls at my heart.

I’m still in disbelief.

Because if he knew he had a hidden son, that would definitely get in the way of any relationship we’ll ever have. I nod like a sagging puppet.

“It’s fine. Really. It’s whatever. It was a long time ago and we’re clearly different people now.”

“Salem—”

For a second, I close my eyes, willing myself to end this conversation without a full psychotic meltdown.

“No, no, I promise we’re good, Mr. Rory. Just don’t call me Lady Bug!”

Boom, there’s my exit.

I fling the door open again and make my escape before my lungs seize up.

I’ve forgotten how to breathe and I’m drowning more by the second.

I just know I have to get away from the source of it right now.

The stark panic fades by the time I reach my car, a battered old Toyota. I unlock it with trembling fingers and shoot him one last glance.

He’s still sitting right where he was, watching me in his rearview mirror with a startled look on his face.

I don’t know what he expected.

I don’t know what I expected.

Did I want him to apologize?

To fall on his sword for reading my mind and instantly knowing all the ways he’s doomed me to life on hard mode?

To suggest we do it again?

God.

The very idea drives a painful giggle out of me—a desperate, breathy, hurt thing—as I throw myself behind the wheel and buckle up.

Yep, I’m blowing this.

Blowing it like a balloon animal specialist.

He won’t want to work with me if I can’t handle talking about a one-night stand we had six years ago. I don’t know how I can even look him in the face after this.

If it weren’t for Kayla recommending me through her dad, I’d be fired by now. No questions asked. Just a quiet letter asking me to leave before I ever really started.

I let my head clunk against the steering wheel, hoping it stops spinning at some point.

Angry emotions rise up again like old enemies you thought you’d never see again.

The nausea packs a punch, coiling in my stomach. Then more panic, lashing through my body like a current, straight to my fingertips.

Finally, the ache in my chest that attacks my tear ducts.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to scream.

So much for Patton Rory calling me lucky.Copyright by Nôv/elDrama.Org.

I have the worst luck of anyone I know, and the bad stuff just keeps piling on. Keeps on smacking me in the face.

When my forehead hits the horn and makes me jump, I jerk back up.

He’s gone now. Thank God.

Driving away in that enormous, sleek SUV that purrs rather than rattles every time you run the A/C.

What the hell ever.

Maybe he’s right.

Sure, he could’ve said it nicer—or decided not to say it at all—but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Not even about the way I’m stumbling my way into an unknown career for the hundredth time.

Oh, I would love for him to be wrong just once.

But the truth is, I don’t know much about this business.

I’m a guest in his world and I wish he was someone else.

Still, I have to make this work, never mind the instinct to call him and resign on the spot.

I’ve never succeeded at anything long enough to develop real expertise. Something else he’s noticed and probably pities me for, if he doesn’t outright despise me.

No one will ever take me seriously if they see a quitter.

Especially when you’re moping around like this, a small voice says in the back of my head. Get your crap together, Salem.

Okay, nasty voice. Thanks for the pep talk.

I wipe my face and take a breath, wondering if this health plan from the company comes with good mental health coverage.

This whole job, plus dealing with my asshole baby-daddy boss, feels like trying to ram a square peg in a round hole.

Dammit, though, I’ll try.

This will not be another Salem Hopper disaster.

No matter what it takes, I decide I can do this. If I can make it through a stint at Higher Ends, I can survive anything.

For now, I just have to keep going, one day at a time.

I slide the keys in the ignition and start the car.

The engine grumbles to life, and by the time I drive away, I’m done crying.

Before I get home that evening, I pick up Arlo from Mrs. Gabbard’s, who’s full of joy about her new granddaughter.

After spending a few minutes admiring photos of a baby that looks as red and wrinkled as a dried raisin, I escape up the stairs to our apartment.

“What do you think?” Arlo asks, holding up a drawing of what I think might be me. “Miss Peters told us to draw our heroes in class, so I drew you, Mommy.”

That’s a relief.

Last time they asked him to draw his hero in preschool, he drew Godzilla. That’s what I get for letting the kiddo stay up with me to watch dumb monster movies.

“What a nice picture. You really brought out my eyes, big guy.” I laugh at the oversized brown eyes as I unlock the door and usher him inside. “Where do you think we should put it?”

Our fridge has too many drawings to fit another masterpiece.

“Ummm… you could take it to work?”

“Oh.” I do have an office at The Cardinal. Like everything else, it’s larger and more luxurious than anything else I’ve worked in. There’s plenty of room for pictures on the walls. “Sure, honey. That sounds great.”

“I’m going to draw you so many, Mom. Gotta decorate your walls.” He flings himself down at his little desk in the corner and sends all the crayons flying out of their box. “Oops! But I’m going to draw one for Mrs. Gabbard, too,” he announces proudly. “Do you think she’ll put it on her fridge?”

“She might.” I grab a pack of meat from the fridge that’s been defrosting. Stew it is. “Don’t forget she has her own kids to show off, honey.”

“Yeah, but they’re old.” He says it with so much scorn you might think they were in their fifties.

As far as I know, they’re younger than I am, and way more successful.

“Maybe they still draw their mom pictures,” I joke.

“No way! She never has pictures on her fridge. She has magnets.” He holds up his hands. “Like so many magnets, Mommy. All from weird places.”

“I think that’s because she’s traveled a lot, sweetie.”

“Why don’t we go lots of places?”

Oh, boy.

I stop, staring at the knife in my hand.

The answer is simple—I don’t have the money or time.

It kills me that I’ve never been able to just grab my son and whisk him off to a beautiful national park or even to the ocean.

A little ironic, considering the grandparents he’s never met live in California. But my parents were happy to send us into exile and I’m just as glad to stay the hell away.

“I wonder,” I say with fake enthusiasm, “can you draw me a picture before I finish dinner?”

“Are you crazy? You bet I can!” He whoops and starts to scribble, head down and frowning at the paper. His tongue sticks out the side of his mouth and his chubby hands mash the crayon against the paper with unnecessary power.

It’ll only buy me a few minutes of peace, but I savor them. I put on my favorite playlist on my phone and cut up the vegetables, adding them to the pan with the stock and potatoes.

Sometimes Arlo fusses over beef stew, but it’s cheap, it fills you up, and it always leaves behind leftovers.

Tomorrow, I can come home and put my feet up without any worries about fixing dinner. Some TV time would be wonderful.

As I’m thinking about my evening off and enjoying the savory smells of dinner, my phone buzzes.

The name ‘Grumpybutt’ shows on the screen. I resist the urge to hurl it at the wall.

Why does he bring out the most violent urges?

And can’t he leave me alone for one dang evening?

I hesitate longer than I should before I sigh and pick up.

“Hello?”

“Salem?”

Who else? “Yes.”

“Mommy!” Arlo says, running up with a page fluttering in his hands. “I beat you!”

“Mommy’s on the phone,” I whisper under my breath, giving the drawing a thumbs-up even though I can’t see what it is. “Hang on, sweetie.”

“Sorry if this is a bad time,” Patton growls, not sounding sorry at all.

“No, it’s fine. It’s not like I have a life.” Too bitter? Oh well. “What’s up?”

“Sorry for intruding,” he says stiffly. “I know it’s late.”

It’s half past seven, long after normal people call it a day, but apparently he doesn’t know that.

But he’s my boss. And after that trainwreck earlier, I can’t refuse the call.

“I said it’s fine.”

“Okay, good.” He takes a breath. It’s just as awkward as I could’ve imagined, every single word we said before hanging between us like a wall.

Everybody makes mistakes.

Ugh, yeah. But not everybody winds up making them with their future boss.

“I’m just calling because I had an idea. I’d like you to throw together a survey,” he says. “We want customer experiences from our other properties. Something broader than the automated survey that goes out after every stay. We’ll take suggestions for improvements and look at integrating them into The Cardinal.”

I narrow my eyes at the wall.

“I see,” I say.

This feels like our conversation earlier, where my vocabulary topped out at two-word replies.

“Mommy! Look,” Arlo whispers, holding up his picture and shaking it.

“Just a minute.” I point at the phone. “Mommy’s busy. Please keep it down.”

“I won’t ruin your evening by keeping you glued to the phone,” Patton says. “I’m just curious what the data shows. You’re right about one thing—there’s always room for improvements in a space like ours. With the market being what it is, we can’t afford to sleep on any opportunities, however small, to enhance The Cardinal’s service and atmosphere.”

Atmosphere, huh? So he is reconsidering those boring paintings?

He doesn’t expand on that, but I know what he means. Highly competitive.

Higher Ends might be a scrappy rising star for now, but that doesn’t mean they can’t lose their edge in a tight market.

“Yes,” I say, trying not to sound too smug. “I agree, and I’ll pull something together.”

Now can I go have dinner in peace without having my heart put through the shredder?

Not yet. He isn’t done.

“You raised a good point today, Miss Hopper, but we really need suggestions sourced from the horses’ mouths,” he says sternly. Just in case I get too puffed up by being right—because of course he can’t have that. “We need to ensure any changes are improvements our guests are truly asking for.”

“Yeah, okay.” I tap my nails against the counter.

“I also wanted to call and pass on Bekah’s congratulations,” he says begrudgingly. “You remember Bekah?”

“Yes. She works at the front desk.” My tone is more snappish than I intend. I remember the name of the staff, I’m not a total idiot. I’m sure I’ve spent more time around them than him.

“She mentioned your cocoa bar.”

“Oh, um, that’s still a work in progress. I haven’t started looking into the details about where we’d source it, or how much it would really cost.” I brace myself, just waiting for him to tell me it’s stupid.

“Bekah loved it so much she sent it over. I think it’s solid, and I can already tell you the cost would be so incidental it’s nothing our budget can’t handle.”

What?

My inner cynic wonders if this is his way of apologizing after giving me a sledgehammer to the face.

“That’s great,” I say carefully, trying to sound sincere. “I’m glad you’re on board.”

Awkward pause.

And I wonder if he’s thinking back to our earlier conversation like I am, running over everything we said, replaying it in his mind and imagining a world where we never hooked up.

Unfortunately, we’re stuck in this one, where we’re living with the fallout of one messy night.

I could have played it off as being nothing—something weird and forgotten in the back of my mind.

I also could have told him about Arlo, gouged out my heart, and plopped it into his hands. I could’ve watched his face turn chalk white with the awful realization that he’s a father, and he’s entangled in my life far deeper than this mentorship he hates.

Honest to God, I could have done a thousand stupid things, but I didn’t.

I just sat there and let him remind me how cruel fate can be—and I’m the one taking the brunt of it.

“I’m trying to apologize, in case you didn’t notice,” he says tightly. “Let’s be real, I’m shit at it. But Salem, I like your idea, and it has nothing to do with me being a royal jackass earlier—”

Just then, Arlo bounces toward the hot stove and I rush over, pulling him away.

“Got it. I should go,” I say, cutting him short. “I’m in the middle of dinner.”

“Understood.” He clears his throat.

Arlo tugs on my arm, demanding attention.

“Moooom. You didn’t look at my picture,” he tells me, shoving it toward my face, as high as he can reach.

“I’ll start working on your survey tomorrow,” I say back into the phone. “Hopefully, I’ll have some results by the beginning of next week.” Which means processing them over the weekend, but that’s what I signed up for, right?

“Thanks, Salem,” Patton says.

I end the call as fast as I can swipe.

If this is what it’s like on the phone, I’m already dreading our next face-to-face meeting to go over the results.

Fingers crossed the ‘mentoring’ can wait a few days until things calm down.

Though I guess it’s not a total disaster when he was trying to be nice. I think.

After telling Arlo how much I love his vibrant red picture of a brand-new animal unknown to science, I finish dinner and get it plated up before eight.

Success.

Arlo should be in bed by now, but it isn’t happening.

I ignore the voice inside my head that tells me I’m a terrible mother.

“Did you have a nice day at school?” I ask. “How was story time?”

“Miss Peters read to us about a dragon who lost his socks,” he tells me proudly.

He’s a good kid, already on track to take school seriously. Let’s hope it leads him somewhere better than the obstacle course I chose.

Also, I wonder who the hell plots children’s books. Why would a dragon need socks?

“Big guy, when I was your age, we read classics like Inky the Penguin. But did your dragon find them?”

“Yeah! The sock wizard saved the day. Everybody thought he took them for a spell, but they were just under the washer.”

“Yay for happy endings.” I take a big bite of my pasta and sag into my chair. I should be more enthusiastic, but today has been A Day.

I’m exhausted.

And honestly, I’m a little jealous hearing about a dragon who has it so easy with his anticlimactic endings and all.

It’s not every day when you’re confronted by your old hookup-turned-boss and trying to mentally justify hiding his own son from him.

What is wrong with me?

But I saw how he reacted to Arlo once. That man and children can’t coexist in the same room.

“Mommy?” Arlo’s voice tells me he wants something.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“I want a button shirt.”

Button shirt? I rack my brain, trying to decipher little boy speak.

“You mean a button-up shirt? And you do, huh?” I blink at him and put my spoon in my bowl. “Why’s that?”

“Mr. Grumpybutt has one. It makes him look grown-up.” He smiles mischievously. “I remember ’cause I spilled cocoa on it.”

“You did, yes.” I’m a little amazed he remembers the disaster when he can be so oblivious. I’m also stumped at kid logic. “But I thought you didn’t like him?”

“I don’t. I mean, only a little.” Arlo looks at me like it’s obvious. “But he owns a whole building, Mom. He’s rich.”

“Maybe so, but—”

“You gotta listen to him. That’s not fair!”

I eye him carefully. Only five years old and he hates office politics. I have trained the boy well.

“That’s how it works sometimes. It doesn’t mean it’s bad. You have to listen to me,” I tell him. “That doesn’t make me so special, does it?”

“No, but you’re a grown-up!” He rolls his eyes so hard I laugh. “I’m just a kid.”

“So?”

“So it’s cool Mr. Grumpybutt gets to tell you what to do. He gets to boss around a lot of people.”

Well, no argument there.

Arlo picks at his garlic bread crust.

“If I get a button shirt, I can be like him!”

Perfect.

Absolutely peachy.

My son, estranged from his unknown father, has decided after a single meeting to fixate on him. To flipping imitate him.

A man who would, undoubtedly, freak like his hair’s on fire if he knew the kid who tore up his precious new property was really his own son.

A man who would absolutely go nuclear if he had to contemplate giving up a shred of his seemingly perfect lifestyle to burn one hour as a dad.

Like I said, call me Miss Unlucky.

The gods of good fortune decided to forsake me forever after one random night on a casino boat, and I’ll never be over it.