Baby for the Bosshole

“You? In good mood?” Huxley says. “Why?”

Because Amy and I had super-hot sex. Not that I plan to announce that in front of my brothers.

After a moment of consideration, he adds, “Did you already figure out what to get for Dad’s birthday?”

Ah, shit. “It’s his birthday already?” Marjorie hasn’t said anything, so I figured I still had plenty of time to decide. Should’ve known better. She only works nine to five, and she is s-l-o-w. Plus, she hates giving me bad news, especially anything to do with my dad, so she procrastinates as long as she can.

“Five weeks,” Grant says.

“Ugh.” I hate buying stuff for Dad. He has everything a man could possibly want, including more money than me. He doesn’t like waiting and isn’t shy about voicing his displeasure when he gets something he doesn’t want. The phrase “it’s the thought that counts” doesn’t exist in Dad’s lexicon.

I know of one gift he wouldn’t complain about: a stripper. But I’m not hiring a stripper for my father’s birthday bash. The idea is simply too gross.

“Install one of those fancy filters you’re funding in his pool,” Noah says. “He’d like that.”

“It’s not that kind of filter,” I say. Even if it were, no filter on earth can clean up what Dad does in his pool. It’s disgusting.

“If you don’t mind, I have the perfect gift idea,” Sebastian says confidently, which scares me a little because Sebastian has a talent for choosing the perfect gift for everyone and every occasion. That’s why his mother’s side of the family plans to have him lead Sebastian Jewelry one day.

And yes, Sebastian giving us the perfect gift idea for Dad would be great, except it would have to involve something I won’t like. Dad doesn’t do tasteful.

“Do I want to hear this when I’m not done eating yet?” I ask.

“Sure. It isn’t that gross. I guarantee he’ll laugh and thank us.”

“He never laughs or thanks anyone for a present,” Nicholas says.

“He will for this one.”

“Are we getting him cats?” Griffin says, dread etched on his pretty face. It must’ve made a lot of girls sign up for his econometrics course, not realizing the hell they were volunteering themselves for. If they got really lucky they ended up with him in behavioral economics, but he only teaches that once in a while.

Huxley snorts. “Pussies, maybe.”

I’m skeptical, too. Nicholas is right; Dad basically appreciates nothing. When I got accepted to Stanford, he merely nodded and said, “Tell Joey how much you need for tuition and fees. He’ll cut you a check and get you a Maserati. You can pick the color.”

It wasn’t personal, though. He did that to all of us. When we graduated, he didn’t come to graduation for any of us. Said it’d be unfair to go to one and not the others. He booked first-class tickets for our mothers to attend the ceremonies and sent each of us a Lamborghini to replace the Maserati from four years earlier. And then he went and partied in the Bahamas with his harem.

It’s just the way he is. And, viewed in a certain light, it’s practical. What would I do with some praise from Dad? After a while, I’d probably just forget whatever he said. But his paying for college and giving me brand-new cars have a lasting impact. No student loans to worry about. And some sleek, sexy transportation I could rely on.

Of course, I don’t have his Lamborghini anymore. I’m too old to drive Daddy’s Lambo. I got myself a new one.

Sebastian leans forward. “Okay. Imagine your ideal type.”

“Of what?” Noah says.

“Of woman, obviously.”

I gaze beyond my brothers and let my mind wander. It doesn’t take long to settle on my ideal type.

Long, soft golden hair I wanted to run my fingers through the moment I laid eyes on her. A lush red mouth that curves into a smile or purses when she thinks. Bright, intelligent blue eyes that never fail to jack up my pulse every time I look into them. A slim body with small, rounded breasts and long legs encased in monochromatic business outfits that beg to be ripped off her. Such sensuality shouldn’t be hidden.

She can talk Excel and capitalization for hours without her eyes glazing over. A terrible taste in men, but nobody’s perfect. I can overlook that little flaw. Even fix it.

“Now, imagine hiring somebody like that, seven different women, and putting them all into a fake cake,” Sebastian says.

Amy in a cake. She should put on something sexy. A red dress. Maybe a bikini. Actually, forget that. Just a red ribbon around her neck.

“Afterward, we have the staff bring it out—"