Baby for the Bosshole

Warm up the audience.

State the agenda.

Iterate the importance of what I’m about to say.

Storyboard the material for the greatest impact.

Closing remarks.

Q&A.

Except… How do I warm Emmett up to the news? No matter how I begin, it’s going to go over as well as an exploding landmine.

And the greatest impact? I doubt he needs or wants a greater impact than what just telling him will provide.

Argh! I shove my fingers into my hair. This is worse than telling Dad I crashed my car in high school.

Still, I manage to put something together, mainly focusing on pros of the baby and options available to him, such as joint custody and reasonable child support as determined by an attorney. I don’t want Emmett to think I’m angling for some kind of commitment between us because of the baby, since that isn’t what we agreed to in the first place.

Just in case the PowerPoint is a bust—I might change my mind tomorrow—I also draft three executive memos. They read dry and professional.

Good. Good.

Since I might possibly need it, I create an Excel model of what the cost of raising a child would look like. Except… How do you quantify the time investment necessary? Maybe I can do it the way some of my friends who went into management consulting do—create a blended rate for me and Emmett and use that to put a price on parental involvement.

I sigh as I stare at the model, my whole body collapsing like a sandcastle under an unforgiving wave. How the hell am I going to put a price tag on my plan—paying off my student loans and buying Dad the retirement home of his dreams? I make the money I make because I put in the hours I put in. If I want to pull back, then I’m going to have to make a career switch, which would pay far less but allow more free time.

Hey, at least you’re going to give your dad a grandbaby to bounce on his knee!

Some silver lining. I’m certain a surprise accident baby isn’t what Dad has in mind for me.

I toss and turn all night, getting up three more times to tinker with the presentation, memos and model.

The next morning, I don’t feel any better. Would it be bad if I canceled on Emmett?

Yes. Yes, it would. He’d want to know why, and I don’t want to lie to him. Besides, telling him I’m sick won’t work, either. He’ll just come over with a vat of chicken noodle soup.

Why couldn’t he be a little bit more selfish? Like Rick?

Of course, if he were like Rick, I would’ve broken up with him by now.

I make a cup of coffee to fortify myself before I go, but Sasha stops me. “You might want to limit your coffee and tea. Caffeine is supposed to be bad for babies.”

I look down at the fresh brew. You gotta be kidding me. But I don’t want to do anything that could hurt the baby, so I sigh, resigned to the fact that I’ll have to go cold turkey on coffee for a while. “Life is so unfair. You want this?”

She gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry, but…yeah. Thanks.”

It takes me a long time to pick out clothes. I don’t want to wear something super casual, but I don’t want to look like I’m going into the office to talk to the boss, since it isn’t that kind of rendezvous. I settle on a white cotton shirt and dark jeans. Then I slip on my favorite high-heel sandals. Half casual, half serious.

By the time I park in Emmett’s driveway, I’m quivering with nerves. My hands are clammy around the steering wheel, and I’m honestly surprised I was able to drive here.

I’m also probably starting caffeine withdrawal. And I have to throw Emmett into a minefield.

After taking several deep breaths to calm myself—which doesn’t work—I sling the biggest purse I could find in my closet over a shoulder. It contains my laptop. I didn’t want to bring my laptop bag because that might look weird.

I ring the doorbell and wait. Emmett opens the door with a wide grin that would normally make my heart flutter. Right now I’m too nervous to appreciate how hot he is in his gray V-neck shirt and black shorts.

He puts a hand on my shoulder and sweetly pulls me inside. “Missed you.” His lips brush over mine.