Marrying My Billionaire Hookup

Pablo jabs his index finger in my direction. “That’s like taking candy from a baby.”

“What are you going to do?” Rafael demands.

Her oldest brother’s question surprises me. Were they not paying attention earlier? “The right thing. I’ll marry her and provide for our child. I’ll be a good father.” I’ll do everything in my power to do exactly that.

“Forget it, man. She doesn’t love you,” Hugo says, shaking his head.

“And you don’t love her, either.” Angel moves as though he’s about to spit at me, but stops short. “Dick.”

I swallow a sigh and refrain from shaking my head at how they’re muddying a perfectly good offer with emotion. “It’s better we aren’t overly emotionally involved. It would complicate our lives.”

“Complicate?” Rinaldo says, bristling.

“I’m gonna spell it out for you, bro,” Rafael says with the entitled authority typical of an oldest sibling. “You better fall in love with her and marry her. Jo deserves a good man who worships the ground she walks on.”

Dramatic much? How much did he really drink?

“Yeah. What he said.” Pablo places his hands on his hips and thrusts his head forward. But the tie ruins the effect.

Angel cracks his knuckles. “We’re going to postpone the ass kicking for the moment. I’m sure our parents want more than one grandkid.”

I almost laugh at the ludicrous logic. I suppose nobody told them that people are perfectly capable of procreating without a functional ass. No wonder their immediate first response when I said Jo was pregnant was that she’s a virgin.

Still, I keep that to myself. Required for procreation or not, I’m rather fond of my ass as is, and I’d rather not be limping when I speak to Jo after her parents are finished with her.

Chapter Eighteen

Jo

I walk through the restaurant, past all the happy diners and cheery Mexican music. Becky smiles.

“Heading home?”

I muster a smile in return. “Yeah. Have a good night.”

“You too!” She leans closer. “When you get a chance, you have to tell me about that hottie in the suit. He’s the best guy you’ve ever brought here. You shoulda told me he was your man, so I wouldn’t have tried to stop him from joining the dinner.”

My smile grows wan. I don’t want to discuss Edgar with Becky, so I just give her a noncommittal nod and head out before she can add anything else.

What would she think if I told her I didn’t invite him to the dinner? That he just barged in to announce he got me pregnant? Would she gasp at his balls or sigh and tell me to go for him because he’s a “hottie”? Becky seems very good at picking men. She’s engaged to her college sweetheart.

I don’t have a college sweetheart because I never went, but my high school sweethearts didn’t work out. Things always fizzled within about four months, at the most.

Wow. Put that way, I realize we didn’t even last a semester. Actually, forget high school…none of my exes lasted that long, period.

The night air is cool and full of the smell of the city. My beloved Los Angeles. This is where my family is. Home. My people, my place.

My phone pings. Hugo again? I check it and see a text from Aaron.

–Aaron: How did it go?

Ugh. I drop my phone back into my purse. Communicating with him is about as fun as licking a gas station toilet bowl, and I’m not going to end my day on such an unpleasant note. He needs to wait until I’m ready to tell him it went sideways because he is too cheap, has the worst taste in jewelry and is too stupid to live. What loser imagines that blackmailing a woman into marrying him is going to end well?

I start walking through the lot toward my car. I should get some sleep and think about how I’m going to deal with Edgar. Avoiding him is just immature and won’t solve anything. And my parents are right: we shouldn’t get married simply because of a baby. Besides, what if Edgar meets somebody else—the other half of his soul—later? Wouldn’t divorce be more traumatic for the child? And what about me?

My mind fills with a short clip of Edgar telling me he’s in love with somebody else and he’d appreciate it if I’d just go along with a divorce. Of course, he’ll provide for me and our child, as that is the responsible thing—the right thing—to do. And he’s going to say all of it in his solemnly serious and hot voice that never fails to put sparks of joyful lust in me.

Something bitter and ugly fills my mouth—jealousy of the hypothetical woman of Edgar’s dreams. I close my eyes and exhale roughly. What’s wrong with me? I’m jealous of a person who doesn’t even exist?