Page 16 of Heated Takeover

“She took care of something. Still. I assumed we were just partnering with the new buyer. I had no idea it was Ashford, and I had no idea he bought that many shares.”

My dad seems tired, and I don’t blame him. This whole thing is confusing. And it’s a lot. A company like Ashford could be seen as a blessing in disguise. I’m sure a lot of people would see it that way. But for me, for us, this company isn’t just a company. It’s our legacy. It’s our family's work and passion. And as of a couple of hours ago, it’s no longer fully ours. The entire thing has me questioning just what kind of man Marcus (aka Ash) Ashford is. And how involved I want him in my life.

“Mommy, you’re home!”

The front door to my two-bedroom apartment opens before I even grab the handle, which means Jamie has been waiting for me by the window. We live on the top floor of the Elle House, a small community of apartments and condos on Belle Isle in Miami. It’s a smaller condo than most of the others, not because I couldn’t afford better, but because there are only two of us unless you count the cat. We don’t need much.

When you live alone with a four-year-old, smaller feels safer. I think it’s safe to say I have always been a minimalist. Unlike my sister, who lives in a six-bedroom waterfront mansion on nearby Hibiscus Island. She has one child, a one-year-old named Teagan. She can’t even speak yet and already has the entitlement of a Kardashian. You could probably fit four of my apartments into my sister’s home. She’s always been far more flashy.

“Hey buddy,” I chime with the best smile I can manage at my son’s enthusiasm. Usually, it’s easy being happy around him. He’s the sweetest, most caring boy I’ve ever known. And I’m not just saying that because he’s mine.

Jamie, named after my father James “Jim” Blythe, is curious, artsy, and smart. He’s just like me in that area although he looks more like his father than he does me. His pitch-black hair and olive skin are a stark contrast to my fair coloring. He has a smirk that could get him just about anything he wants and keeps me on my toes 24/7.

If you’re good at basic math and my track record in the bedroom department, you’ve probably already guessed who Jamie’s father is. And considering the fact I have not spoken to Jamie’s father until, well, today, you have probably also deduced that Marcus Ashford doesn’t know.

I have my reasons for not telling him. For one, I was never supposed to see him again, and I wanted to protect myself and Jamie. Marcus could have taken me to court for full custody, and I would have lost because he’s one of the richest men on the planet. I didn’t know what kind of guy he was when it came to something like that. I was too young and too afraid to find out. Besides, Jamie and I have done just fine. My father made sure of that, even if my family doesn’t know the truth.

Nobody knows about that night except Dylan. When I stumbled back into her, she was still walking around with a glass of champagne. It’s not like I was going to tell my father and my overly judgmental sister that I had sex on a Ferris wheel with a complete stranger and pretended like it never happened, and then realized I was pregnant. I don’t think Reese would have believed me anyway.

So I made up a story that they would believe. After my internship, I spent a lot of time studying the industry. I wanted to be prepared for a potential promotion. If I were going to be successful in our family business, I wanted it to be based on merit, not because my father owns the company. I usually did my studying at coffee shops that stayed open late. These shops shut down their espresso machines around 9pm and started serving cocktails. Local live jazz bands often played in the corner of the room, or English majors from Barry University practiced late-night slam poetry.

I told everyone that while I was there, I had met a man by the name of Matteo Valenti. He was an Italian poet who ordered affogato every evening right before they shut the espresso machine down for the night. He’d recite poetry in the corner and then retire to a table by himself to write more poetry. And the reason our paths crossed was one night when a famous poet took over the mic for the remainder of the evening. The room was so crowded that Matteo and I were forced to share a table.

We talked. He drank his ice cream coffee while I sipped on an espresso martini. We learned that despite him being an arts major and me being a business major, we had a lot in common. We both liked jazz music, were both head of debate in school, and were both attracted to each other enough to sleep with each other on the night we met.

After that, I never saw him again. It was an extensive story for being fake. But I needed a background on where my child came from, and it needed to be detailed enough to sound real. Luckily for me, there is no Matteo Valenti for my father to stalk after he found out I was pregnant. I also begged him to stay out of it because I had no interest in raising my child with an English major who eats coffee ice cream after dark.

Luckily for me, my dad dropped it. And so did everyone else, though Reese always seemed a little suspicious.

I close the door behind me and set my things down, slipping out of my shoes as Jamie tugs me through the house. It’s tidy and smells like cookies, as usual. It’s Friday. Cookie baking day.

“Hey Brittany,” I say, greeting the nanny who is pulling a tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. “How did the day go?”

“Oh, he was an angel as usual,” she says. I know she is telling the truth. Jamie is in preschool, but Fridays are half days, which means Brittany comes over earlier. Most days she is only with him from around three to six or whenever I get home from work.

“That’s good,” I say.

“Mommy, we are doing arts and crafts,” Jamie says, and I grab the remote, turning off the TV which is blaring some Disney Channel kids show. Usually, I don’t mind the noise when I walk in the door, but today my brain is a little messy. And the last thing I need is high-pitched songs about cartoon construction crews.

“That’s exciting,” I tell him with an exhausted smile, and I think Brittany can see it. She’s been his nanny since he was three months old, and I know I could not do my job to the best of my ability if I were carrying a baby around the building all day. My dad sweetly recommended hiring a nanny, had Brittany vetted, and she’s been the perfect fit ever since. She knows me well enough to know when I’ve had a hard day.

“How are you doing?” she asks. “You look tired.”

“Oh, you know,” I say. “People like to throw wrenches in the machine. That’s all.”

I glance at Jamie and back at Brittany. She can decipher that I would talk to her about it, except that this is no conversation for small ears. Especially considering that it’s about the father of those small ears. Of course, I would never tell her that. Dylan is the only person in the world who knows Matteo Valenti isn’t the father of my child, and I need to keep it that way.

“Well, if it’s okay, I better get going,” Brittany says. “I actually have a date tonight.”

“A date? That’s exciting,” I say, snagging a cookie off the counter and taking a savory bite. I don’t require that my son’s nanny can make a mean cookie. But it doesn’t hurt either. “Where did you meet him?”

“On a dating app,” she says, and I nod.

“That’s fun,” I say.

“Not really,” she grimaces. “Dating apps are kind of the worst.”

“Honestly, I wouldn’t know,” I say, helping Jamie reach a cookie, even though if I had to guess, he’s probably had one or two. Then I scruff his hair with an adoring smile. “I don’t have a lot of space in my life for dating.”