Table Of ContentA BABY FOR THE BOSS
JESSA KANE
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
ONE
Missy
Everyone wants to be loved unconditionally.
It’s all I’ve been dreaming about since childhood. Having someone to snuggle with at the end of a
bad day. A person who can take one look at my face and know if I’m struggling. Or if I’ve had an
exceptionally good day. Someone who knows my routines down to the minute and takes up my side in
any argument—unless I’m wrong.
Funny enough, the reason I haven’t found unconditional love yet is I’m never wrong.
And that really puts people off.
No one wants to love a know-it-all unconditionally.
I’ve been called a prodigy since I could walk. By the time I hit puberty, I was already taking
college courses and acing them. Of course, this thrilled my parents to no end. I would be able to take
over the family business sooner than later. They could retire early and trot the globe rekindling their
marriage.
Which is why I find myself alone in the top floor of a massive packing and shipping facility,
looking down on hundreds of employees rushing around to fulfill orders. It’s why I find myself alone
at night in my house. Scrapbooking. Baking. Talking to my hamster, Joey.
I’m…resented.
I’ve always been resented.
No one wants to be friends with a so called “genius.” People have a hard time relaxing around
me. I’ve been told I’m intimidating. Intense. Too much.
A baby won’t feel that way about me, though. Will they?
No.
I’ve thought long and hard about this. I’m going to have a baby.
I’m going to raise that baby all by myself.
And he or she won’t know I’m intense, too much and intimidating, because they’ll be used to me.
I’ll be their world from the moment they blink open their eyes. They’ll be loved by me. Cared for by
me. I’ll do anything for them. We will love each other without conditions.
My chest aches with such concentration at the thought that I have to brace a hand on the window—
and that’s when I see him. Way down below. But even from fifteen stories above, I can tell he’s very
tall. Broad. Built like an ocean liner. He’s the only employee not wearing a shirt and he’s covered in
sweat and tattoos, his dark hair in a careless mess on top of his head.
When my vision of him is obscured, I realize my breathing has grown heavy and I’ve fogged up
the window. Quickly, I scrub away the condensation and go back to watching him, sucking in a breath
when my womanhood tugs and starts to feel funny. I shift side to side in my pointed flats, not sure
what to do. I’ve never experienced this oddly low wave of heat before. It almost feels like I have to
pee, but the pressure is very different. I have goosebumps. And when I accidentally sway forward and
my breasts press up against the glass, the friction feels so good that I moan. My lord, what is
happening to me?
Again, I look down at the man as he throws a heavy crate up onto his thick shoulder and carries it
to a truck, easily sliding it onto the bed. He turns and laughs at something one of the other male
employees says and I’m almost sad I can’t hear the sound all the way up here.
I’m fairly certain human resources would frown on an employee being shirtless in the loading
area. Maybe…
Maybe I should go down there and warn him, before he gets fined.
Or reprimanded.
Turning away from the window, I push the heel of my hand against my tummy for long moments
while gathering my breath. Then I straighten my shoulders and leave the office, my shoes tapping
lightly on the black marble floor of the executive offices. An advertising meeting halts its progress as
I pass by, everyone staring at me curiously. It’s not that I don’t ever leave my office, it’s just that my
employees don’t know how to act around me. I’m only twenty years old—young enough to be their
daughter—and I’m running this entire business.
Not to mention, it’s thriving. More than it ever did under my parents.
We make and sell costumes.
Business at Outfitter Inc. used to boom only once a year—in the month leading up to Halloween.
But I’ve since adjusted our vision and made us a year-round venture. We now supply costumes for
movie studios. And not only that, but we now have themed party packages customers can order that
include decorations and costumes for up to ten people. Currently, The Bridgerton Box is our number
one seller, of course.
Outfitter, Inc.
It’s a party in a box.
I’m reciting Outfitter Inc.’s slogan in my head as I ride the elevator all the way down to
warehouse level, obviously because I’m nervous. I can solve the most complicated of calculus
problems. I’ve read all the classics from Moby Dick to Slaughterhouse Five. They rejected my
application for Jeopardy because they said it wouldn’t be fair.
But I have no idea how to be around the opposite sex.
Whatsoever.
Why am I doing this?
I should just stay up in my air-conditioned office where it’s safe.
Too late for that, though. I’m almost at the bottom level.
Hurriedly, I check my appearance in the stainless steel doors of the elevator, tucking my long,
black hair behind my ears and smoothing the wrinkles from my skirt. As usual, I look like a child
playing dress-up in adult clothes. Maybe I should have put on my matching black blazer to appear
more professional, but it’s far too hot. My silky off-white tank top will have to do. I’m tucking it a
little more securely into the waistband of my skirt as the doors fly open with a bang.
Everyone on the warehouse floor turns to look at me at once.
They are all men. Mostly. A few women are operating the heavy machinery, using forklifts to
bring boxes down from the endless, towering shelves. But on the floor itself are men in jumpsuits.
Strong men. But none are stronger than the one without the shirt—and his deep, hearty laugh reaches
me now, making me feel winded. My knees wobbly.
I step out of the elevator, school my features to appear bored and step out onto the concrete,
sailing through gaping rows of warehouse workers. They murmur among themselves as I pass,
probably speculating on whether or not I need a booster seat at restaurants. Up ahead, the man without
a shirt tosses a box onto the bed of a truck, turns—
And stops dead, his laughter trailing off.
My breaths are deafening echoes in my ears.
I experience the same inundation of heat in my tummy as I did in my office, but this time it’s
multiplied by ten on the intensity scale. The sweat pouring down his hairy, muscular torso is drying up
my mouth and making my breasts feel swollen.
Does my body want to have sex with him?
Sex is the one thing I know nothing about.
One time when I was nine, I walked in on my tutor and my father’s limousine driver. They were
on the couch in our den, writhing furiously with their pants down, grunting and scratching each other.
He even had his hand around her throat, choking her. What’s more, she seemed to enjoy the cutting off
of oxygen. To me, it only seemed like a violent act.
Since then, I’ve been too nervous to read about physical intimacy.
But my body seems to have other ideas when it comes to this man.
Just this one.
“That’s the boss,” someone murmurs—making one of the giant’s eyebrows arch.
And he’s coming toward me now. Sauntering. Cocky. His big, thick muscles flex in the sunlight,
caked in grime and sweat. Good God, the man must be six foot six.
“You lost, boss?” he asks, pulling a bandana from his back pocket and wiping his—
unconventionally attractive—face. His features make him look sort of mean. Battle worn. There’s a
slightly crooked nose and black stubble covering his jaw. His blue eyes are warm, however. Or…hot,
I should say. Which makes him look less mean and more…fascinated.
By me?
No.
Probably just the fact that I’m down here in packing and shipping, instead of in my expensive
office where I belong.
“Of course I’m not lost.” I clasp my hands neatly at my waist, the attention of everyone in earshot
burning holes in my back. “I was raised at this facility, Mister…”
For a moment, I don’t think he’s going to answer. Then, finally, “Langley. Turk Langley.”
The depth of his voice makes me shiver. It’s like the roar of a powerful engine. The reverberation
of it courses all the way down to my feet, making the ground unsteady.
Focus. Remember why you’re down here.
Or at least, the reason you gave yourself.
“Mr. Langley, I wondered if I might have a private word with you?”
An amused chorus of oooohs goes up behind me and I flush pink.
There’s laughter in his blue eyes. “Am I in trouble, boss?”
“Not yet.”
The oooohs get louder.
Turk swaggers toward me, his folded over jumpsuit riding low on his hips. In a way that makes it
impossible not to trace the deep-cut V that points dangerously downward. “I beg to differ,” drawls the
man near my ear, his breath slipping down my neck and rustling the strap of my silk tank top. “I’d say
I’m in very big trouble, boss.”
That goes for me, too.
Because suddenly, I’m wondering if it wouldn’t hurt to conceive this baby the good old-fashioned
way. Just so I can have the experience of being with a man once, before my life becomes all about my
child. Who knows if I’ll ever feel this pull of attraction again?
Shouldn’t I take advantage of it?
Kill two birds with one stone?
TWO
Turk
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
I’ve only been working at this facility for a week, but this is my first time seeing my boss in the
flesh. I’ve heard talk about the young woman who isn’t even old enough to drink running the multi-
million-dollar operation. Everyone speculates on the prodigy who graduated college at seventeen and
lives in a big mansion by herself now, at twenty.
More than once, a male employee has gripped his dick and mused aloud that he’d like to keep her
company in that big mansion. It earns a laugh every time. It’s common knowledge that she’s beautiful,
but I never really gave a shit about that information. Women are women and they’re all a pain in the
ass. Every last one of them. Armed with the knowledge, I truly didn’t care whether I laid eyes on this
genius CEO or not.
Well the tides have turned.
Severely.
My cock stiffens as I follow her to the employee break room, her sweet ass ticking side to side.
Making me want to spit on it. Spank it with the back of my hand. Bury my face between those supple
cheeks and tongue the little cherry-flavored hole in between. Don’t ask me how I know the flavor
already—it’s just a gut intuition. She’s a virgin. All over.
And she’s fucking mine.
Can’t explain how I know. Something inside of me locked into place the moment I turned around
and saw her there. As if I’ve been waiting for her my whole life—thirty-three years—without actually
being aware of the missing piece. My soul knows, though. My blood is piping hot. My heart is stuck
in the middle of my throat and there’s a whooshing sound in my ears.
I don’t know why she wants to speak to me or how I’m going to land this wealthy, beautiful—and
clearly intelligent—girl. I just know it has to happen or I’m never going to feel whole again. Not
now that I’ve seen her. Inhaled her roses and cream scent. Mine.
I stride ahead to open the door to the empty break room, biting my tongue until it bleeds to keep
from touching her as she passes by. Closing the door behind us, I turn and watch as she wrings her
hands, seeming to rehearse a speech under her breath.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“My name?” She stops fidgeting, her phenomenal golden eyes wide on me. “I guess you haven’t
been working here very long?”
“Just about a week.” A couple of steps and I could have her on that desk with her legs spread. The
image has my balls throbbing, my throat like a desert. Christ, I’ve never been this horny in my fucking
life. Did she put a spell on me? “I played professional football until recently,” I explain, my throat
like gravel. “An indoor league they’re trying to get off the ground. Unfortunately they’re going to have
to do it without me, because I busted my knee. Six surgeries and it’s just not the same.”
“You don’t seem to have any problem lifting and carrying heavy objects.”
“Imagine how easily I could lift and carry you.”
Two red spots appear on her cheeks, and fuck me sideways, her nipples go stiff inside that flimsy
tank top. Am I having the best dream of my life or does this angel think I’m hot? Because honestly, I’m
not most women’s cup of tea. I’m too blunt and loud and messy. I’m sweaty and hairy and I take up a
ton of space. But my gorgeous boss is pressing her knees together like she’s thinking of taking a ride
on the Turk Express.
Could I actually be this lucky?
“Most of my problems come from quick stops, changing directions. Pivoting. Moves I need for
football. Lifting boxes is easy.” I take a step in her direction and watch the pulse in the bottom of her
neck leap. “You still haven’t told me your name.”
“Miss Stoll.”
“Miss? Good. But I need the first name, too, cutie.”
“Oh. It’s Missy.”
My lips twitch. “Miss Missy?”
“Miss Stoll. Or just…Missy.” A groove appears between her brows. “I just realized that not a lot
a lot of people call my Missy anymore.”
“Why is that?”
“Because that’s not the proper title for work. And work is the only place I’m around…people.”
Before I can address that curious statement, she shakes herself and straightens her spine. “But that is
neither here nor there. Mr. Turk, I came to the warehouse to warn you that human resources could very
well give you a written notice for b-being b-bare chested on the shipping floor.”
I process that with a growing grin. “You came down here to tell me to put a shirt on?”
“For your own good, of course. I would hate you to have a black spot on your record.”
“Couldn’t you fix my record for me? You own the company.”
“It would be more ethical if you simply stayed out of trouble.”
“Where is the fun in that?” I close the distance between us until she’s braced on the edge of the
desk and leaning back slightly, our noses only an inch apart. “Do you want me to put my shirt back on,
Missy?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want.”
“Oh, cutie.” I pick her up and settle her ass on the edge of the desk, listening to her breathing
shallow dramatically. “That’s the only fucking thing that matters.”
“What are you doing?”
“Finding out why you really came down here. It couldn’t be just to tell me to put on a shirt. There
are a hundred minions who could have done that for you.” I wrap the sides of her skirt around my fists
and drag her close, close, until her pussy is flush to my lap and she’s gasping. “Tell me why you
really came down here.”
“That would be way more unethical than going shirtless.”
