The Billionaire's Reluctant Pregnant Bride
By: Imani King
Preston Easterbrook.
There isn’t a person in Manhattan that doesn’t know that name. He’s New York’s most eligible bachelor and most notorious manwhore. Men want to be him and women want to marry him—or at least be under him for one glorious, unforgettable night.
I knew him before he was all that.
Back then he might have been half the size, but his ego still burned as hot and bright as the sun. And every time he deigned to visit my humble childhood home, he made sure he’d burned his cocky visage into my retinas before he left.
At ten, he had the shiniest bicycle on the block with the loudest bell. At sixteen, the hottest car on campus with the loudest horn. And now, at the ripe age of 25, Preston Easterbrook decided to stick his office in the biggest building in Manhattan. I swear, the only reason you couldn’t see it from space was because he couldn’t secure the permit.
Was he overcompensating for something? Oh, most definitely. And I wish I could say it was for the size of his dick, but I unfortunately I knew from experience that it wasn’t.
Or should I say fortunately? Because that night was, hands down, the most…
I shake my head. No, I was not going to finish that thought.
“Arrogant ass,” I whisper under my breath. I know exactly how Preston would respond if he heard me say that: But it’s a sexy arrogant ass, isn’t it? And after he said it, I’d tell myself rather sternly not to encourage him, but I wouldn’t listen to my sound advice because when it came to him I just couldn’t let anything go. I mean, my blood is already boiling and we haven’t even started talking. This meeting was going to be hell, and my only comfort was that he’d be dragged into the flames with me.
The paparazzi circling the entrance for scraps of gossip like vultures pay me no heed, and why would they? Sure, I was a hot up-and-coming artist, but it wasn’t like my face was plastered all over every magazine in the city. With my paint splattered jeans and hair pulled back into a messy bun with one of those gigantic, neon multi-colored scrunchies from the 90’s, they probably thought I was here to clean the toilets. Little did they know I secretly carried what would have been the biggest scoop of their entire careers if they’d cared to notice.
Which they didn’t.
And thank God for that. I didn’t know how I was going to tell my brother. As Preston’s best friend and business partner, he wasn’t going to take it well. Still, he’d want to hear it from me, not from the front page of the Times as he leaned back to enjoy his morning coffee.
You can do this, Tachell, I tell myself as I slip through the gold rotating doors. Preston first. The rest of the world could come later.
The inside of the building is even more decadent. The marble floor stretches out over the lobby like a black mirror, reflecting the emerald leaves of exotic plants. My boots clack as I make my way to the front desk.
An older man impeccably dressed in a black suit and tie raises his eyebrows instead of greeting me.
I drum my fingers on the dark, polished wood of the desk. “I’m here to see Preston.”
Those bushy salt and pepper eyebrows of his immediately drop into a frown. “Last name?”
“Easterbrook.” I’m tempted to say Easterbutt; I don’t because I’m no longer six.
His pointer finger starts clicking frantically. I bet I interrupted a game of Spider Solitaire. “I don’t see you on the schedule,” he informs me.
“That’s ‘cause I’m not on it.”
“I can’t let you see Mr. Easterbrook without an appointment.”
“Oh, he’ll see me.” Even though he had no idea what was coming, Preston never turned up an opportunity to infuriate me. Me showing up where he worked would make it easy. Hell, he’d probably be thrilled…at least until I opened my mouth.
The impeccably dressed man took a long look at my less than impeccable attire. “I’m sorry, miss.”
“Just give him a call,” I begin.
He sighs, reaching for the phone. “Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to leave—”
“And tell him Tachell Jones is here,” I finish.
The man tilts his head to the side. “Did you say your last name was Jones?”
I give him a dazzling smile. “Yeah. I’m Reggie’s little sister.” It wasn’t often dropping a name like Reggie got you anywhere, so I decided to milk the moment for all it was worth.
“Oh,” he says, as if that explains everything.
Wait a minute! I’ve never even met this guy, how would he know about me? But before I can ask, he’s on the phone and talking to whom I can only guess is Preston.
