The Playboy's Baby:A BWWM Pregnancy Romance

By: Tasha Blue

Chapter One




Janie was staring at a stick covered in three-minute-old pee when she heard the restroom door swing open.

“Janie, are you in here?” her co-worker Margarita chirped.

Janie wiped her palms against her cheeks, catching the errant tears before they fell onto the blue plus sign that shook in her hands.

Margarita banged on the stall door. Janie flushed the toilet in response.

When Janie stepped out of the stall, her eyes puffy but dry. Margarita was leaning against the bathroom sink, scrolling through her phone. “Did you hear about the latest rag mag gossip? Raymond Whitehorn is in the news again.”

“Who?” Janie asked. A small tremor rippled in her voice. She didn’t think it was coincidence that Margarita would bring up Raymond so soon after her discovery in the bathroom stall.

Margarita squinted at her best friend. A spattering of acne covered Janie’s normally smooth, dark skin. Her hair was dry and brittle. It looked more like a wild fro than the cute, textured curls she normally sported. “Raymond Whitehorn. He’s been all over the news since November when the president announced Raymond’s engagement to his daughter.”

“Oh yeah, the mayor’s son.” Janie feigned indifference as she pumped soap into her palm. She wrenched the spigot too far and scalding water splashed her hands. “Shit,” she yelped as she pulled her hands back.

“Didn’t you meet him at the shindig the mayor had for the presidential election in November? Remember, we were complaining because we’d worked 36 hours straight on that catering, trying to get the food just right for Mr. High and Mighty Mayor.

“I don’t remember,” Janie muttered. She splashed cold water on her face to drown out Margarita’s voice, but she couldn’t stop the memories. Or the memory of the plastic pregnancy test stuffed in her apron.

“Sure you do,” Margarita continued. “I’m sure he came into the kitchen because he wanted to compliment the cook. I remember he about spoiled his pants when he saw you. Apparently, he wasn’t expecting an African goddess to be St. Regis’ head chef.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Janie murmured into her soapy hands. But her voice lacked conviction because it was exactly like that.

“He was super handsome, for a white dude,” Margarita offered with a knowing smile. “Hurry up,” she added, slapping Janie on the back. “I need your help moving the ice sculpture out of the deep freeze. That Santa face freaks me out.”



As Janie walked back into the kitchen with Margarita, she tried to focus on tonight’s Christmas party. She and her staff still had so many last minute preparations to make before the hotel’s ballroom was taken over for the evening. But her thoughts kept returning to Raymond. Janie remembered more of Raymond than she cared to admit, even to her best friend. Try as she might, it wasn’t easy to forget the son of the most influential person in New York City.

Raymond was handsome and charming, polite to the hotel’s staff and grateful to those who prepared the exquisite meals that graced his tables throughout the long election evening. Margarita was right. He even went as far as to ask to compliment the chef personally, and left the glitz and glamour of New York City’s finest to grovel in front of the person who created the most delectable meal he’d ever tasted.

He’d laughed in his server’s face when he was delivered to Janie, then apologized profusely when he realized she actually was his chef. Janie could understand his confusion; most people did not think of a twenty-six-year-old African American female as professional chefs, especially at the level and talent that Janie had risen to. She waited for Raymond to say the words she was accustomed to: that she was too young, that he thought the chef was a man, or white, at the very least. She already had her hand ready to whisk away his apology. She had a mousse to finish before dessert and a server too busy flirting with the built bodyguards to deliver the next course. She didn’t have time to deal with a white aristocrat caught up in his own stereotypes, even if he was the most gorgeous man she had ever seen.

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t expect someone so beautiful,” Raymond said instead, taking her hand and kissing her just below the wrist.

She should have stopped him. She meant to stop him. He was a known playboy, in and out of the newspapers every other week. His father was a billionaire and the most powerful man in the city. He had everything Janie did not: money, family connections, a summer house at Martha’s Vineyard. This was just a game to him and she was just another conquest for the tabloids.

If she’d had any self-respect she would have wrenched her hand away and wiped it clean on her apron. But his lips were so smooth and gentle that she forgot about everything else around her. The sounds of the kitchen halted. Spoons stopped clattering. Bowls whisked themselves in utter silence. Margarita stopped muttering under her breath about the slutty waitress. It was as if Janie held a giant remote control and Raymond’s kiss had muted the room. The world was completely silent and in that silence, Janie allowed her mind to wander. What would happen if he placed a kiss on another part of her body? She thought the world might come to a complete stop. Janie smiled. She liked the idea that one kiss could stop the Earth from spinning on its axis.

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