Plan B (Best Laid Plans #2) by Jana Aston
Mistakes were made, okay?
The moment I laid eyes on Kyle Kingston I knew he was a mistake. A satisfying, toe curling, hair pulling, best night of my life mistake, but a mistake all the same. I didn’t yet know his name, or who he was, but I knew he was a bad idea.
I take comfort in that, because it means my instincts are still good. Too late, but it’s something.
Because, FYI, I’m pregnant
… and did I mention my baby daddy is both heir to a retail empire and impossible to get ahold of?
I do what any girl would. I break into his Grandfather’s retirement gala by telling the prissy gatekeeper Kyle’s my fiancé. It was a halfway decent plan at the time, trust me.
But it blows up in my face, disastrously so. You see, Kyle Kingston is all about representing the family values his family’s retail empire was founded on. At least in public. In private- well I’ll tell you about that later.
He proposes – a marriage of convenience.
Convenient for everyone but me, because while I’m falling in love with my convenient husband, he’s keeping a billion-dollar secret. From me.
Excerpt Plan B by Jana Aston
“Be ready by six,” Kyle says as he drops me off.
“Ready for what?” I ask, hand on the door handle ready to hop out of his SUV.
“Whoa.” I drop my hand from the door and turn to him. “Like you want me to have dinner on the table by six? That’s really sexist, Kyle. Just because you put an imaginary ring on it and put a bun in my oven doesn’t mean I’m going to quit my job and spend my days cleaning and putting dinner on the table every night at six like a 1950s housewife, just so you know. And I’m not ironing your shirts. I might make cookies every once in a while, though. If I stay. Which is still an if.”
“Are you done?”
“Mrs Lascola comes daily Monday through Friday. She does the cleaning, shopping and laundry. My dry-cleaning is delivered to the concierge desk, from where she retrieves it and places it in my closet. She brings the mail from the lobby and leaves it on the desk in my study. She also prepares meals and leaves them in the fridge to be heated.”
“So no,” Kyle continues, “I’m not expecting you to be my 1950s housewife, because Mrs Lascola is my 1950s housewife, minus your surly attitude problem. You, Daisy, are my twenty-first-century bride-to-be. What I expect from you is that you’re doing everything you need to do to take care of the baby you’re carrying. Besides that, I expect you to do whatever it is that you find personally fulfilling. I don’t give a fuck if it’s dusting, or knitting, or photography, or real estate, or running a goddamned empire. Are we clear?”
“Fine, yes.” I huff. “Good Lord, you’re dramatic.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “Great. Be ready at six, because I’m taking you out to dinner,” he says, stressing the word out. He could have done that to start with. “On a date,” he adds.