One Big Little Secret: A Secret Baby Romance (The Rory Brothers Book 2)

All things considered—and there’s a lot to consider—this gig could be worse.

Good pay, good benefits, I’m handling the responsibility, and there’s a lot of learning every week.

Of course, the downside hasn’t changed, and it’s a doozy.

It begins with Patton and ends with Rory.

One decent moment aside, I’m pretty sure working for him must be punishment for my sins from a past life. The job is perfectly rewarding—and although I don’t want to admit it, the company sitter has come in handy a few times when Mrs. Gabbard wanted to spend time with her new grandbaby—but I just want to gag every time he texts me.

As the weeks drag on, he sends so many.

A few, I could cope with.

The odd request here and there, reasonable things like any normal bossman might ask. That’s fine. I’d expect that from any job, especially one that comes with a solid mentorship attached.

Not that he does much mentoring besides giving me the Falco book. I have to admit, it’s pretty good, an inspiring story about a driven man who worked his way up and carved his piece of the American dream.NôvelDrama.Org owns all content.

It makes me wish I was doing something greater, rather than managing my way through the daily grind. But the book drives home the point that nobody ever gets anywhere without putting in the hours doing the boring crap no one else will.

And Patton Rory is very good at keeping me busy with drudgery.

One day, he wants me to round up data on what’s being used in the rooms. He wants me to make sure housekeeping keeps trying out the imported Egyptian towels he insisted on furnishing in the rooms. He wants shiny new brochures, shoving our growing list of spa services in the guest’s faces to boost profit margins.

Ugh.

There’s barely even a break from it at home.

Half of what Arlo draws is his new favorite person, Grumpybutt the Great. I shouldn’t, but I leave a few of his crayon sketches pinned next to my desk in the back office.

A few of the staff laugh whenever they come in, even though I don’t come out and say it’s our boss.

I guess the implication is clear in his mean blue eyes and scribbled eyebrows and that overly long tie. Always dark blue, just like his eyes. And sometimes my son goes the full mile, adding horns and a tail.

At least Patton Rory isn’t as popular as he likes to think, and it has nothing to do with our personal history.

I switch on the sleek computer, listening to the whir of the guts, and fan my notes out across the desk.

That’s how I like to work, making sense of the fragments in front of me.

It doesn’t take long to get sucked in.

A lot of guests send the surveys back with the tablets provided in the rooms. That data is easy to input, but others prefer old-school pen and paper. Particularly the older folks, who make up about a third of our current guests.

I figured that out fast the first week we opened and response rates climbed as soon as I started having physical survey cards left in each room.

I attack the physical copies first, making a pile of the completed questionnaires that grows quickly. I have my earbuds in and I’m humming to myself, jamming to my playlist and singing because I know it’s late enough to be alone back here.

I barely notice when a shadow falls over me.

And I know it’s him before I even turn.

He’s just got that aura.

Some people might call it magnetic. I’d say it’s more like he knows how to trigger my gag reflex without even being in my line of sight.

“What’s up?” I ask, swinging my chair around and hoping I don’t sound as instantly annoyed as I am.

Patton’s lips tighten.

Was he smiling a second ago?

Ever since the incident in his office where Arlo—bless his little heart—decided to defend my honor from the monster man who’s been plaguing me for weeks, Patton Rory has made a strange effort to be human.

Too bad I don’t want human.

Human makes him harder to hate, and hating him is the simplest way I have to hash out my feelings about this whole crazy situation.

But that’s another point entirely.

Humans also have parts.

And I’ve been doing my very best to not look at him too long, let alone remember how godly he looks naked.

That has no place here.

Especially not after Arlo gave him the metaphorical kick he needed to be an actual mentor.

“I just came by to check in. How are the surveys treating you?” he asks, like I should be grateful for the project.

“They’re keeping me busy and I haven’t lost any hair over them yet. So, yeah. We’re good.” I nod at the papers in front of me.

For a second, he looks at the questionnaires and frowns.

“We have that many people still using paper?”

“Some guests prefer it, believe it or not. It’s an extra step where I have to add it to the spreadsheet manually, but no big deal.” I offer him a tight smile. “I added the cards to the rooms, remember? Didn’t think it was important enough to bother you with.”

“Yeah. Good move.”

“Don’t worry about it muddying up our green commitment. It’s all sourced sustainably from a local stationary company, and I personally make sure these get recycled again once I’ve recorded the responses.”

There’s surprise in his face as he looks at me, his eyes shining.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Rory?”

He hesitates before saying, “Yes. We have to get over this name shit. I know you don’t like it, but will you please call me Patton like everyone else in this damn building?”

Oof. If only he didn’t say ‘please.’

It’s weird, seeing him respond like a real person. Dangerous, too, for reasons I prefer not to dwell on.

Calling him Patton feels even weirder, but somehow, I don’t quite know how to just shut it down.

He’s technically right. Everyone else here does call him that.

There’s an odd sort of chain of command with names and titles at Higher Ends.

For him, it’s younger brother syndrome, I suppose. That’s what our lead cleaning lady told me last week when I mentioned it.

“If you insist.” I try not to smirk as I shake my head. “Patton it is.”

Part of me thinks I should offer the same thing back and tell him to call me Salem. Not that he’s needed permission lately. But it brings back memories of a night that never should’ve happened on a riverboat casino, and asking him adds a layer of intimacy.

“Thanks.” He leans against the wall. “Mr. Rory’s my old man’s name and Archer’s sometimes. I want nothing to do with it.”

I’m surprised he sounds so harsh.

Huh.

I’ve also never heard anyone mention a Rory senior before.

There are the three brothers, and I’ve heard of a Mrs. Rory floating around town like a very rich social butterfly, but there’s never been a patriarch figure making his presence known.

Bad blood, maybe? Or is his dad no longer around?

I hate how I want to know, and how he keeps humanizing himself without really trying.

“I get it,” I say. “Miss Hopper feels like my mother sometimes. She’s Mrs., of course, but you know what I mean.”

He nods like he understands.

Must it always be so awkward?

But Patton Rory stands in my office and looks at me like he can read the thoughts in my head. Worse, like he doesn’t hate what he sees.

Who are you and what have you done with my grumpybutt boss?

It almost makes me think of that night again and the easy laughs we shared—until I remember my promise to never go there again.

“What else is on your mind lately?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe.

My eyes snag on his figure as he slouches.

God, even when he isn’t trying, he slays.

He’s a tall man with a runner’s body, lean and built and powerful. Broad-chested and cut from pure sin from the abs on down.

Just looking at him makes me feel self-conscious. I wonder how he’s only gotten hotter since our hookup.

Me, I bounce between twenty and thirty pounds overweight. My skin has stretch marks that weren’t there six years ago before a baby and a mountain of stress. I’m older and worse for the wear than when I was twenty-one, and I was never runway material.

“The Egyptian towels are a rave success. Don’t let it go to your head,” I say grudgingly. Anything to focus back on work. “They’re harder to wash according to housekeeping, but I’ve had several guests say they’re the comfiest towels they’ve ever felt. They even want to bring them home.”

“Does it cut into the budget too much?”

“The one you approved? No, not much.” I resist the urge to call him out more on the budget, but I can’t fault him for not remembering every line item. “I also had another idea to ramp up the luxe feel. Handmade soaps.”

The skeptical look on his face is priceless.

Egyptian towels—imported from Egypt—are clearly fine, but suggesting we try handmade soap from local sellers is outrageous.

“Handmade soaps,” he repeats it like he’s chewing a piece of lemon.

“Well, I heard from around town”—from Kayla, actually, but so far I’ve managed to keep her far away from here, thank God—“that your mom sponsors a lot of art groups. Is that right? This might be a cool way to give back to Kansas City, if she can hook us up with some local sellers who take bulk orders.”

“You heard about my mother? Word does get around,” he says flatly, but his frown seems more conflicted.

I wonder if I’ve messed up. Maybe it’s weird hearing about his mom from me and getting so personal.

“Patton, I just meant—”

“It’s not a bad thought.”

I do a double take, blinking.

“It’s not? Am I dreaming?” Yes, my mouth runs away with itself again.

His eyes brighten. Their glacial, soulless blue doesn’t feel as arctic as usual.

“Don’t get carried away,” he says with a sly whisper of a smile. “I’ll ask my mother for recommendations. If you can find enough room in the budget to get these soaps into every room, it’s a deal.”

“Of course I will!” I’m gushing confidence now. All because a man whose approval I’m not supposed to care about hasn’t blown my idea out of the water.

If anything, he seems surprised, but in a good way.

Not like when Arlo kicked him in the shin.

“Before I ask, do you have any sellers in mind?”

“I can have a look around locally and see what matches our aesthetic. Otherwise, I’m happy to check out whatever you bring back.”

“I’ll get my mom on it. She never turns down a little sleuthing.” He digs his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “She’s the artistic one in the family, not counting my nephew. It skips a generation or some shit.”

Whoa. Did he just admit there’s something he’s not good at?

“Honestly, I don’t have much of an eye for art. But I’m trying.”

“It’s a good start, Miss Hopper.”

“Salem,” I say.

His blue eyes become glinting stars, brighter than ever.

Wow. When he’s not scowling fit to ruin his face, when he looks warm, he brings me back to that night.

The transformation shocks me. He suddenly looks like a man whose company I might enjoy.

“Salem,” he repeats, testing the word like he’s tasting it in his mouth, savoring the flavor like melting chocolate.

Holy hell. It’s more intimate than I expected, more than any time he’s said it before.

“Anyway.” Back to work things. “I should have the reports for you pretty soon.”

“Cool. Looking forward to it.” He gives the screen a quick glance. “Don’t work yourself to death. I don’t need them immediately. I also don’t need you burning your evenings here and missing time with your son.”

My throat tightens.

Yeah, this other Patton is definitely worse. I have no idea what to do when he’s making himself so hard to hate.

“It’s cool. I’d rather get this done.”

“Only if you’re pacing yourself.” He pushes off the wall, ready to leave—and about time, too, seeing as this is the longest we’ve ever spent in each other’s company without plotting mutual murder.

It does nothing for my state of mind, especially his eyes, so dangerously close to the looks he gave me when we—

No.

Then I hear him sigh and he stops, turns, and looks at me again.

“Listen, there’s a group from out of town hanging out at the rooftop bar if you want to clock out early,” he says. “You know, real estate agent types. I said I’d stop by and talk to them. The bar’s open and comped if you want to finish up early and relax with a drink.”

“Um, thanks. But I said I wanted to get this done before the weekend…”

The warmth leaves his face and his eyebrows pull down.

Ah, yes, Grumpybutt returns.

I’m a little relieved.

“Woman, it’s Friday, and you’re not scheduled to work weekends.” There’s a certain edge to his voice, suggesting he’s back to talking through his teeth. “I’m not a total monster. If I say punch out early and your weekend starts now, act like it.”

I purse my lips, annoyed that he’s still on this nice guy thing even while he’s bossing me around.

“I don’t want to lose my place. Really and truly. I’d like to wrap this up so I don’t have to think about it over the weekend.”

For a second, I think he’s about to march over and shut my computer off, then drag me up to the rooftop with him.

“Suit yourself. I tried.” He turns to go before the drawings pinned up next to my desk catch his eye. “More of Arlo’s talent, huh? He’s a regular Picasso.”

I snort.

The way he says talent sounds a little like he’s accusing my son of a felony.

“He’s prolific,” I say. “I know I should watch out. I might have a kid bound for art school on my hands and I’ll have to support him until he’s thirty.”

“As long as he doesn’t flunk out and take over half of Europe.” He pauses and puts his hands up. “Sorry. Bad joke. I know your boy wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

For a second, it looks like he might stop scowling after his very dumb history joke.

But then he notices the detail on the pages. The guy in the suit sporting dragon’s horns and a tail, towering over several other frowny stick figures. Arlo even added a puff of fire coming out of his mouth.

That wouldn’t be so bad if the stick figure closest to him wasn’t labeled ‘Mommy.’

Arlo definitely hasn’t mastered subtlety yet.

Patton’s face darkens.

Any hope for him stomping off disappears and so does my composure.

“That’s not—um, I mean, I didn’t put it up to poke fun. It’s not meant to be offensive…”

God, I’m cooked.

I pin my lips together, lacing my hands at my waist, doing my utmost best not to burst into anxious laughter.

“Very unprofessional, Salem Hopper,” he finally says.

And I lose it.

Not just a little bit, either.

Not the delicate lady-laughs I bet he’s used to hearing from his colleagues and friends and even dates.

This is ugly donkey laughter that makes my face hurt.

Stop, stop.

Of all the things to laugh at, this is so not the one. But the mixed shock and horror curdling his face is too much to take without dying.

“Arlo’s shameless when he gets stuck on something. I’m sorry he doesn’t like you much,” I manage, unremorsefully pinning the blame on my son, though I was the one who hung these pictures up.

“Don’t apologize. The feeling’s mutual,” he growls.

I splutter to a halt.

Ouch.

I wasn’t expecting that.

So, maybe Patton doesn’t have to like his secret son—and I get why he doesn’t, just like I understand why Arlo has this weird love-hate thing going on with him—but knowing what I know makes it feel like an uppercut.

“He’s just a kid.” I stare at him, biting my lip.

“Yes, we’ve established that. Have you always let your son insult your bosses?” he asks, his tone clipped. Back to being asshole incarnate, I see. “I’m starting to see why your past ventures never got off the ground.”

I flinch back in my seat.

Rude.

The silence crackles with heat, smothering us, but I can’t think of anything to say.

I’m sure there’s some way to play this off cool.

If there is, it eludes me. I’m too busy restraining myself from leaping up and slugging him in the face.

Then again, so what?

So what if he thinks I’m a serial failure? Anyone else would think the same thing after seeing my résumé. It’s not the end of the world.

It’s just one more low blow that reminds me why he’s awful, and no truce will ever change that.

The irritation on his face fades as he studies me.

“Shit, what are we doing?” His eyes are the same arctic shade as before, but instead of a wall, I sense emotions there. I pick them out like colors in a rainbow.

Regret. Frustration. Anger.

Mostly aimed at himself, I think.

There’s also something else I can’t identify like the blurry line between indigo and violet.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Salem, I didn’t mean it.”

“But you did,” I mutter quietly.

Maybe I should be so pissed, but there’s no room for anger past the disbelief squeezing my lungs.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“For once, we agree.”

He takes a step closer.

He could touch me now, if he wanted, but thankfully he doesn’t. I’m not sure I could stop myself from throwing the small trash can next to me at his head if he did.

“Tell me what I can do to make it up to you,” he says.

“Make it up to me?” I laugh harshly. “Like how? Taking me up to a rooftop bar and plying me with booze so I forget you insulted me to my face? That hurt, Patton.” He looks away and I snort, the sound too bitter. “The last time we did that, we cursed ourselves. Just look where we are now, stuck together and ready to strangle each other.”

It’s in his eyes.

He flinches, even if his wall of a body doesn’t quiver a bit.

“Go on, get it out. Tell me how shitty I am. Just know if you were anybody else on my staff—”

“So fire me!” I grip my pen like a knife, almost in disbelief at what I’ve just said. Here comes my next failure, I guess, served up piping hot. “Or if you won’t, just—just let me work so I can get home at a decent hour without owing the babysitter overtime.”

I keep my back straight, waiting for the inevitable moment where he knows we can’t continue on like this. Where he pushes me out and brings in someone else to undo all of my hard work, erasing any mark I ever left on The Cardinal.

I’m sure he’s just been waiting for an excuse, right?

But he flicks his gaze at the computer screen and the spreadsheets still displayed there.

“I want your report by Monday. Your own self-imposed deadline.” That’s all he says as he turns and storms out.

God.

I let my head thump on the desk, dislodging my neat cards and sending them cascading into a mess.

God.

This is it.

What is it about this ridiculous man that turns me into a pretzel of pure chaos?

How is it we can have an almost human conversation one minute yet it feels like pure torture the next?

I’m starting to see why your past ventures never got off the ground.

It’s the kind of quippy thing I might say when I’m angry. Lashing out, claws extended, just like a cornered cat. Pure defense mechanism.

But he knows where it hurts, and with the disbelief fading, I’m left with the sting that resonates to my core.

“Blue-eyed prick,” I mutter, picking up where I left off.

Why couldn’t he have shown his evil side the night we met?

But if he had, I’d be trading Arlo for a different life, and I’d never do that in a billion years.

I just hate the fact that I’m stuck living this one, where he gets to be the biggest dick I’ve met, and I still have to thank him.

Without Patton Rory, though, my sweet son wouldn’t exist.

That’s a cruel, cold fact written in the stars.

The price is this creeping insanity, living another day where we’re playing a game of chicken, and managing my feelings like I can somehow talk a volcano into staying calm.