The Bachelor's Baby Surprise

“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” Zander was reclining in Ryan’s chair with his feet resting on the smooth mahogany surface of his desk, ankles crossed. He folded the newspaper in his hands and shot Ryan a triumphant grin. “Looks like I got here first.”

Ryan set his briefcase down and lowered himself into one of his office guest chairs. “Pleased with yourself?”

Zander’s smile widened. “I am, actually.”

“Enjoy your victory.” Ryan lifted a brow. “Especially since it was three years in the making.”

Zander shrugged. “I’ll take it. A win is a win.”

“If you say so, but would it kill you to get your feet off my desk?” He glared at his cousin’s wing tips.

Zander rolled his eyes before planting his feet on the floor and sitting up straight. “I need to talk to you about something. But first, what’s wrong? You’re not dying or terminally ill, are you? You’re never late.”

“It’s 7:35 a.m.,” Ryan said flatly.

Zander’s only response was a blank stare.

“I’m not dying. I was just...” He cleared his throat. “Delayed.”

“Delayed?” Zander smirked. “I get it now. This is a bachelor-specific problem.”

He cast a pointed glance at the framed magazine cover hanging above the desk. Gotham Names Ryan Wilde New York’s Hottest Bachelor of the Year, the headline screamed.

Six weeks had passed since Ryan had learned about his “coronation,” as Zander liked to put it. His feelings about the matter had remained unchanged since that snowy morning at the newsstand in the West Village. Namely, he loathed it.

He especially loathed seeing the magazine cover on the wall of his office every day, but it was preferable to having it on display in the Bennington lobby, where Zander had originally hung it. Ryan suspected it had been a joke and his cousin had never intended to leave it there, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The terms of their compromise dictated that the framed piece made its home on the wall above Ryan’s desk.

Oh joy.

“Let me guess.” Zander narrowed his gaze. “You were out late last night fighting women off with a stick.”

Hardly.

Ryan hadn’t indulged in female company for weeks. Six weeks, in fact. Although his recent abstinence wasn’t altogether related to the Gotham feature article.

He couldn’t seem to get Evangeline Holly out of his head. A couple of times, he’d even gone so far as to visit her building in the Village. He’d lingered on the front steps for a few minutes, thinking about their night together.

It had been good.

Better than good.

It had been spectacular, damn it. The best sex of his life, which was reason enough to let it go and move on. That kind of magic only came along once. Any attempt to recreate it would have been in vain.

Maybe not, though. Maybe the night hadn’t been magical at all. Maybe she’d been the magic.

He’d considered this both times he’d nearly knocked on her door. Then he’d remembered how eager she’d been to get rid of him on the morning after, and he’d come to his senses. The woman had refused to give him her phone number. That seemed like a pretty solid indication that she would’ve been less than thrilled to find him knocking on her door.

“I watched the Rangers game and then went to bed,” he said. Then for added emphasis, “Alone.”

“So what gives? Why are you late?” Zander frowned. “Wait. Don’t tell me the groupies are back.”

Ryan wanted to correct him. The groupies weren’t technically back, because they’d never gone away. They’d been hanging around the Bennington for nearly two months—since the day the New York Times had decided to throw a wrench in his otherwise peaceful life.

He should have seen it coming. The Bennington had been the subject of a wildly popular series of columns in the Times’ Weddings page. A reporter for the Vows column had speculated that the hotel was cursed after several weddings in the Bennington ballroom had ended like a scene from Runaway Bride.

But that was ancient history.

Should have been, anyway. Ryan had negotiated a cease-fire with the reporter. In exchange for exclusive coverage of Zander’s recent nuptials, the reporter declared the curse over and done with. But Ryan hadn’t anticipated that the last line of her column would imply he was on the lookout for a bride himself.

It had been brief—just a single sentence. But that handful of words had been enough. Women had been throwing themselves at him in a steady stream—morning, noon and night. His photo on the cover of Gotham had only made things worse.

Ryan sighed. “There are half a dozen of them waiting for me in the lobby. I had to go around the block and come in through the service entrance in the back.”

“You had to?” Zander let out a snort. “Here’s an idea. Call me crazy, but why don’t you go to the lobby right now, talk to the lovely ladies and ask one of them out on a date?”

He couldn’t be serious. “Absolutely not.”

Those women knew nothing about him, other than the fact that he was single. And rich. It didn’t take a genius to know why they wanted to marry him, a total stranger.

No, thank you. He’d nearly been married once already, and once was enough. Never again.

Zander rolled his eyes. “You realize almost every man in New York would trade places with you in a heartbeat right now, don’t you?”

“Is that so?” Ryan crossed his arms. “You wouldn’t.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. I’m a happily married newlywed.”

Precisely.

Ryan was thrilled for Zander. He really was. But that didn’t mean he was going to pick a woman at random from the marriage-minded crowd in the lobby. This wasn’t an episode of The Bachelor. This was his life.

“Good for you. I prefer my dalliances more temporary. Short-term and strings-free. Can we talk about something else now?” Anything else. “You said you needed to speak to me. I trust it’s about something other than my personal life.”

“It is.” Zander picked up his discarded newspaper, spread it open and slid it across the desk toward Ryan. “Have you seen this?”

He glanced down. The New York Times. Not his favorite media outlet of late, for obvious reasons.

At least it wasn’t open to the Weddings page.

“The food section?” Surely he hadn’t merited a mention in one of the cuisine columns. “No, I haven’t.”

“The restaurant column contains an interesting tidbit. Right here.” Zander indicated a paragraph halfway down the page.

Ryan scanned it.

Carlo Bocci was spotted checking into the Plaza last night, fueling rumors that he’s in town for his annual month-long restaurant tour on behalf of the Michelin Guide. This time last year, Mr. Bocci visited a total of thirty-five New York eateries, ultimately bestowing the coveted Michelin star on fewer than ten. Only one of those restaurants, The White Swan, was awarded three Michelin stars, the highest possible ranking. The White Swan was recently named America’s finest restaurant by Food & Wine magazine.

He looked up. “Let me guess. We’re upset that he’s staying at the Plaza instead of the Bennington.”

“No. It doesn’t matter where he stays. What matters is...”

Ryan finished for him. “The Michelin stars.”

“Precisely.” Zander’s mouth hitched into a half grin. “Do you have any idea what a three-star Michelin ranking for Bennington 8 would mean?”

Bennington 8, the hotel’s premiere fine dining restaurant, was located in the rooftop atrium. With its sweeping views of Manhattan, it already performed remarkably well as far as bookings went. But three Michelin stars would keep their reservations calendar full six months out.

It would mean money.

A lot of money.

An obscene amount of money.

The Bennington could use that kind of income since the runaway bride curse had put a serious dent in their cash flow. They were bouncing back, but not fast enough.

Ryan frowned and smoothed down his tie. “Three stars? Do you really think that’s doable?”

They didn’t even know if Bennington 8 was on Carlo Bocci’s review list. The list was secret. Ryan suspected he booked his reservations under an assumed name and showed up when least expected, as most restaurant reviewers did.

Zander shook his head. “No, not the way we stand at the moment. Which is why you and I will be in interviews all afternoon today and tomorrow. As long as it takes.”

“You want to hire a new chef? I’m not sure that’s a wise idea.” The chef they had was one of the best in the city. They’d never get anyone else of his caliber on such short notice, much less someone better.

“Agreed. Patrick is as good as we’re going to get. As far as food is concerned, we’re golden. But that’s only half the battle, isn’t it?”

Ryan glanced back down at the newspaper and his gaze zeroed in on three italicized words—Food & Wine magazine.

“Wine,” Ryan said, nodding slowly. “You want to hire a sommelier.”

“A wine director—someone with impeccable credentials. Without a good somm, we haven’t got a chance. Have we got room in the budget to hire someone?”

“I’ll make room.” He’d be staring at spreadsheets all day, trying to make it work. But that was fine. Numbers were Ryan’s specialty. There were no gray areas with numerical figures, only black and white.

Just the way Ryan liked it.

Zander stood, folded the copy of the Times and tucked it under his arm. “Great. I’ve already put out some feelers. I’ll start lining up interviews. Clear your calendar.”

“Done.” Ryan rounded the desk and reclaimed his seat.

Zander lingered in the doorway. “Let’s hope we find someone immediately. This could be tough, but surely there’s an out-of-work somm somewhere in the city who’s also charismatic enough to impress Bocci.”

Ryan’s thoughts flitted back to six weeks ago. To a little wine bar in the Village. To Evangeline Holly, her butcher knife and the way her lips had tasted of warm grapes, fresh from the vine.

He pushed the memory away.

Zander was asking the impossible, but Ryan was grateful for the challenge. He needed to get his focus back. He needed to forget about the numerous women who wanted to marry him. He especially needed to forget about the one who didn’t.

He shot Zander a look of grim determination. “If the right person is out there, trust me, we’ll find ’em.”

* * *

Evangeline was getting desperate.

If she was being honest with herself—truly, brutally honest—she’d passed the point of desperation a few days ago.

Six weeks was a long time to go without a paycheck, especially when she was already contributing more than she could afford to her grandfather’s care.

Maybe she’d been impulsive.

So she and Jeremy had broken up. So he’d been sleeping with his sous chef. Did that really mean Evangeline couldn’t stay on at the restaurant?

Of course that’s what it means. Are you insane? Don’t even think about crawling back.

She lifted her chin and marched through the revolving doors of the Bennington Hotel.

She had to get this job. If she didn’t, crawling back to Jeremy was exactly what she’d be forced to do by day’s end.

“Can I help you?” The woman behind the reception desk gazed impassively at her.

“Yes, I’m here for an interview. I have an appointment at four o’clock.” Evangeline forced a smile and tightened her grip on her Everlane tote bag—a leftover luxury from her previous life.

It was startling how much things could change in a month and a half. She’d thought she’d had everything figured out. She’d been happy.

At least she’d thought she had been happy. Now she wasn’t so sure.

You were happy. You were perfectly content with Jeremy. Stop thinking about that night.

She swallowed. The one-night stand was still messing with her head, six weeks after the fact. Which was all the proof she needed that one-night stands were not her thing. Lesson learned.

In the days since she’d woken up to the sight of those unfamiliar cuff links on her bedside table and the outrageously handsome man in her bed, she’d questioned nearly everything about her past relationship and life in general.

How was it possible to feel such an intense connection with someone she’d only just met? She’d gone to bed with the man, and she hadn’t even known his last name.

She knew it now, though. Wilde. Ryan Wilde. It was kind of hard not to notice his name and face on every newsstand in Manhattan. Gotham magazine had named him New York’s hottest bachelor or something ridiculous like that.

Of course. No wonder she’d been so charmed by him. There hadn’t actually been anything special about their night together. He was just really, really good at sex. He probably couldn’t even help it. It was an occupational hazard of being the city’s biggest playboy.

Out of all the men in Manhattan, she’d fallen into bed with him. She was so mortified that she hadn’t even bought the magazine with his face on the cover. She wanted to forget that night had ever happened.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t. It was too damned memorable.

She blushed every time she thought about it, and she’d spent far too long trying to figure out why she’d never felt so passionate in bed with Jeremy.

So maybe she hadn’t been as happy with him as she’d thought. Clearly she’d been wrong about things. A lot of things.

But she’d at least been on the verge of having her dream job handed to her on a silver platter. And now...

Now here she was, applying for a position she was in no way qualified for. Her only hope was that the Bennington Hotel was every bit as desperate as she was.

“Have a seat, Miss Holly. The general manager will be with you in just a moment.” The woman behind the reception desk motioned toward one of the lobby’s plush velvet sofas, situated beneath a glittering crystal chandelier.

“Thank you.” Evangeline flashed another smile and headed across the marble floor.

She could do this. The hotel was, in fact, desperate. At least that’s what Colin, one of the study partners in her wine group, had told her when he called to tell her about the job opening. They needed a sommelier, and they needed one fast.

Surely all the best somms in Manhattan were already employed. Evangeline hoped so. If she had to compete for this job against even one sommelier with actual credentials, she was toast.

“Hello,” she said to the three other women sitting in the waiting area. Her competition, she assumed.

Odd.

Most sommeliers were men, particularly the ones who held wine director titles. At the highest certified level—master sommelier—men claimed 85 percent of the spots.

All three women swiveled their gazes in Evangeline’s direction, but none of them returned the greeting. The one closest to her—a glossy brunette wearing a blouse that seemed far too low-cut to be considered professional—looked her up and down and finally spoke.

“Interesting, but I doubt you’re his type.” She sniffed and crossed one tawny leg over the other.

“I beg your pardon,” Evangeline said.

His type?

Whose type?

And what kind of pervy work environment was this?

The brunette shrugged. “Just a hunch. There are a lot of us. It’s going to take more than a tasteful pencil skirt and a red lip to stand out.”

Evangeline blinked and fought the urge to flee.

Don’t let her get to you. You know wine. She’s probably trying to psych you out.

It was working. She was desperate, but not desperate enough to use her cleavage to make an impression.

What am I doing here?

She should have known this opportunity was too good to be true.

She stood, ready to bolt, but someone called her name before she could take a step.

“Miss Holly?” A man in a dark suit extended his hand. “I’m Elliot Ross, the general manager. We spoke on the phone earlier this morning.”

She shook his hand, relief coursing through her when he kept his gaze firmly focused on her eyes. Not her pencil skirt. “Pleased to meet you.”

The other women were no longer paying her any attention whatsoever. Things were getting weirder by the minute.

“The CEO and CFO are conducting the interviews upstairs in the restaurant. If you’ll come with me, we’ll get things underway.” Elliot Ross waved her toward the shiny gold elevator doors.

Evangeline followed.

Once inside the elevator, he pushed the button marked Rooftop. “We appreciate your willingness to come on such short notice. The CEO is keen to fill this position as soon as possible.”

Thank goodness. “I’m available to start right away.”

“Excellent. You’re the last of the candidates to be interviewed this afternoon, and I’m afraid I neglected to include your name on the list. Do you have a résumé?”

She’d hoped to avoid having to talk about her qualifications. A pipe dream, obviously. Couldn’t she just talk about wine? She was good at that, regardless of what her résumé indicated.

“Here.” She handed him a copy of her qualifications, minimal as they were.

Shake it off. This job is perfect for you.

Then the elevator doors swung open, and Evangeline realized she had something much more important to worry about than her lack of experience. Correction: someone.

Someone who’d been naked in her bed the last time she’d seen him, unless spotting his face on all those magazine covers counted.

Someone named Ryan Wilde.

Chapter Three

What was happening?

What was Ryan Wilde, her one-night stand, doing at her job interview—the most important job interview she’d ever had?

“Miss Holly, thank you for coming.” Another man—the only man in the room she hadn’t slept with—had spoken. She’d nearly forgotten he was there. Every bit of awareness in her body was focused squarely on Ryan. “I’m Zander Wilde, CEO of the Bennington.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she said.

At least that’s what she thought she said. She wasn’t sure what words were actually coming out of her mouth.

Zander cleared his throat, and Evangeline realized she wasn’t even looking at him. He was talking to her, and she was staring right past him, fixated on Ryan.

She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from Ryan’s chiseled face. He seemed even more handsome than she remembered. How was that possible? She swallowed—hard—and tried to figure out what was different about him.

He was a bit cleaner cut, for one thing. The dark scruff that had lined his jaw the last time she’d seen him was gone. Naturally. He’d probably woken up in his own bed, in his own apartment, where he’d shaved with his own razor.

He was also wearing glasses, which unfortunately failed to lessen the effect of his dreamy blue eyes. In fact, they looked even bluer behind the square cut black frames. Forget-me-not blue.

Zander cleared his throat again, louder this time. “Do you two know each other?”

“No,” she blurted.

Ryan simultaneously said, “Yes, we do.”

Zander glanced back and forth between them. “Which is it? Yes or no?”

She’d just told a bald-faced lie. The interview was off to a stellar start.

“Actually...” She took a deep breath and tried to figure out a way to change her answer that wouldn’t make her sound like a crazy person.

“Actually, it seems I’m mistaken,” Ryan said smoothly. “We don’t know one another. Forgive me... Miss Holly, is it?”

He offered her his hand, and she had no choice but to take it.

“Yes, that’s correct.” Her voice sounded breathier than it should have, and she couldn’t make herself let go of his hand.

It was warm. Familiar. And when she looked down at the place where his fingertips brushed against her skin, all she could think about was the pad of his thumb dragging softly, slowly against the swell of her bottom lip.

Let go! Let go of his hand.

She dropped it like a hot potato and turned to face Zander. “I’m assuming the wine director reports to you since you’re the CEO.”

Ryan couldn’t be her boss. No way.

Not that she’d gotten the job yet. Her chances were slim to none. Colin had mentioned they’d interviewed a master sommelier. Less than two hundred people in the world held that title. And presumably none of them had had sex with Ryan Wilde.

Zander’s gaze narrowed. “Technically, the position reports to the CEO. But the wine director will work closely with the CFO, particularly with regard to the wine budget. So I suppose a certain amount of compatibility is important.”

“Compatibility.” Evangeline’s gaze flitted toward Ryan, and he sent her a nearly imperceptible wink. She wanted to die. “Right.”

“Shall we proceed?” Zander motioned toward a table in the center of the room.

“Absolutely.” She did her best to ignore the way her knees went wobbly as she crossed the vast space and took a seat.

So it had come to this?

After a six-week-long job search, her only choices were working for the man who’d dumped her or drawing up wine budgets with her one-night stand?

Lovely.

Also ironic, considering she’d so recently been accused of being an ice queen.

But she was getting ahead of herself, wasn’t she? She hadn’t been offered the job at Bennington 8 yet, and at the rate things were going, she wouldn’t be.

She lifted her chin, met Zander’s gaze across the table and decided to pretend Ryan wasn’t even there. “The atmosphere here is stunning.”

“Thank you,” Zander said and glanced up at the glass dome ceiling overhead.

Snow fell softly against the atrium, and the twinkling lights of Manhattan glittered against the darkening sky. The interior of the restaurant was the epitome of cool winter elegance, with crisp white linens and pale blue velvet chairs. Evangeline felt like she was sitting inside a snow globe—trapped inside a perfect world, immune to the swirling chaos outside.

She took a deep breath and gave the snow globe a good, hard shake. “But your wine list is weak at best.”

Ryan let out a quiet laugh, reminding her that he was still there, sitting beside her. She allowed herself a quick glance at him.

He arched a brow.

She kept her expression as neutral as possible and redirected her gaze at Zander.

A muscle flicked in his jaw. “Interesting. The other candidates didn’t seem to think so.”

“Are you sure? Or were they simply trying to flatter you?” She smiled sweetly at him. “I won’t do that.”

“Clearly,” he muttered.

“But that means you can trust me to give you my honest opinion. And my opinion of your current list is that it’s not good enough.” She swallowed. If she didn’t get the job, she’d at least make an impression.

Impressions were important. Being a sommelier was about more than choosing wine. It was about service. A good somm made drinking a glass of wine a memorable experience. There was an art to talking about wine and presenting a bottle—to opening it and pouring its contents.

People often overlooked that part of the job, and it was Evangeline’s biggest strength.

“How would you change the list?” Zander said.

She was ready for this. Bennington 8’s wine list was listed on its website, and she’d committed it to memory.

“For starters, I’d eliminate the pinot grigio. There are far better light-bodied whites.” She studiously avoided Ryan’s gaze, since it was apparently his wine of choice.

Then she told herself she was being ridiculous. He probably didn’t even remember ordering multiple bottles of it all those weeks ago.

He laughed—with just a little too much force—and when she ventured a glance in his direction, the smirk on his face told her that his memory of their night together was just as intact as hers was.