His Pretend Baby: 50 Loving States, Oregon

By Theodora Taylor

So I was pretty sure my dead ex-boyfriend’s brother hated me…until he asked me to marry him.
And pretend his brother’s baby—which I’m carrying, BTW—is really his.
So now I’m suddenly the wife of a quirky tech billionaire, and falling in like with him so fast, it’s beginning to feel an awful lot like love. 
But we both have issues, and there are shadows creeping around the edges of our fledgling relationship. Can two people as different as we are make a pretend relationship real?
Find out if the Freak and the Geek can find their way to a happy ending in this one-of-kind standalone romance. Perfect for those who prefer their heroines off-beat and their alphas super geeky.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Theodra Taylor
• Release date: May 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781942167419

Book preview

Author

INTRODUCTION

HIS PRETEND BABY

A Tech Billionaire

Pregnant Heroine

Enemies to Lovers

Super Sexy Romance

So I was pretty sure my dead ex-boyfriend’s brother hated me…until he asked me to marry him.

---

And pretend his brother’s baby—which I’m carrying, BTW—is really his.

---

So now I’m suddenly the wife of a quirky tech billionaire, and falling in like with him so fast, it’s beginning to feel an awful lot like love.

---

But we both have issues, and there are shadows creeping around the edges of our fledgling relationship. Can two people as different as we are make a pretend relationship real?

---

Find out if the Freak and the Geek can find their way to a happy ending in this one-of-kind standalone romance. Perfect for those who prefer their heroines off-beat and their alphas super geeky.

---

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Other books by Theodora Taylor:

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Ruthless Bosses

His Pretend Baby

His Revenge Baby

His Enduring Love

His Everlasting Love

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Ruthless Business

Her Ruthless Tycoon

Her Ruthless Cowboy

Her Ruthless Possessor

Her Ruthless Bully

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And so many more!

1

I’m pretty sure my dead ex-boyfriend’s brother is still scowling at me. I casually lean to the right, peeking past the shoulders of everyone standing in front of me, to where Go Gutierrez is standing with his three sisters, parents, and Sophia. They’re all receiving condolences from those who attended Marco’s funeral and then came back to his parents’ mini-mansion in Oak Park for a final gathering after the service. This is a sad day. Probably the saddest day ever for the family Marco left behind when he died in that car accident, but…

Yep, Go is still glaring at me over his heavy black beard, his eyes little more than slits behind his black frame glasses. And as if sensing his agitation, Sophia—Marco’s girlfriend at the time of his death—follows the direction of his gaze...

Oh crap. My former foster sister was sweet back when we lived together, and she’s even nicer now. She’s been almost unfailingly kind to me—even after what happened twelve years ago. But when she sees me standing in the receiving line, her eyes widen with frank alarm beneath the netting of her fashionable radiator hat.

And she gives me—her dead boyfriend’s ex—a look that very clearly asks, What are you doing here?!?!

Tough, tough, tough…I’m so tough. Everyone who’s ever met me knows that. If not because I refuse to let anyone—especially men—intimidate me, then definitely because I have enough silver hardware in my face and ears to let anyone passing by me know I’m not afraid of needles, and I don’t care what anyone thinks.

But Sophia’s shocked stare makes my insides all squirmy. She’s oh-so-appropriate in her black cap-sleeve dress and tasteful chignon. Fits right in with Marco’s family—such a pretty Catholic girl, you could have easily mistaken her for one of Marco’s sisters or even Go’s wife.

While I, the heavily pierced black girl with the dramatically long gray-with-black ombre weave shaved on one side, stick out like a sore thumb. Unlike Sophia, I’m not at all appropriately dressed for a cop’s funeral reception. Unless you call a pair of leather pants and a torn black sweater appropriate, which judging from the way Sophia and Go are eyeballing me, they don’t.

But I didn’t exactly plan to come to Marco’s funeral. It was more like a last minute decision, made after waking up late this morning and followed by a frantic search for clothes that were both clean and black. I’d rushed out the door after doing the best I could with the wardrobe I had, but my best hadn’t been good enough. I’d arrived at the huge cathedral where Marco’s funeral was being held twenty minutes late.

And even though I’d done my best to stand in the shadows at the back of the church, which was filled to capacity with family, friends, and officers in dress uniform, Go still managed to spot me coming in late from where he stood at the front of the church. Spot and scowl at me across the yards of pews and people.

Scowl at me then, just like he’s scowling at me now. Like I’m somehow tainting his parents’ stately living room, with my messy gray-and-black hair, and my punk rock clothes.

I fight back the urge to remove my nose ring and maybe a few eyebrow hoops before I reach his family. They’d never approved of me, and I know it probably brought them all kinds of relief when Marco dumped me last year and got with Sophia, a nice Latina girl with a normal job as a college office administrator soon after. The only extra jewelry Sophia’s wearing right now, beyond the two small studs in her ears, is a tasteful gold cross around her neck.

It seems like removing the face jewelry is the least I can do, considering. But I don’t want to give Go the satisfaction of scowling me into submission with his obvious disapproval. Tough girls don’t let themselves get intimidated, I remind myself while squaring my shoulders. Especially by geeks. Even handsome billionaire geeks who made the cover of magazines like Wired before reaching thirty.

Go might be a lot taller and richer than me, but I’d managed to get myself a lot farther than anyone who knew me when I got kicked out of Sophia’s house would have thought. I remember the vow I’d made back when I got my first piercings: two eyebrow rings that Sophia’s parents never would have approved of punched right into my thickened skin. I’d promised myself back then to never again let anyone else influence how I looked, thought, or acted.

I remind myself of that promise now, inwardly whispering, you don’t owe anyone anything, as I pretend not to notice Go and Sophia staring. But still, it’s excruciating.

And it feels like hours, not minutes, have passed when I finally make it to the family. I simply nod at Go, Sophia, and Marco’s sisters, before turning my attention to his parents, Maria and Antonio Gutierrez, who are at the very end of the receiving line.

To their credit, they both smile warmly at me.

Nyla, it was so kind of you to come, Maria says, pulling me into a hug.

And Antonio actually seems sincere when he says, Marco would’ve been real touched you were here.

They both still have strong working class Mexican accents which makes it seem a little like they don’t quite belong in the huge, opulent room where the gathering is taking place (even if it is technically their house). Just like me. I feel a little closer to them in the moment. Like we actually have something in common other than their dead son.

I’m so sorry, I tell them both. Out the corner of my eye, I can see Sophia and Marco’s sisters are back to receiving condolences from the people in line behind me, but I can practically feel Go scowling a hole into the side of my face.

This is going to be tougher than I thought it would be.

But it has to be done. As much as I hate this situation, it has to be dealt with.

Keeping my expression neutral, I say to Maria and Antonio, I know this is a really hard time for you, but there’s something important I need to talk with you about. If not today, then tomorrow. I wouldn’t ask at a time like this, but it’s sensitive, and just …well… really important.

I take it from the twin expressions of shock on their faces that this was not the kind of request they expected to receive today. Beside Maria, Daniella, Marco’s oldest sister, wraps an arm around her mother’s shoulder, her corporate lawyer eye’s slitting just like Go’s as she asks me, What could you possibly need to talk to my parents about right now?

Um… Before I can answer, a large hand wraps around my arm, and without warning, I find myself being dragged out of the line and away from Marco’s parents. By Go. Of course by Go.

My back prickles with the gazes of the other reception attendees as he takes me away. And as gracious as Sophia has been to me since getting together with Marco a year ago, I can almost hear her cursing me under her breath for creating a scene at her boyfriend’s funeral.

Go doesn’t seem much happier as he hauls me out of the grand room, up some stairs, and through a set of doors into a wood paneled study.

What the hell do you think you’re doing trying to arrange a meeting with my parents at my brother’s funeral? he demands, as soon as the door closes behind us.

I cringe, not feeling quite so tough as I answer, I wish there’d been some other way to talk to your parents without coming here. But I didn’t have a number for them or even an email address, and this morning I realized this might be the only way to get in touch with them, so…

I’m pretty tall, five-eight, and I’m really thin on top so I look even taller in my heeled boots. But still it feels like Go’s glaring down at me from an even greater height as he finishes, So you made an impulse decision to disrupt my brother’s funeral?

I cringe, wishing I could say it hadn’t been impulsive at all. But seeing as how it only occurred to me to try getting to his parents this way this very morning, I had to settle for… It was the only way I could think of...

His eyes sweep to the side, as if processing my words. Then he reminds me, You have Daniella’s contact information.

Yeah, yeah, I guess I do, I say, fidgeting with the frayed cuff of my black sweater.

Did you lose her number?

That would have been the perfect excuse, but I don’t lie, so…

No. No, I didn’t. But I didn’t want to go through her to get in touch with them. It’s a personal matter—

What kind of personal matter? he demands.

And my heavily silvered eyebrow raises as I shift and tense my body to stand my ground. The kind of matter that’s personal and none of your business. Because. It’s. Personal. I answer, not bothering to keep the snark out of my voice.

He scowls down at me for a long moment before saying, At least you don’t smell like weed today.

Okay, I say with an exasperated reset of my usual tough girl expression. Why don’t you just give me your parents’ contact info? That way I can get in touch with them at a later, more appropriate time, okay?

He actually seems to think about my request, before coming back with, No, not okay. You talking with my parents isn’t part of their recovery plan, so that’s not an option, he says, like we’re sitting across from each other at a conference table. Whatever it is you want to say to them, tell me first, and I’ll decide if it’s really something they need to hear.

Are you kidding me? I can almost feel all my silver quivering with my barely contained irritation. "They’re grown adults! They’re the ones who should decide whether they want to hear me out or not."

Yes, they’re grown adults who just lost their son, he answers, his voice so dispassionate, it’s verging on monotone. His gaze rakes up and down my outfit. And now you’re here in your post-apocalyptic outfit, requesting a private audience. I’m failing to see why you’re surprised I’d insist on a pre-screen before giving you access to them.

And you’re acting like I’m some kind of rando who just showed up out of the blue. You know who I am. I’m not a total stranger, I remind him, crossing my arms over my thin chest. I mean, I may dress a little weird, but I manage a women’s abuse shelter for God’s sake! It’s not like I’ve ever done anything to make you think I can’t be trusted to talk with your parents alone.

Another up and down gaze from Go. Then: No, I suppose you haven’t. However, his lack of things to hold against me seems to annoy him rather than give him the peace of mind it should.

I just don’t like you showing up here and disrupting the reception, he says, scowling down at me.

Okay, well… I answer with a shake of my head. "I came here to tell your parents this thing. This private thing. And I