The Billionaire's Bagpipes: Two prequel novellas

By Danika Bloom

Why call this collection of two novellas that are connected by one secondary character, The Billionaire's Bagpipes?
Because the connection is Will Power, a larger-than-life billionaire, whose ability to fade into the background is as unlikely as bagpipes being played in a library going unnoticed. So, being cast as a secondary character in not one, but two other heroes' stories, forced Will to blow his bagpipes and demand his own story.
This boxset contains the two romantic comedy novellas that introduce the grumpy, sleep-deprived Will Power before he meets his sunshine-y foil, Virginia in The Billionaire's Shrubbery.

The Billionaire's Bagpipes contains:

Her Seasoned Delivery

When Magdalena's so-called geriatric, IVF pregnancy forces her to bedrest, Stirling, a man forced into early retirement from his executive chef position, delivers the food that sates Mags's craving. This man cook with spice—even in the kitchen!

Her Best Bet
When Catherine, a world-renowned sculptor who creates controversial art pieces, bets Eric, the engineer she's forced to report to on her installation in the Will Power & Bros. company's lobby, that she's better at math than he is, he's convinced he'll win. Turns out, some bets are worth losing.

Her Seasoned Delivery was originally published in the Eat Your Heart Out 2 charity anthology (2022). Her Best Bet was originally published as The Billionaire's Brouhaha in Resolve: A New Year's Anthology for Choice (2023).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fire Lily Press
• Release date: Jun 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781998143016

Book preview

Her Seasoned Delivery

This stand-alone novella was originally published in Eat Your Heart Out 2: A Charity Anthology Full of Healthy Romance, April 2022.

This rom-com features:

A later-in-life hero and heroine

A pregnancy craving that might just put you off smoothies

An appearance from Will Power, hero in The Billionaire’s Shrubbery from the Power Couples series

CHAPTER 1

Magdalena

My stomach growls and my gag reflex responds with a very rude, you shoulda listened the first six times.

I’ve waited too long to eat. Now the trek to the only restaurant that will sate my craving is going to cost me an Uber ride on top of the price of the clam juice smoothie the Diabolic Duo is demanding.

No time for make-up. Fortunately, my hair is so short it looks funky and intentional when it hasn’t been brushed. At least, that’s what I tell myself. And anyway, nobody is looking above my neck anymore; it’s all eyes on the pumpkin I have stuffed under my dress.

The very thought of the little bounce the elevator does when it stops on the ground floor triggers another mild gag, so I take the stairs down three flights. Not ideal, but then nothing is these days.

The latest test of my patience is the bedrest my gynecologist insisted I start, as of yesterday. Where are the services for women who decide to have a baby without the hassle of a partner, forgoing his morning halitosis for the smell of the expensive lavender linen spray she’s purchased for herself and liberally doused onto all fifteen of the pillows strewn across her bed?

Seriously, what year is this? Even my mom, who had me on her own in 1982, didn’t have to worry about all the pregnancy hullaballoo that I do. Then again, she had me at 17, so her doctor didn’t keep her pregnancy progress paperwork in a one-inch thick, danger-red file folder labeled, Advanced Maternal Age.

That’s the new, politically correct way to say what the ob/gyns are all actually calling my situation in their heads: a geriatric pregnancy.

And geriatric equals danger. Apparently, once a woman’s eggs are 35-years-old—or in my case, 39-years-old—it’s like the doctors are worried they’ve developed some kind of hand grenade qualities. That the two fertilized eggs implanted in my womb might not just grow arms, but take up arms and attempt an early escape from the cozy confines of their single room condo.

And maybe they will. I mean, nobody expected for both ‘Baby Maybes’ to find purchase and hold on for literal dear life in my ancient—at least in uterus years—womb. But these fava beans are fighters. And ever since they hit the thirty-two-week milestone, giving them a ninety-nine percent chance of being strong enough to twin-fight in public, they seem to have taken up mixed martial arts training in their private gym.

I exit the stairwell and reach the front door of my building, winded. And nauseous. An amazing combination when it’s almost ninety degrees out.

I lean against the cool brick with as much of my bare skin as possible without looking like I’m dry humping my building. Though even if I do give off that vibe, I’m beyond caring. I have nobody to impress or worry about. By the time these two are old enough to be rolling their eyes, worried about the way their mom is acting in public, I figure I’ll have them acting even goofier. That is my goal: to be the one rolling her eyes at her kids’ crazy antics.

The honk of a car startles me and I look up to see a black Subaru Impreza with a small Uber sticker on the windshield. The windows are up, which brings me so much joy: five minutes of glorious air conditioning to offset the car sickness.

CHAPTER 2

Stirling

Isit in the far corner of my old restaurant, near the alcove where staff would whisper warnings to each other about guests. It’s six months to the day since I was taken out on a stretcher, after suffering a massive heart attack while I flambéed a flan.

Doctors told me I was lucky to survive.

I sure as shit didn’t feel lucky when my family voted to sell the business that my dad had built into the first—and only—Michelin star rated restaurant in Canada while I convalesced after the triple bypass. My mom and sisters negotiated away my life and livelihood. My purpose.

But they saw it differently. And with their four votes to my one, Dad’s legacy now belongs to a numbered corporation that dropped eight figures for the right to take over and franchise Dad’s name. Which also happens to be my name.

During the transition, I was restricted from even setting foot in what had been my home away from home for twenty years. Who am I lying to? The restaurant was my home. I had no life outside of this place, which meant, when they took it away, I had no life. I’d survived the heart attack, but living for what?

Another part of the agreement that was made without my blessing was a non-compete clause—legally forbidding me from even working in another restaurant in North America for five full years. The only thing I know—the only thing I love—taken from me. I might as well have died. An eternity in Hell could not be worse.

Linguini and clams. My server, a young woman who hadn’t worked for me, places the plate on the table. My signature dish. My dad’s signature dish. My grandfather’s signature dish when the restaurant was nothing more than a high-end diner. And now some faceless corporation’s signature dish. 

Thank you. I smile. At least, I try to smile but my face is as frozen as an Italian ice.

Fresh ground pepper? she asks, pulling the grinder from her apron pocket.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply to smell the food. No, thank you. It doesn’t need it.

I curse under my breath. I’d hoped they’d adjusted our recipe and ruined it. But it’s perfect.

Several bites into my early dinner, the server tending to the front tables pulls the manager, Cecilia, into the alcove beside me.

She’s asking if we can put her order in a To Go container. I told her we can’t. But she’s begging for an exception. Something about bedrest? the young man says.

Cecilia peers over his shoulder and I follow her gaze. A woman who looks ready to give birth last week stands with prayer hands held up just below a smile and pleading eyes that make me think the poor bastard who’d knocked her up doesn’t stand a chance when she decides she wants something. She’s perfected that expression my sisters used to use to get their way with Dad.

Tell her I’m very sorry, but I don’t have the authority to change that rule. I’d be happy to ask the owner, but let her know he’s in Austin, Texas and I likely won’t have an answer for several days, Cecilia says.

The young server sighs and heads back to the front.

After a brief exchange, the woman march-waddles toward Cecilia, who is still just a few feet away, at the POS system.

The woman is drop-dead gorgeous with short dark hair and deep brown eyes. She carries herself like a woman who not only knows what she wants, but knows how to get it. For her sake, I hope she has a son in there since it would be hell to raise a daughter as attractive as she is.

CHAPTER 3

Magdalena

I’m not giving up without a fight. And neither are my twin moochers.

I wait until the manager looks up from the keyboard before making my case.

Do you have kids? I ask.

She shakes her head.

Dammit.

A sister who has kids?

She squints and barely nods.

Yes! Please imagine your sister has just been condemned to her bed for the next eight weeks of her life. And the only food—the only healthy food—she can swallow without wanting to hurl is the clam smoothie made at this establishment. You’d go out of your way to make sure she got it. Wouldn’t you?

The man at the table to my side starts coughing, drawing both mine and the manager’s attention to him.

Are you okay? I ask.

He coughs two more times, shaking his head. Clam smoothie? Since when do we make … , he stops mid-sentence and I turn my attention back to the manager. 

If you don’t have takeout cups, I’ll have my own brought over. I need this drink. I pat my belly. They need this drink.

They? she asks, eyebrows disappearing under her bangs.

Twins. Expressing their picky eating habits already. There must be a way to make this work. 

Look up the recipe on the internet? the manager offers.

I muster my negotiator's voice. Number one, I have tried to replicate the flavor myself. I can’t even come close. Number two, bedrest.

Husband? she counters.

Single, I growl.

Damn. The curse seems to slip from her mouth without her intending to say it out loud.

Since when are clam smoothies on the menu? the nosy but handsome man interrupts.

The manager glares and points at him. Not your concern, Stirling.

I spin to face him directly. Stirling? As in, the name on the sign outside the restaurant, Stirling Cox?

Maybe, he mumbles.

Not anymore, the manager corrects.

The kids decide this is a perfect time to practice their jabs. Oh! I double over and grab the back of the chair at the table this Stirling character is sitting at.

He jumps to his feet and guides me to the bench where he’d been seated then holds my elbows and my weight as I lower myself. 

Thank you. I press my palms over my belly, firmly enough to let the hooligans know I’m not impressed. Sir, when your wife was pregnant, did she have cravings? Can you please make an exception?

He shakes his head. No wife. No kids. And not my call.

The young man who’d taken my order stands with my drink in a tall glass.

Shall I take it to your table, Ma’am?

Leave it here, Mr. No Wife, No Kids instructs.

As soon as the glass touches the table, I reach for it, bringing the cool metal straw to my lips and taking a long, slow, heavenly pull. I might have moaned. Okay, by the look on Stirling Cox’s face, I most definitely moaned. I don’t care. Another long sip, another long moan of pleasure.

There. You happy now? I say, patting my spawn on their wee heads—or maybe their butts or their feet. All the bumps feel the same.

How long have you been drinking these things? Mr. ‘Staring at me like I’m insane’ asks. Now that the karate drills in my belly have subsided, I can finally see clearly enough to appreciate the man who managed to gracefully lower my 212 pounds with such ease. For a flash of a second, I wish I’d met him before I chose an anonymous sperm donor. I would have definitely asked this hot restaurateur for the honor of cracking open my eggs.

I push the straw from my lips but keep the glass close to my face. Every day for the last seven or eight weeks.

He doesn’t take his eyes off me while I take another sip. What do you do on Monday when the restaurant is closed?

I suffer. And experiment. Try to recreate this nectar of the goddess.

He reaches his hand toward my drink. May I?

I clutch the glass closer to my chest and shake my head.

He chuckles. I just want to smell it. Maybe I can help.

You can help by changing your dumb rule and letting me have these delivered to my home until my clam addicted babies are born.

It’s not my dumb rule. I don’t own the place anymore. But I might be able to tell you what’s in it. He looks up and around. Just don’t tell Cecilia. It would put both of us in a difficult position.

CHAPTER 4

Stirling

She looks at me with suspicion. I laugh.

"I promise