The Billionaire's Illicit Twins - Holly Rayner Page 0,11
of little kiddos running around. And don’t get me wrong; I loved being an uncle. I adored my nieces and nephews. I completely loved buying them things, and I loved getting them into trouble even more. Getting them all wound up and then sending them home to their parents.
I had no doubt that when they got old enough, they’d be “running away” to my apartment. That I’d be the one they called if they wanted to get a tattoo or needed advice on what to do for their first hangover, or the first girl or guy they fell in love with. I was that guy. The best uncle. The one who was cooler than their parents.
I just didn’t want any of them for myself. I had my company to think about, and the career I’d worked so hard to build. I had my business relationships and my friends in the city. I had the penthouse at the top of the best building in New York, and all the extras that came with it.
And I was happy and completely fulfilled with that. I’d never needed or wanted the wife and kids and the picket fence. I had grown up knowing that I was going to be married to my career, and nothing else. I just wished I could convince my family that I didn’t need to change that—and that if I didn’t need anything more than what I already had, then nothing more was going to happen.
Sighing, I put on my big boy pants, steeled my spine, and opened the door to walk into the lion’s den, wondering which of them would start the discussion tonight—and whether it would include my mother trying to set me up with the daughter of yet another of her friends.
“Darling, we just want to see you happy and settled down,” my mother said for the umpteen-billionth time this year.
Wait. Make that umpteen-billionth and one.
“And I am happy and settled,” I told her, yet again. “I have a great life, Mom. I’m very happy. I’m one of the most successful people under fifty in the city, did you know that? And one of the most eligible bach—” I cut myself off, realizing my mistake at the last moment.
When you’re trying to talk your mom out of pressuring you into marriage, mentioning your marriage market value isn’t exactly the smartest way to go.
She jabbed a finger in my direction, though, having caught onto it. Hell, she’d probably known about it already. Mom’s “Mission: Marry Ethan Off” radar was extremely strong, and I wasn’t stupid enough to think she wasn’t doing regular internet searches on me—she probably knew more about what the press had to say about me than I did.
“Exactly!” she said quickly. “You’re a most eligible bachelor! A most eligible potential husband!”
“That’s not exactly what eligible bachelor means,” I said, trying to salvage the situation.
A big hand clapped down on my shoulder, though, almost sending my face right into my lasagna.
“Actually, that’s exactly what ‘eligible bachelor’ means, little brother,” my oldest brother, Dustin—he with the four children and gorgeous supermodel wife—said, grinning. “And if the city has voted you eligible…”
“It still doesn’t mean I’m ready or willing, Brother,” I told him pointedly. Wasn’t he supposed to have my back on this one? Wasn’t he supposed to miss his single days and be trying to live vicariously through me? Wasn’t he supposed to be telling me to sow my wild oats, or something like that?
Weren’t they all supposed to be looking out for what actually made me happy, rather than what they wanted? Didn’t my mom already have enough grandkids to fill whatever quota it was she was trying to fill? What was it with her and suddenly thinking that I needed a baby in my life? Because that was what this was, when it came down to it: She thought I needed a freaking heir.
Like I was some lord who had to pass on his title or something.
I turned to my dad, desperate for some sort of male support, but he just held up his hands and shook his head.
“Don’t look at me, my boy. I agree with you on principle. It’s your life, you should do what makes you happy. But I’ve known your mother a long time, and when she gets an idea in her head, it’s better to just let her run with it.”
“Even if means me giving up my freedom to manage my own life?” I asked, frustrated. “I don’t think so.”
I