Second Chance Daddy

Chapter Two

Beckett’s POV

‘Dahlia, come in here please,’ I growl into the intercom that connects me to my assistant’s desk situated outside of my door.

I lean back in my leather chair, staring out across the panoramic views from my top floor corner office. Moments later, the heavy door swings open and Dahlia walks in, a leather-bound notepad clutched in her hands. She takes the seat across from me, crossing her legs as she waits expectantly.

Not turning around, I continue to stare out at the skyline in front of me for a few more moments. Infinite glass buildings stretch out across the horizon, filled with men and women just like me, all trying to make more money than everyone else.

‘Henderson wants to meet to talk about the upcoming merger, I need you to schedule him in for this week’ I start, finally spinning my chair around to face the brunette. I pick up a pencil from my desk, twirling it casually through my fingers as I think. ‘Dorian Smythe from the Carthwaite group wants to again try and get me to agree to his damn proposal. I’m not interested. Find a way to make him stop f.ucking calling me.’

Dahlia nods, her pen moving over her notepad at rapid speed as she writes down my instructions.

‘Contact that reality tv show and confirm that I will be accepting their offer to participate.’ I let out a heavy sigh, rubbing my fingers across my brow. I don’t really want to do it, its trash tv at best and a waste of my time, but it will provide excellent exposure for the company. Besides, my father firmly stated when he voluntold me to agree to it: ‘You are thirty one years old, it’s time you settled down, you can’t be taken seriously as a bachelor forever.’ Something he has mentioned at least weekly since my thirtieth birthday. This will hopefully get him off my back for a few more months at least about getting married.

I grit my teeth. Once upon a time, keeping me as a bachelor was all my parents wanted. Now suddenly, because I’m over thirty, I need a wife beside me to do my f.ucking job.

‘When does shooting start?’ Dahlia asks as she writes.

‘Next week’ I reply bitterly. ‘The show will run for three weeks with regular live episodes, and it wraps Christmas day.’ I scowl angrily at my calendar on my desk that displays a big red circle around the fourth. As if I don’t have anything better to do in the frantic run up to Christmas than to pretend to be looking for a love interest, a single mother love interest at that.

Dahlia nods, not looking up from her notepad. ‘Do you want me to rearrange your schedule for the following week just in case you win?’ she asks, her voice catching as she looks up to find me staring at her incredulously. ‘You know . . . for the all inclusive holiday with you and the woman who wins with you . . .’ she adds uncertainly.

‘Whether I win or not is immaterial, I won’t be going on any trip with a damn stranger and her kid,’ I retort. ‘I agreed to take part for the company exposure and the sizeable donation to charity that the show is giving to each bachelor for their participation. I am not looking for a date Dahlia.’

My assistant blushes as she nods quickly. ‘Of course sir. So . . . you want me to keep your meeting with the board for the twenty sixth.’

‘Yes’, I mutter firmly, ‘I’ll be back for it.’

‘And . . . the dinner with your parents on the twenty seventh?’ Dahlia adds, making me grimace.

Dammit. my parents’ anniversary dinner, the absolute bane of my goddamn life. They were married on the twenty second, but due to this infernal tv show, they’ve graciously postponed it until after Christmas so I can attend. Four torturous hours of my father telling me what I’m doing wrong with his company that he no longer has control of because he handed it over to me, and my mother trying to aggressively set me up with one of the vacuous socialite daughters of her friends.

‘Yes, and that,’ I snarl, because I know the repercussions of trying to ditch their insufferable party will be worse than just going.

‘Yes sir’ Dahlia murmurs quietly. ‘Is there anything else you need me to do, sir?’ she adds.

I shake my head. ‘No that’s it, thank you’ I sigh.

Dahlia pushes to her feet, nodding curtly before turning on her heel and striding toward the door, her hand reaching out for the door handle.

‘Actually,’ I call after her. My assistant stalls, looking back at me questioningly over her shoulder. ‘My parents’ anniversary . . . can you order mother some flowers or something? You know which ones she likes. And get a bottle of scotch for my father, as expensive as you deem necessary to try and stop him from finding a fault with it. Write something meaningful on the card, any bulls.hit you find on the internet and sign my name at the bottom, have them delivered for the twenty second.’ So they can’t bloody contact me to guilt trip me about the fact my assistant ordered everything and wrote the card which obviously means I’m a s.hit son, I add bitterly to myself.

Dahlia nods before disappearing through the doorway, closing it quietl behind her.

Once alone, I turn back to the window, my mind drifting over this damn show and what I’m going to need to do for it. What was it called again?

I lean forward and open my top drawer, digging out the thick contract that I had my lawyers go over with a fine tooth comb and edit to my liking before signing.

‘The Luxury Love Liner – A Special Single Mother’s Christmas Edition’

I scoff softly to myself. If any of them think that they are going end up with a ring on their finger from me, they are going to be sorely disappointed. I am not interested in marriage, not to anyone . . . I don’t really deserve a happily ever after anyway . . . not after what I did.

The image of her blonde hair flashes into my mind, the strands blowing into my face as we drove with the top down on my Aston Martin. I can still hear her laughter as she held her hands above her head, feeling the wind whistle through her fingers. That’s what I remember most. That, and how f.ucking in love I was. She was the woman I was going to marry; I was absolutely sure of it. Kind and caring, she had a heart of gold that she wore on her sleeve. She once made me drive it to a veterinarian when we found an injured bird no doubt caught by a predator. She insisted we had to try and save it, stayed in the waiting room until they came out and said that it passed away, and then she cried. Cried for a random bird that was killed by an animal in the wild, because that was who she was.

She didn’t care about my money either. Despite the fact she came from very little, she was studying fashion at a community college, a far cry from my own ivy league education, paid for by my father in a subject that he decided I was going to study because, well . . . I was going to be taking over the family business one day.

Elodie was a breath of fresh air in my stuffy, upper class world. She was free and energized, she actually asked me about my dreams instead of just telling me who I should be. She even insisted on paying for her fair share of meals out as well. Yeah, we went to greasy burger bars and pizza places when it was her turn, all she could afford on her part time waitress salary, but she still treated me, and honestly? Those were some of the best meals I ever ate.

I let out a heavy sigh. The only problem with or fairytale was my parents. They obviously didn’t approve. The son of the great Malcolm Hayes needed the right kind of woman on his arm, one with the correct breeding and the right high society connections.

They intervened, quietly undermining what we had, eroding the foundation of our relationship, until, weak and easily controlled at twenty four, I folded to their demands. I broke up with Elodie and left her behind, stepping into my father’s company to be melded into the man I am now, a carbon copy of Malcom Hayes, the ruthless owner of Omni Logistics.

Regret gnaws bitterly at my stomach. I should have fought. I should have told my parents that I didn’t want what they wanted, as like she used to encourage me to do . . .

It’s too late now though . . . I’m sure she’s moved on, found her second chance with someone else . . . and I have to accept that truth.