Page 4 of Baby for My Billionaire Rival

Yeah, I deserved that.

Chapter 2

Jake

Ican’t help but laugh when Professor… Fig calls on blondie. It’s what she deserves after treating me like I had appeared out of the blue to fix the toilet she screwed up. I’m not usually a vengeful person but come on. She took one look at me, saw my clothes, and immediately decided I wasn’t like her.

“I’m Caroline Gladstone.”

Gladstone… I know the name, I think.

“I have my Bachelor of Finance from Brown. I’m going to be taking over my family business at Gladstone Manufacturing once I earn my degree and… that’s about it,” she says.

I glance back at her as she talks. She’s everything I hate about the world of business. Flawless manicure, perfect hair, wears her money with her designer clothes. I bet she’s never had a callus or a blister from hard work in her life.

“Thank you, Ms. Gladstone,” Fig says. “Although I’m surprised you weren’t nearly as chatty in your introduction as you have been with… your friend here. And I’d love to hear from her next.”

I tune out the next introduction except for the name, Amy Trilby, which makes my blood boil even more. All of these people and all of their names. Their legacies. I have one too, sure, but I don’t walk around flaunting my wealth, nor do I rely on a bunch of little people to scramble beneath me to make my fortune.

I realize Caroline Gladstone is right in a sense. I’m notone of them. Nor do I want to be.

The introductions take longer than I’d like. The girl beside me is taking notes upon notes on her MacBook while I make a few scrawls into the cheap notebook I bought from Walmart. Works the same, doesn’t it? I can tell this somehow incenses her as her eyes keep flicking in my direction.

So, this is how it’s going to be, huh? I’m going to have to deal with all these looks from the city people like I’m some monster with two heads.

I knew this program would be a bad idea, at least for my morale. I can get along with all kinds, learned that in the military. You’ve got all walks of life, all races, all economic backgrounds, all religions, all political beliefs. I became not just a tolerant human, but an accepting one. People think I’m a country bumpkin, with my accent and my apparel, but they probably don’t know half as much as I do. Not about business, no, but about the world. About people.

“Now, I know some of you are here for business know-how. Accounting. Economics. Administration. But I’m your cohort leader and what I say goes,” Fig says, sitting on the desk and crossing her legs under her like a pretzel. “We’re going to start with a bit of manifesting.”

I hear a few of the suits balk at this idea. Of course, they would. They deal with facts, figures, and cheap beer. They’ve never dared to take a step beyond their comfort zone.

“I want you to take two minutes to write down what you think about every day. What makes you tick.”

I turn a new page and title it, “What I Think About”. My stomach immediately sinks.

“Two minutes starts now.”

I put the pen to the paper and write the word, “Tomatoes,” and then stop.

It may sound a little funny, but that’s what I think about. Day in, day out. Tomatoes. I run my family’s tomato farm, which in turn produces one of the top-selling tomato sauce brands in the country. I have my hands in everything, from the growing and harvesting, to the product development and production. Although that’s where my know-how stops. I’ve never been involved in what happens beyond that.

That’s why I’m here. Because I don’t want to run my family business that my great-grandaddy started into the ground.

Some people have already stopped writing, others are scribbling nonstop. I tentatively look over my shoulder at Caroline Gladstone. I stifle a laugh at her sparkly, feathery pen. That’s got to be some sort of joke, right? I thought people only wrote with those in the movies.

She writes methodically, steadily, a tiny crinkle in the center of her forehead. Honestly, it’d be cute if she weren’t the spoiled princess type.

I look back on my page. I can’t just write “Tomatoes”.

I add “Goats” to the list. My goats are my pride and joy. Been my passion project for about five years, even though Daddy thought it was silly to get into the goat milk market.

“Alright, last thoughts,” Fig calls out.

Once more, I consider my page. And just before I run out of time, I write, “Dad,” in small letters as if it’s a secret. As if even writing his name on the page will make his death even more real.

By the end of our three-hour seminar, it’s clear that Fig is a powerhouse. She’s the type that takes no shit, but also manages to make you feel like her favorite. Well, unless you’re one of the buttoned-up guys with pastel-colored shorts and bowties. She clearly has a disdain for them just as they do for her from the get-go.

As soon as we’re dismissed, I grab my pack and hurry out the stairs before I start seeing them all make nice with each other while I’m stuck as an outsider.

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