Page 1 of The Billionaire's Christmas Baby Surprise

CHAPTER 1

MAX

Max Grayson folded his hands and leaned forward in his chair. His entire PR team had assembled in his office, which was rarely, if ever, a good sign.

“So,” he said, “what brings you all here on this fine November day?”

“Do you want the good news first, or the bad news?” Stephanie Adino, the head of Max’s PR team, gave him a tense smile.

“I suppose I’ll start with the good news.”

“Well, as I’m sure you’ve heard, our latest franchise of Bluebell Diner has really taken off over in Albany. The patron numbers are looking good, there have been positive reviews online and in social media of the food and service, and we’ve gotten past those all-important first three months.”

“And the bad news?”

Stephanie handed Max a piece of paper by way of reply. The paper showed an image of a restaurant with a “foreclosed” sign on the door.

“All right. What does this have to do with Bluebell Diner?” Max tried to keep his tone patient, but it was a struggle. Although he understood the importance of PR, he almost always felt that his time would be better spent actually working than worrying so much about optics.

“This restaurant was a real establishment in Albany. Papa’s Sunrise Café. Apparently, Bluebell Diner moved in right next door, offering low prices that the café just couldn’t compete with. They shut down last week.”

“And this is my problem because…”

Stephanie looked like she was working hard to keep her cool, too. “It’s a problem because the optics are terrible, Max. The locals are in an uproar about this. There’s been a lot of bad press surrounding you and your business practices.”

“Right.” Max held back a sigh. For some reason, he always seemed to feature in the press, both in tabloids and on social media. The public seemed to be invested in his every move, which was often frustrating. People liked the homestyle food and reasonable prices that Bluebell Diner offered. They liked to comment on Max’s wealth, and occasionally he was listed in articles about eligible billionaires. Every once in a while, he would appear in a spread that listed details of his occupation (CEO), his age (thirty-five), and his hobbies (according to the tabloids, working out and traveling, although the correct answer would be cooking and working).

The public weren’t such fans of Max’s aggressive business practices, but that was hardly on him. That’s just how restaurant business were run. With hundreds of Bluebell Diner locations across the United States, it was clear that the way in which Maxran his business — the same way his father had run the business before him — was working.

“This could be really bad for you,” Stephanie continued. “Because of that, we’re suggesting a complete image overhaul.”

“What would that look like, exactly?” Max glanced at his wall clock, which showed that he was coming dangerously close to his next meeting. A complete image overhaul sounded very time-consuming.

“We need to showcase another side of you to the public. A kinder, more charitable side. Instead of letting the tabloids tear you to shreds over Bluebell’s business practices, we can highlight how you channel profits into a good cause.”

“So, I need to write a check?”

“A little more than that. We’ve gotten you a ticket to the Grateful Gala, an annual benefit hosted by the city of Denver to put wealthy benefactors in touch with charitable organizations in need. It’ll be next week. Go, talk to some people, and be seen among the charitable community.”

Max sighed and ran a hand through his sandy-blond hair. “Stephanie…”

“Just think about it. The holidays are coming up, and your image is especially important now. People want to support businesses that are family-friendly and charity-minded — not ones that put local family restaurants out of business.”

“I’ll think about it, but if I’m being honest, I don’t see the need for it. Bad press always blows over in a news cycle or two. It’s more important to make sure business is running smoothly andthat profits are coming in than to make sure I always look good in the press. Which, as you’ve said yourself, is impossible.”

“Fair enough, but the public isn’t the only group you need to worry about. A few of our investors have been muttering about pulling their funding. This kind of press doesn’t just makeyoulook bad — it makes anyone who invests in Bluebell look bad. Particularly since Bluebell is supposed to be a family-friendly, home-style, old-school restaurant. Undercutting local businesses just doesn’t mesh with our image.”

“All right.” Max took the envelope of tickets that Stephanie handed him. If the tabloids were making his investors restless, he could spend an evening hearing about puppies and homeless shelters and whatever else needed funding. He could even write a generous check when the evening was over. “Is there anything else?”

“Not at the moment.”

Stephanie and the rest of the PR team got to their feet, nodded pleasantly to Max, and filed out of the office. Another glance at the clock showed him that he only had five minutes before his next meeting, during which he’d be sitting down with a new potential cutlery supplier. He stood and went to his coffee machine. As he waited for the cup to brew, he glanced out the window.

Bluebell’s corporate offices were in downtown Denver. From his broad office window, Max had a view of skyscrapers and, in the distance, the shadowy curve of mountains. Colorado’s typical blue skies were clouded over today, though, and it looked like it might rain. Or snow, perhaps. It was already mid-November, and chill weather was taking root in the mountain city.

Pretty soon, the buildings outside Max’s window would be draped in sparkling Christmas lights. A fir tree decorated with baubles would move into Bluebell’s lobby. Christmas carols would take over every radio station, and newscasters would begin to speculate about whether this year would be a white Christmas.

Nothing much would change for Max, though. He wasn’t the kind of guy who got caught up in the holiday spirit — he had too much to do to worry about carols and decorations.

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