Page 21 of Boss's Baby: A Fake Fiance Romance

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Dad had a heart attack, and that’s all you can think about? What’s wrong with you?”

“You know I’m as worried about Dad as you are. But the doctors said he’d be fine, and you know if he could help it, he’d be back at his desk trying to do damage control. Someone’s got to worry about this company at all times, you know.”

I hated to admit it, but he had a point. It was easy to imagine Dad asking for a phone or laptop the moment we stepped into the room so he could get some work done.

“Maybe, but he’s all I’m thinking about right now.”

Sam shook his head. “Can’t believe you did it again.”

I cocked my head. “Huh? What’re you talking about?”

“First you put Mom in the hospital, and now this shit.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

Sam hadn’t wasted any time poking possibly the biggest sore spot between us—the sore spot to end all sore spots. We’d lost Mom about twelve years ago, back when I was away in the military. It’d been breast cancer—caught far too late to do anything about. All the money we had in our family, and there wasn’t a thing we could do about it.

She’d been in rough shape before that. Mom hadn’t taken the news that I was joining the Marines well at all. In her eyes, the whole reason Dad had amassed the fortune he had was to make sure her boys would be taken care of no matter what. My signing up to go overseas—and infantry, at that—had the effect of putting nothing but nightmare scenarios in her head of her boy coming home in a flag-draped box. Ironic that I’d come home alive and well while she was the one on her deathbed.

One of the doctors had offhandedly mentioned that stress could’ve made her recovery prospects dimmer, and that was all Sam needed to hear. He’d always had a bit of a second-child grudge, convinced that Mom and Dad always paid special attention to me over him. And hearing the idea that Mom’s worry over me might’ve led to her death—it burned in him, coming out every now and then like this.

“Forget about it,” he said.

“Yeah. Good idea.”

The silence returned. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a hard scowl on Sam’s fair features. I could tell he was thinking that I very well could’ve taken another parent from him.

Finally, one of the doctors who’d been with Dad approached us. He was a trim man in his forties, with close-cropped blond hair and serious features.

“Joshua and Sam Taylor?”

“That’s us,” I said, pushing myself off the wall I’d been leaning on. “What’s the news?’

“The news is he’s going to be fine.”

Relief hit me like a mainlined drug. I let my head hang back, mouthing a silent “Thank god.”

“What’s he like now?” asked Sam. “Can we see him?”

The doctor nodded. “You can, but only for a short time. He didn’t require surgery, but he’s still very weak. The heart attack was mild, but next time he might not be so lucky.”

I slapped the doctor on the shoulder like he was an old pal. “I’ll make sure the old man takes it easy.”

Sam shot me a hard look, one that suggested he didn’t care for my lighthearted attitude.

“Thank you, Doctor,” he said.

With that, the doctor pointed us in the right direction, and we were off. Moments later I stepped through the door and was greeted with the sight of Dad, my pops, that tough old bastard, like I’d never seen him before. He looked like a different man—weak, sallow, helpless, even. But there was still that same sharpness in his eyes, one that made you know he wasn’t about to take any bullshit, not even from a heart attack.

I rushed to his side and gave him a hug. “Dad, you have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

“Please,” said Dad. “Who could be happy to see their own father like this.”

“You’re aboveground, and that’s all I care about.”

“Let’s see if you’re still singing that same tune when you’re changing my diapers in twenty years.”

Sam gave him a hug once I was done. “How do you feel?”

“Like warmed-over dogshit. I just had a heart attack—what do you think?”

I chuckled, glad to see that Dad hadn’t lost his edge.

“Doctors said it was a mild heart attack,” I said. “Should be fine.”

Dad nodded. “Still hurt like hell.” Then he raised his finger accusingly, pointing at me and then Sam. “Now, are you boys going to behave, or are you going to make me have another one that finishes the job?”

“We’ll behave,” I said, holding up the Boy Scout fingers. “Promise.”

“Good. Because I don’t think I have the energy to kick your asses if you get out of line.” Dad shifted in his bed, grimacing in pain as he did.

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