"Are you fucking kidding me? Tell me you're fucking kidding me."

I look up from my phone and see from the look in Killian's eyes that he is not fucking kidding me. He scrubs a hand across his brow and gives me an apologetic look, like he feels to blame for the news he just delivered.

"Sorry, boss. Not a joke. And really, you need to watch that language."

I glare, grabbing my pen from my desk as if it's personally responsible for this effrontery. I slash my name across papers in the stack he puts in front of me, shoving them to the side one by one. "Since when do you care about my fucking language?"

"Since as of today, you'll be—"

I flip up my hand to shut him off as I look over the fine print.

For ten years we've tried to find a place to expand my restaurant bar, but zoning bylaws in the southern section of the city are crystal clear. No amount of money buys exclusivity or privacy in a place like downtown Boston. Historical landmarks, blah blah fucking blah.

The ancient shop beside us closed its doors, and then instead of taking the bid we'd placed on day one, the landlord gives the space to a new client.

And now we're gonna be neighbors with a frou-frou… boutique?

Our plan was to buy that space and expand the business, selling my new line of imported Italian foods. And now…

"What the fuck are they doing? Palm readings? Pedicures?" I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

Killian snorts. "You really have no clue, do you?"

"Of course fucking not, that's why I pay you."

"Language."

What the hell is up with him telling me to watch my language? This is a new wrinkle, but I've got bigger fish to fry at the moment.

He pulls out a chair across from me. "They sell smoothies and healthy cookies. Yoga classes. Scented candles meant to clear energy and shit."

"Healthy cookies? What the fuck is a healthy cookie? Aren't cookies by definition not healthy?"

He sighs. "No idea, non-GMO something something?"

I shake my head. "Exactly the kind of place that will legitimately kill our vibe."

I don't want to sell peppermint oil and green goddamn tea. I want to sell the finest imported olive oils, decadent pastas, rustic breads, and wine straight from my own vineyards in Tuscany.

He blows out a breath. "We could look for another location?"

I frown and shake my head. "No point. We signed a fucking two-year lease, and there's no way we can expand in the already-cramped restaurant venue."

He shrugs. "Break the lease, pay the fine, get a new place."

I grunt. "Can't sign with another place if I break the damn lease." Dammit.

He's silent while I mull it over.

Finally, I shrug. "Okay so it's not that complicated. We just run them out. We make it very uncomfortable for them to stay, and at the first opportunity I buy them out."

"Really? That's your plan?" He shakes his head. "Emmett, you're supposed to be fixing your reputation, not tarnishing it."

The look I give him must get my point across just fine, though, since he's quickly on his feet with his hands held palms out in surrender.

"That's my fucking plan."

He's got a point, and I know it. Thanks to a scandal last year, I have to do something about my reputation. In fact, that's probably exactly why the landlord didn't even negotiate the deal we offered and went looking for someone else instead.

A knock sounds at the door.

"Come in," I growl, trying to keep calm. Why is being pleasant so much harder than it looks?

Winnie walks in with her ever-present clipboard in hand, one of those smiles plastered on her face that tells me she's caught my mood and doesn't want to ruffle my feathers.

I hate that look.

Why is everyone acting like I'm a volcano about to erupt? For the love of God.

"Good news, Mr. Swan."

"Good. I could use some good news." I continue to slash-sign the papers, but I don't miss the look that passes between Killian and Winnie.

When no one speaks for a full minute, I straighten the papers and give the two of them my full attention.

Winnie winces. Why does she wince? "Do you remember what we talked about with the whole… publicity thing, sir?"

I give her a wary look. Something tells me she's concocted a plan I may not like any more than I like the mystical woo-woo shit taking up residence next to my restaurant.

"You said you'd be amenable to taking in a child, sir, and she—"

My world comes to a skittering, screeching halt. I think she keeps talking, but I can't process anything beyond child.

Child.

Child?

Words fall on deaf ears as I stare at her, too stunned to be angry or to react.

"I've got nannies coming in to interview this afternoon," she says with a smile that looks half-maniacal, like she's just gotten her little paper cup of pills at an institution.

I blink once. Twice. I sit up straighter in my chair, trying to process everything she just said.

"Child."

"Yes, sir."

"Coming here."

She nods eagerly. "Yes, sir, exactly."

I lean forward in my chair and glance at the desk calendar. Relief floods through me so fast, I actually nearly smile. "Ahhh," I say, shaking my head and wagging a finger at her. "You got me there, Winnie. Gotta hand it to you, I totally forgot it was April Fool's Day. Ha. Very funny."

I turn back to my computer. When she doesn't move, I look back at her.

"Sir?" she says, blanching. "I… I don't play pranks, Mr. Swan."

That, I believe. I'm not even sure she gets knock-knock jokes. She's the type that corrects grammar on social media posts, which is precisely why I hired her.

Winnie's smile is starting to fade, and I swear her eyes look a bit haunted. Her wild, graying hair's tucked into a thick knot at the back of her head, but wiry little curls have escaped, making her look a bit frazzled.

I look at Killian and raise my eyebrows hopefully.

"Me neither," he says with a grimace. "No pranks."

He is the type that would pull one, but I can tell he's serious. For now.

"Winnie, why the hell are we sitting here in my office discussing a child?" I make a face. "And nannies?"

"You're the one listed as next of kin, sir."

Next of kin.

"Wait, what?"

She goes on to explain about how my lowlife, asshole brother supposedly sired a child and how the kid's mother took off. And how, since my PR firm thought it best to improve my public image anyway and I'd agreed to do "whatever it takes," this was a perfect opportunity.

"My brother isn't dead! Jesus. Find him!"

Her face grows pained. "They can't, sir, and the girl's been put into foster care."

"Dude, you did say you wanted to improve your reputation," Killian says.

"Of course!" I say, gesturing. "I meant a donation to the library or something, for God's sake." I turn to Killian. "A church donation. A new wing at Children's Hospital!" Something I could fling money at and leave well enough alone.

She blinks. "You agreed to this, sir."

Killian looks away from me, but when I talk to Winnie, I'm looking directly at him.

"Did I?" I. Will. Kick. His. Ass. The look on his face says he can read my mind.

"Listen, man, this will be incredible for your reputation. And Emmett, you… you have to do something."

I don't respond at first.

I know he's right. I do have to do something, and it might have to be something as drastic as… God… this.

My reputation is absolute shit thanks to the shenanigans of the past year, and it matters.

"Okay so don't you have to take classes and be… investigated and all that?"

"We, um, already did that for you," Winnie says, flushing pink at this admission.

"You can do that?"

"We… found a few loopholes," Killian says with a grimace.

I narrow my eyes at him, and to his credit, he shrinks back a bit. I push myself to standing, knuckles on the desk, feeling every bit the barbarian the fucking media makes me out to be.

"You. Found. Loopholes?"

Winnie's phone buzzes, and her eyes widen as she looks at the screen. "I-I have to go. This… they're here."

They're here? Who's here?

She takes off before I can ask her. I slump back down into my chair.

Killian slumps in a chair across from me. He gives me a tentative smile.

"Perhaps a… smoothie will cheer you up?"

He ducks just in time as I lunge across the desk at him.