My Ex-Best friend’s Daughter: An Age Gap, Surprise Pregnancy Romance

Uncle Hunter is hot.

Wait, no. Let me start over. I really don’t want people to get the wrong idea.

Hunter isn’t technically my uncle, just an old family friend of my father’s. Growing up, it wasn’t uncommon for Hunter to show up for weekend barbecues, summer getaways to the lake house (back when Dad could still afford to keep it), and all my silly princess-themed birthday parties with Elsa-shaped piñatas.

Hunter used to complain that they were stupid. A waste of money or something. Why pay for something you’re going to beat to shreds? Yet he was also always the one hitting the hardest with the biggest grin on his face. A candy shower was a guarantee when Uncle Hunter was up to bat.

I adored him when I was a little girl. He always bought me the best gifts for Christmas, took me to see that SpongeBob Square Pants movie when my parents were too busy with work, and he always gave the best piggyback rides after long family hikes and I was too tired to walk anymore. As little Edie, he adored me.

I remembered him fondly. He was always sweet, told the funniest jokes, and had a smile brighter than the sun.

So, imagine my surprise when I walked into the office expecting to be interviewed by… Well, not him. When I walked in through the front doors of Sky Rider Studios, I knew this was technically his territory —his company— but I thought for sure this would be a personal assistant job to one of the numerous editors or writers employed here. Not the head honcho award-winning director and executive producer himself.

The head honcho who —I’m quickly realizing— is actually a giant dick.

“Brad, my man,” he says, talking on his phone despite the fact that we’re literally in the middle of my interview. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think I can make it to poker night this week. I’ll just have to take all your money another time.”

I clear my throat, irritation licking at the back of my neck. “Excuse me, but we’re in the middle of an interview.”

He has the audacity to put a single finger up. Wait.

I have half a mind to walk out, but a part of me is curious. I haven’t seen the man in over a decade and don’t think he recognizes me one bit. I can’t exactly blame him. I was just a kid back then, quiet and shy. Unassuming, with the personality of a wet blanket. I’ve changed a lot in the last eleven years, a wholly different person from the little Edie I used to be. Totally transformed.

My parents’ divorce necessitated it. I couldn’t be a sensitive crybaby forever.

Not to mention I’d changed my name when I hit eighteen in an act of defiance, making Dad’s last name my middle, and taking my mother’s maiden name which was common enough not to make me recognizable. And rather than the childish Edie, I now prefer my given name of Eden.

Crossing my legs, I chew on the inside of my cheek as I watch him.

Hunter is a big man. Tall. Then again, everyone’s tall to me because I’m all of five-foot fuck all. His shoulders are broad, his chest wide, the line of his jaw so sharp I think I might cut myself if I dare to slap his phone away. His once rich chocolate brown hair is graying at the temples, and the gray peppers his groomed stubble. I think it makes him look refined.

His shirt, strangely enough, makes my core throb. His dress shirt is tight against his body, barely keeping him contained, his sleeves rolled up to just beneath his elbows to expose strong forearms and massive hands, along with the tattoo at his wrist. The top button of his collar is undone, blessing me with the chance to admire his thick neck. I spy with my little eye the edge of a tattoo just beneath his crisp collar sans tie, taunting me.

I fight the urge to lick it.

I clear my throat again and speak clearly. “Mr. Stride, would you mind telling Mr. Pitt that you’re in the middle of something? I parked at a meter.”

Normally, I’d never dare be this direct, but the interview is running behind as it is. It’s a rule of mine to treat others the way they treat me. Sort of a taste-of-their-own-medicine kind of deal. If Hunter’s going to be an unprofessional asshole, I can give as good as I get. I don’t think my chances of getting this job were very good to begin with, so I’m not exactly afraid to mince words.

Hunter’s eyes flick up at me. There’s something dark in his gaze as he observes me, head to toe. It isn’t anger, though there are certainly traces of annoyance. There’s a weight to his stare, an unspoken control. My heart suddenly races beneath his attention, heat pooling between my legs. I press my knees together. This isn’t right. There’s no denying that Hunter is a handsome man, but I shouldn’t think about him this way.

Not after the fallout between him and Dad.

“Call me later, Brad. I’ve got business to attend to.” He hangs up, sets his phone down on the glass surface of his desk, and casually picks up the resumé I handed to him when I first walked in. He tosses it a cursory glance, but he doesn’t read it.

“Eden H. Spencer,” he says aloud.

The low timbre of his voice makes me shiver. His voice sounds like the deepest notes of a bass guitar, a bit grumbly, but definitely powerful if he dares to crank up the volume.

“You’re the tenth person I’ve brought in,” he continues. “Tell me why you think you’d make the perfect candidate over everyone else.”

I smirk. He really doesn’t remember me. “I doubt there’s anything I can say that the other candidates haven’t said already.”

He arches a brow. I can’t tell if he’s amused or irritated by my non-answer. “Humor me.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I’m punctual. I have an excellent work ethic. I pay attention to detail. I also know Los Angeles like the back of my hand, which might prove useful to you if you need me to run your errands. Although, I guess that’s kinda the whole job description, isn’t it?”

Hunter pauses, considers. “Where are you from?”

“LA, born and raised.”

“I doubt that.”

“Why?”

“Nobody’s really from here.”

“Guess that makes me the exception.”

He sets my resumé down, leaning back in the chair he sits in like a throne. I’m across from him on the other side of his desk like a damn pauper.

“What are your qualifications? Do you have prior experience as a personal assistant?”

I nibble on my bottom lip, deep in thought. I don’t miss the way his eyes follow the movement. “I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t have very much experience. I recently graduated from UCLA with a Bachelors in bioscience.”

“Then what the hell are you doing at a film studio looking for a job? Shouldn’t you be working an internship at a lab or something?”

“Internships don’t pay. And I need…” I trail off. He doesn’t need my back story. Probably doesn’t care in the first place, so I may as well save my breath.

“What’s your availability?” he asks, moving on like I’m the one wasting his time.

“Completely clear.”

“Even weekends?”

“Yep.”

“Do you have reliable transportation?”

“I’ve been using my roommate’s car. She works from home, so I pretty much have free reign of it.”

Hunter stands and circles the desk until he’s right in front of me, leaning casually against the edge. He towers over me. I can’t imagine what it’ll feel like to have him standing at full height. Especially this close. Too close.

His cologne is a mild one, but my sensitive nose appreciates the subtlety. Most Hollywood wannabes drown themselves in Calvin Klein, Versace, or Dior. It gives me a headache, to be perfectly honest. Everyone here is loud and obnoxious and trying to prove themselves. They drive fancy cars they can’t afford, wear designer brands they bought secondhand, and do anything and everything to earn their fifteen seconds of fame.

Hunter doesn’t seem to have this problem. He smells like fresh laundry or the air after a heavy rain. It’s soothing, calming. He’s well-dressed, sure, but not in a loud or flashy way. The fanciest thing he wears is his silver Rolex. Everything about him is cool, calm, and collected. His quiet confidence is the most striking thing about him. He has nothing to prove because he already has everything the dreamers out there can only yearn for.

His eyes still haven’t left my small, curvy frame. The frown he wears seems permanent, etched into his features like he’s made of fine marble.

“The position starts at two hundred,” he says firmly.

“A week?”

“No. Two hundred thousand a year.”

My face heats up. I can’t even begin to picture that many zeros in my bank account. “Oh,” I mumble, throat suddenly really dry. “That’s… a lot.”

“You’d be required to handle sensitive information on the daily,” Hunter explains. “Confidential movie scripts, correspondence with A-list celebrities, buyout contracts, among other things. I pay generously for the privilege of discretion. Naturally, you’d have to be comfortable signing an NDA.”

“What if I’m not?”

“Then don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“And if I am?” I ask, tilting my head up to look him straight in the eye. It feels defiant. I can tell by the way his nostrils flare a little that he isn’t used to this level of backtalk. “Is this an around-the-clock kind of job?”