Surprise Daddy: A Billionaire Doctor Accidental Pregnancy Romance Read online

  Surprise Daddy

  A Billionaire Doctor Accidental Pregnancy Romance

  Hunter Rose

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Copyright 2021 © Hunter Rose

  Hunter’s Roses

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  To the ones I’ve loved, the people I’ve lost and those that have inspired me along the way.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  More By Hunter Rose

  A Free Gift For You

  Coming Soon

  About the Author

  1

  Roman

  Four Years Ago…

  I climb down off the transport and stretch my back and legs, trying to work out some of the stiffness from sitting in that uncomfortable hunk of metal for the last two or three hours. I feel like I’ve been sitting in the world’s worst sauna the whole time. I wipe my brow for about the ten thousandth time today.

  It’s hotter than shit here in Syria. But then, it was hotter than shit in my last posting too, so I guess it’s, as they say, only a matter of degrees. Literally, in this case. When it gets to be over a hundred degrees, does it really feel any different if it’s a hundred and ten versus a hundred and twelve?

  “Lieutenant Wheeler?”

  I turn and find a man in jeans and a Metallica t-shirt, with a ballcap pulled low on his head standing behind me, a wide smile on his face. He’s young. No more than twenty-five or so, with shaggy brown hair and dark eyes hidden behind round, dark rimmed glasses. He’s got acne scars on his cheeks, and the gangly body and awkward nature of somebody ten years younger than he is. He just looks like the kind of kid who got picked on a lot when he was younger.

  After the last of the soldiers disembarks, the transport rumbles off in a swirling cloud of dust and diesel exhaust. The man, obviously a civilian, reaches a hand out to me.

  “Doctor Wheeler,” I respond and shake his hand.

  “Right. Sorry. Doctor Wheeler,” he responds, his smile faltering slightly. “I’m Aaron Hodges, and I’m the camp liaison; I’m in charge of material procurement, housing – actually, I guess I’m kind of a jack of all trades around here. How was your trip in from Damascus?”

  “Long. Hot,” I grumble. “I’m beat, and all I want right now is a cold shower and some time in my bunk.”

  Hodges nods, an inscrutable look on his face. I know that look. It’s the look of a man who is about to deliver some bad news. I sigh.

  “I’m assuming I’m not going to get any time in my bunk?” I ask.

  “Afraid not. At least, not right now,” he admits. “We’ve got a full load in the clinic and need all hands on deck.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “I’ll take your bag to your quarters, Lieutenant,” he says. “I’m afraid they need you over in the clinic right away.”

  “Doc – tor,” I growl, irritated because I worked my ass off for that title. “Doctor Wheeler.”

  He clears his throat. “Right,” he says and points to the building across the compound. “The clinic is right over there, Doctor Wheeler.”

  I look to where he’s pointing and see a squat four-story building. It’s white – or at least, it was at one time. Now, the building is dirty, dingy, and covered with bullet holes. Some of the windows have been broken – or shot – out and are covered over with plywood or plastic sheeting.

  This is not what I’m used to. I’ve spent most of my tour at the medical center in Landstuhl, Germany. It’s clean and state of the art. And it’s definitely not stuck in the middle of a goddamn warzone.

  I’m nearing the end of my tour, and since I’ve already decided that I’m not going to re-up, for whatever reason, the brass has been loaning me out, sending me to some of the shittiest forward operating bases around. I guess they want to get my replacement in and up to speed on how Landstuhl is run sooner rather than later. Or maybe I just pissed somebody off by opting to separate, and they want to make my last few months in the service as hellish as possible by sending me to backwater hospitals like this one.

  Not only that, but they’ve loaned me out to a civilian aid organization this time, which is something I’m not exactly thrilled with. Civvy organizations are looser, less structured. And they’re notoriously undisciplined. They’re also usually very underfunded, understaffed, and are lacking in modern equipment.

  Yeah, this is going to be great.

  As I stand there, looking at the shabby building in front of me, I hear the thunder of an explosion, and the rattling echo of automatic gunfire somewhere in the distance, further underscoring my point – and further validating my decision to rotate out. I’m not looking to get blown up or shot to shit anytime soon. I’d like to make it back to the States in one piece so I can enjoy some of the perks of being a surgeon.

  Given that this is a civilian facility run by a volunteer organization, it only has a small and sporadic troop presence made up mostly of U.S.-trained local troops. There’s an outpost FOB a few miles away – Camp Cobra, I was told – that lends support when it can. But for the most part, this place is kind of on its own out here.

  I watch as Hodges carries my bag away, heading for a dormitory. I let out a long breath and have nothing else to do but cross the compound and try to get out of the heat. I’m hoping this is a case of judging a book by its cover, and that although the outside of the building is shabby that the inside won’t be. It’s a hope that’s quickly dashed, though, when I pull open the door and step into the lobby.

  The walls are gray and drab – I can see the outline of the dirt from where a picture had been hung on the wall once. Now, it’s just a lighter, slightly-less-dirty patch on a wall darkened by time and layers of grime. An older woman sits off in a corner by herself, staring at the wall with a lost look on her face as she chain smokes, a small cloud of smoke hovering on the ceiling like a spirit back from the dead that’s trapped and unsure where it should go.

  The floor is covered in cracked linoleum that’s curling up in the corners, even filthier than the walls in the lobby. There’s a desk across the room, facing the door. As I approach, I see that it’s nicked and scarred, the battered surface of the desk ringed with what might be old stains from coffee cups. A computer sits on top of her desk. It looks like it would have been right at home either in a museum somewhere or a junk pile. I can’t believe that anci
ent thing actually still works. I almost think it has to be there for show...

  The woman behind the desk isn’t in much better shape than her equipment. She’s got dark hair shot through with gray that’s pulled back into a severe bun, tawny-colored skin, and deep lines etched into her face, especially around the corners of her mouth and eyes. She looks like a woman who’s seen too much – too much death and chaos – and has aged because of it. I guess that happens when you live in a country that’s constantly gripped by war.

  When I step up to the desk, she looks me up and down, a disapproving frown on her lips.

  “Can I help you?” Her accent is thick.

  “Doctor Roman Wheeler,” I tell her. “I’m rotating in for a few weeks.”

  “Identification,”

  I hand her my ID card, and she taps out a few commands on her computer. After that, I have to wait as the ancient machine processes the request. It’s a slow, painful process.

  “Go through those doors and take a left at the first hallway,” she points. “There, you will pick up your ID badge for the hospital.”

  I give her a nod and follow her directions. After filling out some paperwork and taking care of the annoying administrative housekeeping bullshit, they hand me a laminated photo ID card and send me on my way. Done with that bit of business, I head for the office of Mike Lyvers – the hospital administrator – on the second floor to check in and get my assignments.

  After a few wrong turns, I finally find his office. The door is open when I get there, and I see him on the phone while sitting behind the messiest desk I’ve ever seen. Lyvers looks up when I knock on the jamb to get his attention. He waves me in.

  I drop into the small, uncomfortable seat in front of his desk and look around. The walls in his office are as dingy as the walls in the waiting area out front. Nearly every surface in the office has boxes and files stacked on top of it – some of them in precarious-looking piles. It seems like a house of cards the slightest breath of wind could knock over. He’s either an exceptionally busy man or is messier and more cluttered than any doctor I’ve ever known.

  Lyvers’s office is cramped and stuffy. The heat in here is as unbearable as it is outside. I guess they haven’t heard of air conditioning here. The lone window is filthy and has a view of a street lined with buildings that have ragged holes punched through the walls and are marked by gunfire.

  Remarkably, though, people are still out there, going about their daily routines. They walk from store to store, lugging packages along with them, sometimes stopping to speak with somebody in the street. I think it speaks to the perseverance and resilience of the people. Or maybe it’s just their grim resignation that this is what their life is, and there’s nothing they can do to change their fortunes.

  I notice there are no personal effects in Lyvers’s office. No photos of friends or family, no diplomas, and no kitschy knick knacks. The office is completely sterile and has an almost transient feel to it, which I find slightly interesting. But then, I guess if this hospital ever came under attack, he’d have to make a fast exit and couldn’t spend time worrying about grabbing his photo albums, so from a practical standpoint, it makes sense.

  “You must be Doctor Wheeler,” he nods as he hangs up the phone. “Welcome to our little slice of heaven.”

  “Thank you,” I reply.

  “Mike Lyvers,” he offers. “Chief Administrator of this hospital. Glad to have you here. We’re always in need of skilled surgeons.”

  I’m not going to lie and tell him that I’m happy to be here. Though, he’s not a stupid guy and can probably tell without me having to say a word. All I wanted to do was finish out my tour in Germany and go home. And yet, here I am, in what feels like the armpit of the world.

  “Glad to lend a hand,” I reply. “But I’m a little confused as to how I ended up here in the first place. They’ve been shuttling me around between FOBs for the last few months. I’m not sure how I ended up at a civilian clinic.”

  “You were actually recommended to me,” he admits. “And I’ve got a few buddies up at Landstuhl who help me out from time to time by sending some able bodies who are rotating out anyway, so it’s a ‘one plus one equals two and everybody wins’ situation.”

  Everybody wins? I’m not sure how he defines ‘everybody’, but it’s clearly not the same way I define it. Something he said, though, catches my attention. I cock my head and squint at him, my confusion only deepening.

  “Recommended? By who?”

  “An old friend of yours,” he responds. “Zeke Clarke.”

  I sit back in my seat, a bit stunned. That’s a name I haven’t heard spoken since med school. When I was younger, I’d run and raised hell with Zeke and the guys I grew up with. They’d been my pack all through high school. My tribe. I was tight with them all and still consider them my family. But after graduation, we’d all drifted off into our own adult lives and got our careers going or moved away for college.

  My path coincided with Zeke’s, and we ended up going to med school together as well. We had a good time, but it was nothing like our regular college days where it was booze, women, and nothing but a good time. Med school was so much different. There was no booze, few women, and even fewer good times to be had. There just wasn’t really time for any of that. I guess if nothing else, med school made me grow up in a hurry because we were dealing with matters of life and death – literally.

  After we finished up our education, we’d parted ways to get on with our lives. I enlisted – for a lot of reasons. And the last I heard, Zeke was some big shot doctor in Chicago, but the last time I talked to him, he’d told me he volunteered with an organization overseas, and off he went. I never got to talk to him after he shipped out and didn’t know what organization he was with. At least, until now, apparently.

  “I guess I’m going to have to thank him for the recommendation,” I muse.

  Lyvers gives me a knowing smile, as if he sees through me and sees that I’m none too pleased to be here. Can he blame me? He shuffles through the jumble of papers on his desk. Seeing that teetering mess, on the verge of toppling over, makes me cringe. A moment later, he pulls a manila envelope out of the stack like an expert level Jenga player and hands it over to me. Clearly, he somehow knows exactly where everything is in that junkyard that passes as a desk – which tells me he’s a man well used to clutter and disarray.

  Yeah, I don’t know that I can be friends with a guy like that. Makes me shudder to think how he runs a surgical suite.

  “In here is an orientation packet,” he explains. “Maps of the grounds, other information you’ll need to navigate around here. Your room key’s in there too.”

  I nod and pull the key out of the envelope, not really interested in the other paperwork, since I’m not going to be here very long anyway. When they shipped me out here, they told me it was for a six week stay. Of course, if Lyvers has friends in the right places, I may end up staying longer, but I’m really hoping that’s not going to be the case. I’d like to finish out my tour somewhere a little more comfortable than this place.

  “Also,” Lyvers goes on. “There is a packet in there that explains what International Physicians is all about, and some enrollment forms if –”

  I hold up my hand to stop him. “Thank you, Dr. Lyvers ,” I say. “But I did my time. I’m just playing out the string now.”

  “I understand of course, but –”

  “Not interested, so you don’t need to waste your breath trying to sell me,” I cut him off. “I’ve got a life waiting for me back home, and after four years away, I’m anxious to get back to it.”

  Lyvers holds his hands up, his palms facing me as if in surrender. “Fair enough,” he says. “All I’m going to say is that your life will still be waiting for you, and you can do a lot of good here. You can make a big difference to some people who can really use a helping hand.”

  I give him a patient smile as I get to my feet. “It was a long trip in from Damascus, and I
want a shower,” I ignore him completely. “After that, I’ll check into the clinic and get my bearings.”

  He purses his lips, obviously disappointed. “Of course,” he sighs. “Just take a left out of my office and follow the signage for the dormitories.”

  I tap the edge of the envelope against my palm and head out, following hallways that look, not surprisingly, like they are in desperate need of paint and repair. Everything about this place is run down and in poor shape. It’s filthy, hot, and there’s a smell in the air I can’t quite identify but is repulsive, all the same. And under that layer of stench is another – it’s the odor of rot and death. That one is easy enough to pick out, and probably shouldn’t be surprising in conditions like these. I can only imagine the conditions I’ll be operating in.

  I understand it’s a poor, war-torn country, and groups like International Physicians are doing good works. Necessary works. I understand they’re helping people who can’t help themselves and I respect it. I’m just not interested in being a part of it. Even though I’ve never been much of a joiner, and I’m definitely not a do-gooder – if I remember right, I was voted the least likely to ever do something altruistic by my senior class in high school –I enlisted and served anyway. I gave my time. I sacrificed and put my own life off for four years doing for others. Granted, my reasons for doing so weren’t entirely altruistic – I guess my senior class was right – but I still did it. Now it’s time for me to get on with it and live my own life – for myself.