His Illegitimate Heir by Sarah M. Anderson

made sure his mom had a booming business and his best friend had a good-paying job he loved? Did she see a son who’d never know his father?
    Or—worse—would she see a boy rejected by his family, a man who wasn’t black and wasn’t white but who occupied a no-man’s-land in the middle? Would she see an impostor who’d decided he was a Beaumont, regardless of how true it might actually be?
    He didn’t want to know what she saw. Because quite unexpectedly, Casey Johnson’s opinion had become important to him and he didn’t want to know if she didn’t approve of him.
    So he quickly changed the subject. “Tell me...” he said, keeping his voice casual as he turned his attention back to the field. He didn’t even know what inning it was anymore. There—the scoreboard said fourth. The home team was at the plate and they already had two outs. Almost halfway done with this corporate outing. “Does that happen often?”
    â€œWhat? Your boss admitting that he’s not a total bastard?”
    Zeb choked on his beer. “Actually, I meant that guy proposing to you.”
    â€œWho, Marco?” She snorted. “He proposes every time I see him. And since I have season tickets...”
    â€œWhat does your dad think of that?”
    That got him a serious side-eye. “First off, Marco’s joking. Second off, my father is many things, but he’s not my keeper. And third off—why do you care?”
    â€œI don’t,” he answered quickly. Maybe too quickly. “Just trying to get a fuller picture of the one person responsible for keeping my company afloat.”
    She snorted as a pop fly ended the inning. “Come on,” she said, standing and stretching. “Let’s go.”
    Slowly, they worked their way out of the seats and back to the concession stands. He got a stout for himself and Casey got a porter. Marco flirted shamelessly but this time, Zeb focused on Casey. She smiled and joked, but at no point did she look at the young man the way she’d looked at him earlier. She didn’t blush and she didn’t lean toward Marco.
    There was no heat. She was exactly as she appeared—a friendly tomboy. The difference between this woman and the one who’d blushed so prettily back in the seats, whose eyes had dilated and who’d leaned toward him with desire writ large on her face—that difference was huge.
    With more beer and more nachos, they made their way back to their seats. As odd as it was, Zeb was having trouble remembering the last time he’d taken a night off like this. Yeah, they were still talking beer and competitors but...
    But he was having fun. He was three beers in and even though he wasn’t drunk—not even close—he was more relaxed than he’d been in a long time. It’d been months of watching and waiting to make sure all the final pieces of the puzzle were in place, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t stopped to appreciate all that he’d accomplished.
    Well, sort of relaxed. There was something else the beer vendor—Marco—had said that itched at the back of Zeb’s mind.
    â€œDid you mean what you said?” he blurted out. Hmm. Maybe he was a little more buzzed than he thought.
    There was a longish pause before she said, “About?”
    â€œThat it didn’t matter if I was black or not.” Because it always mattered. Always. He was either “exotic” because he had an African American mother and green eyes or he was black and a borderline thug. He never got to be just a businessman. He was always a black businessman.
    It was something white people never even thought about. But he always had that extra hurdle to clear. He didn’t get to make mistakes, because even one would be proof that he couldn’t cut it.
    Not that he was complaining. He’d learned his lesson early in life—no one was going to give him a single