Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“It’s a job,” I said. “Just like college was. Nothing more.”
They both shared a concerned glance, but let it slide. They loved me and worried about me, my little chosen family, so I couldn’t blame them.
“Well,” Maddie said. “We’re here for you. Always. You know that.” She arched a brow at me, pointing at me with her coffee. “And if this Demon ever crosses a line with you, you just let me know. I’m a doctor. I know all the ways to kill a man.”
Daisy and I both laughed at that, and then we each tapped our coffee cups together. With everything changing, it sure as hell was great having friends I could count on.
The drive through what Langley had told me was dubbed “Reaper Village” was a peaceful one, if not a shocking one. The housing development was pristine, with beautifully manicured lawns and gardens, white fences, and gorgeous homes nicely spaced apart.
I don’t know why I was shocked or why I expected a man like Brogan Grant to live in a high-rise penthouse instead of an idyllic suburbia, but I was. I shook off the shock easily enough, even finding some peace in the notion that at least—if the baby truly was his—he had a really nice home to raise her in.
I used the key Langley had given me yesterday, letting myself in as instructed by the lone text I’d received from Brogan earlier. I couldn’t fault him his short reply when I said I was heading his way—becoming a father overnight had to be the last thing he ever expected to happen.
“Hello?” I called out as I shut the massive door behind me. The home smelled fresh with a clean, crisp scent and had rich wooden floors, textured walls, and vaulted ceilings. The kitchen looked like a chef’s dream and was entirely pristine, almost as if he never used it. But, as I walked farther into the house, I realized everything in the place had its own place—the couches in the living area complimented the end tables, the built-ins had perfectly placed books and knickknacks, and even the artwork lining the hallway looked to be placed with intent.
“Up here,” a gruff voice called from the second level of the house.
I walked up a giant staircase, heading toward where I heard his voice. A wailing cry—followed by a desperate sigh—had me hurrying down another hallway, past what I could clearly tell was a master bedroom, and toward another bedroom down the hall.
I lingered in the open doorway, finding Brogan on the carpeted floor, his eyes closed in frustration, a screwdriver in one hand and a whole lot of wooden pieces belonging to what appeared to be a crib spread out around him. Skye cried in a bouncer next to him, and I saw the rise and fall of his chest as he tried to center himself.
“Hi,” I said, tiptoeing over the array of wood until I got to Skye. I unbuckled her from the bouncer, gently lifting her onto my shoulder and starting the bounce I knew in my bones. Skye’s cries stopped, and Brogan sighed heavily.
“Hi,” he said, the word rough and ragged. From the purple beneath his eyes and the tension in his shoulders, I could tell he was beyond overwhelmed and exhausted.
I peeked inside Skye’s onesie, making sure she wasn’t wet, then smoothed my hand over her back as she nuzzled her head against my chest. Warmth spread in my chest as she relaxed against me, and I scanned the room more thoroughly.
“That looks like a very serious crib for someone who isn’t sure this is his baby,” I said, hoping like hell I could jostle his stress for a second with a joke.
He grunted.
Well, that was something at least.
“She didn’t sleep last night, did she?” I asked, still bouncing up and down slightly while rolling my hips in a figure-eight motion. I’d nailed the move years ago and had soothed many a colicky sibling with it.
“How can you tell?” he asked, continuing to work on the crib.
I glanced around the room, noting the chaos. “Just a wild guess,” I said. When Skye started nuzzling my chest again, I patted her butt and said, “I’m going to go make her a bottle.” Before turning out of the room.
One bottle of formula and a few good burps later, I had one very tired Skye in my arms and Brogan had finished the crib. I sashayed into what would be a nursery, if it had anything other than the crib in it, and gently laid a freshly swaddled Skye into her brand-new crib. I hovered for a good ninety seconds, keeping my hand on her little chest before slowly removing it. She was definitely overtired, which made sleeping about ten times more difficult, but she had a full belly, and her eyes stayed closed as I turned around. Brogan stared at Skye with a sort of lost and amazed look, and I tugged on his massive arm to get him out of the room. I shut the door behind me, heading down the stairs with the giant following behind me. I mean, the dude had to be at least six-four, a delightful beard along his strong jaw, and with muscles and a scowl to match? He could give Jason Momoa a run for his money. Not that I was noticing him at all.