Mister Baby Daddy (Bad Boys in Love Book 3)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  "How about we talk in my bedroom?" His eyes roam my body again. He tilts an eyebrow suggestively. "On second thought, I probably won't be able to do much talking since you'll be sitting on my face.”

  The alcohol that was halfway down my throat somehow spurts back up out my nostrils. The rest of the whiskey rockets down the wrong pipe and ignites a sudden coughing fit. I'm choking for real this time, and it feels like my sinuses are on fire.

  With one hand, I clutch the center of my chest. My other hand clings desperately to the edge of the sticky counter as my cough grows more violent.

  Looking alarmed, Connor rushes into action. He leaps out of his seat and rounds my stool to pound vigorously on my back. He growls encouraging things to me, patiently soothing me until my coughing finally subsides.

  Brimming with gratitude, I blink up at my savior through the mascara-poisoned tears leaking into my eyes. Maybe he isn't so bad after all.

  I can feel my hair sweat-plastered to my forehead. I can only imagine what I look like right now. Connor takes the wad of napkins the bartender stretches out to him and he blots my wet cheeks, wearing a tender smile the whole time.

  When I've finally caught my breath, he gives me a hopeful look. “So, about getting out of here...?”

  Seriously, dude?

  Snatching the napkins from him, I glare. “It’s a no.”

  On a disappointed huff, the man frowns, pulling out his wallet, flagging down the bartender and paying his tab. "Fine, then."

  I watch in stunned silence as he strides off across the bar, without even giving me the courtesy of a proper goodbye.

  Just like that?

  A heavy sigh leaves me. I flop against the back of my stool, feeling disappointed in myself. Why is it getting harder and harder to go home with a guy? I’m such a chicken. I know the one I want doesn’t want me back, so why can’t I just get over him? Why can’t I just fall into the arms of an Aquaman lookalike and have a wild, passionate night?

  Looks like the object of my affection is gonna be an inanimate object tonight after all. Only this time, I’ll have to suffice without any stimulating vibration.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  I drain my glass and slide off my stool, suddenly noting how unsteady my feet are. I catch a glimpse of my haggard reflection in the bar's mirrored wall as I shrug into my short leather jacket. Eesh! I won't be able to un-see that sight. This whole night turned out to be a bust. I wasted my one night off getting dolled up, just to drink alone in a dirty bar, and get myself all hot and bothered. Now I’m drunk and stranded two towns away from home.

  I push through the crowd of mushy couples spinning and swaying on the dancefloor. One waif-like blonde stink-eyes me up and down then hugs her man closer.

  The rowdy bearded dudes around the pool tables pause to catcall me. "Lookin' real pretty, Red," one of them shouts.

  Extra annoyed, I grumble bitterly. "Yeah, yeah, I'm pretty. So what? Doesn't change the fact that I'm lonely as fuck."

  As I'm trudging toward the door, I consider my options before pulling out my phone. I could grab an Uber. Or maybe I could call one of my girlfriends to come pick me up. But after the night I've had, I just want to burrow into the space I've always considered my safe spot. I tap out a quick text to the only person I've ever really been able to depend on. Unconditionally.

  Penny: Are you busy, Big Man?

  I hit 'send', trying not to overthink it. Before I can slide my phone back into my sweaty cleavage, the device is ringing in my hand. An incoming call from Walker Kingston is lighting up the screen and immediately, my pulse is an erratic mess.

  How am I ever gonna get over this guy?

  2

  Walker

  I hate one-night stands. And from this woman’s body language, I can tell that’s exactly where this is going.

  “Wine?”

  “A beer, if you have it,” I call after my date as she disappears into her kitchen.

  We met at the farmer’s market on Saturday when she bought produce from my table. Karen's red hair was the first thing that caught my eye across the crowded marketplace. But now I see that her hair is all wrong. It’s short and wispy. Not full and long, like I prefer.

  Anyway, I'm sitting on her squeaky leather couch, overheating in this damn turtleneck. I pinch the thick knit fabric away from my windpipe and give my sweaty throat some room to breathe.

  Penny got me this shirt. I tried to tell her I didn’t need it. I usually stick to simple flannel button-downs. And I have plenty of clothes. Too many, if you ask me. But she had another one of those damned coupons and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I'd never admit to her that I actually wore it. If I did, I’d find fifteen more just like it in my closet within a week. I huff.

  Her couponing addiction makes no sense. You wouldn’t expect someone so damn fashionable to spend all her free time sitting around clipping out discounts from department store flyers. But Penny’s many contradictions is just one of the things that makes her so endearing to me.

  Don't think about Penny right now, asshole.

  Every time I go out with a woman, I spend half the night having imaginary internal conversations with my best friend. It's fucking unhealthy.

  To distract myself, I grab one of the glossy magazines sitting on Karen's coffee table.

  Discover your Man's G-Spot: 3 Foolproof Sex Tips to Give Your Guy an Orgasm He'll Never Forget

  Get Him To Love You: Try this Shocking Mind Trick Tonight and He'll Propose in No Time

  6 Easy Workout Routines for Pinchable Butt Cheeks

  The Ultimate Sex Study Guide: These 139 Tips Will Make you Irresistible to ANY Man!

  I put the magazine back, scratching my head. It's disturbing that women rely on these glossy rags for life advice. Penny keeps a sky-high pile of them on her kitchen counter. I give her crap for them every time I go over there.

  Shit, there I go thinking about Penny again.

  Karen returns with two glasses of wine, ignoring my drink preference, I guess. I take the glass she offers me and sit awkwardly as she sways to the soft jazz that’s playing on her stereo. I wonder if she learned those moves from her magazine. To be honest, between the annoying music and her weird dancing, I feel like I’m trapped between strangers in an airplane middle seat. That feeling only heightens after she lights a shitload of candlesticks and comes to straddle me on the couch.

  I keep my hand occupied with my unwanted glass of wine while she wiggles around my crotch and throws her head back. What the hell is this? I thought she was a bank teller, not a goddamned porn star.

  I might lose my man card for admitting it, but I’m so not into this.

  I should be. I should be excited about the chance for a sexual connection with a beautiful, eager woman who's into me. I should want to hop into her bed. What is wrong with me?

  Look—I’m not the biggest fan of having other people in my personal space. But sometimes, I have needs. On nights like tonight, I need to feel soft, feminine curves beneath my hands, I need to feel big, warm lips vibrating around my cock. My sexual history includes a modest trail of flings and booty calls. I’m not all that proud of it. No-strings sex always leaves me feeling empty.

  Sometimes, I think it might be nice to get more out of a relationship. Every now and then, my mind likes to toy around with the idea of having something more. Someone to come home to after a hard day on the farm. Someone to ask about their shitty boss and their asshole coworkers at the dinner table. Someone who'll throw their feet up in my lap and laugh at my lame jokes as we snuggle in front of a roaring fire and sip hot cocoa before bed.

  I have no clue where these feelings are coming from. I blame my asshole younger brothers. Eli's marriage went down the shitter when his wife ran off after he got tossed into jail. But Cannon and Jude? I've had to stand by and watch those two fall in love and settle down over the past year. They’re making me look bad. Now that they both have good women by their sides, they look happy.

 
Maybe that could be me, too...

  I glance at the woman enthusiastically gyrating above me.

  Maybe not...

  My craving for a relationship never lasts long anyway. I value my solitude too much to open my life to another person.

  With a seductive grin, Karen peels off her tight top and tosses it at my face. I get hit with the cloud of cherry-scented pollution, otherwise known as her perfume. I gag and blink in shock before grabbing the scrap of fabric and dropping it on the cushion next to me. That's when a perky boob slams me in the face.

  My brain has to deliberately remind my body that I’m not supposed to be nauseated by a hot woman’s touch. I’m supposed to be turned on.

  But I'm a hopeless case.

  This girl is a sure thing. All I need to do is unfasten my belt buckle and I have no doubt she'd move mountains to get me off. But a hot body and wild sex don’t do it for me. It’s not enough. I want more.

  Hell, who am I kidding? I want Penny Merlini. No other woman is ever enough.

  Yet, here I am. Settling. Again. Because I can’t have the woman I really want.

  Oh, fuck. I'm thinking about Penny again all while some other chick is twisting my nipple like a corkscrew.

  I’m going to hell. The woman in my lap exaggerates a moan. On second thought, I'm already there.

  “Mmm,” Karen hums, drawing my attention back to her. “You like that, huh?" She grins, pleased.

  I swallow, my throat suddenly dry as the turtleneck seems to tighten around my windpipe. "Uh, sure..."

  Karen cups my jaw. “This shirt looks sexy on you,” she purrs. “But I think you’d look better without it.” My date's hands slide under my sweater. Her long, pointy fingernails drag down my pecs.

  When she leans in, her glossed-up lips graze the length of my jaw. "I've always liked the strong, silent type." She's going in for the kiss. Whether I like it or not.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket like it's taking pity on me. I angle my face away just in time. I hold out my still-full glass of wine and the topless woman dutifully grabs it. I awkwardly slide the device out of my too-tight jeans—another gift from Penny—while my date rotates her hips in my lap.

  It’s a text from my friend.

  Penny: Are you busy, Big Man?

  I can’t fight the uptick in my heart rate. I may have told her that I hate her little nickname for me, but deep down, I fucking love it. I wish I could show her just how big of a man I am. My cock clenches at the thought.

  It’s shitty of me, thinking about this right now and it's shitty of me to answer my phone in the middle of fooling around, but I hate leaving Penny's texts un-answered.

  I tap Karen’s leg with my palm. “Sorry. One minute. I need to get this.”

  My date frowns, but wordlessly climbs off my lap.

  I can finally breathe, though I’ll feel a whole lot better once I find out what’s going on with my friend. It’s late. If she’s texting me in the middle of the night, that usually means trouble. I know it’s her night off from the bar, but I’m worried that something's happened.

  I step into the kitchen for a sliver of privacy and dial her phone number. I hate texting. Penny says I’m all thumbs, and she can never understand what I type. I'd rather call her anyway because that way, I get to hear her voice.

  When she picks up, all I can hear is static. I hold the phone away from my ear. “Penny? Penn?”

  “Walker? S'that you?” Her voice crackles over the line.

  It’s hard to hear her over the static and the background music, especially since her words are all slurred together. Instantly, my protective instincts are on high alert.

  “Yes, Penn. It’s me. You okay?”

  “Are you busy?" She's hesitating. "'Cause I don't want to bother you if you're busy. Or if you're sleeping. I know how you get when you're sleeping. And I won't—”

  I cut off her jabbering. "I'm not busy." The urgency in my blood simmers. If Penny is in danger, I need to get to her. Now.

  “Are you sure, Walker?”

  Good God. This woman drives me crazy. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m here talking to you, aren’t I?” The static amps up. “Come on, Penn. What is it? What do you need?”

  “Do you think you could maybe give me a ride home?" Her words tumble out in a rush. There's a note of panic in her voice. "Don't worry—I understand if you're busy. And if you're not busy, I could pay you for gas. I promise, I’m good for it.” I hear a faint whimper.

  Is she crying? And drunk? What the hell?

  My shoulders square. I feel all my blood rocket into my head. “I don’t want your money, Penelope. Where are you?”

  It takes three tries for her to remember the name of the bar, but she finally gives me the information I need. I tell her to stay put, and I’ll be there in a few minutes. I end the call.

  When I stomp back into the living room, I find that my date has lost her pants.

  Oh, boy.

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes, my gaze honed in on the front door. “Sorry. I’ve got to go save a friend. You understand, right?”

  She bounces to her feet, not bothering to grab her clothes as she steps into my path. Boobs, butt and disappointment on full display. I feel zero urge to let my gaze drop beneath her green eyes. Eyes that are the wrong shade of green.

  She shakes her head. “Wow. You're leaving? Are you actually about to walk away from a guaranteed fuck to go rescue one of your drunk buddies?” she asks, incredulous. "None of my friends would do that."

  Deftly, I sidestep her. “Then, I guess you need better friends,” I reply with a shrug as she follows me to her front door. I hop into my boots.

  I jog down the metal staircase and step out into the night, shockingly relieved by the turn of events. That’s when I know my head is fucked up. Who the hell is grateful to avoid a hookup with a hot chick?

  The shirtless woman is hanging out of her second floor window, shouting after me as I head off down the sidewalk. “Lose my number, jackass!” she yells as I tear open my truck door.

  "Your wish is my command," I mumble as I pull up her name to delete her contact information from my phone.

  She roars and flings her stupid magazine after me.

  I pause to pick it up and toss it onto my passenger's seat. Because littering sucks.

  And then, I jump behind the wheel and pull off from the curb.

  3

  Walker

  She stumbles out the backdoor of the bar, headed toward my truck in her skin-tight mini dress. My cock throbs.

  I curse myself inwardly and try to push away the primal urge to bend her over the hood and fuck her until we short-circuit the engine.

  Penny clambers into the passenger's seat and plops down with a loaded sigh. "My knight in shining armor..." she mutters wryly. "Boy, am I happy to see you..."

  Her hair is an absolute mess and her makeup is smudged, a glaring departure from her usual, put-together self. I catch the faint scent of whiskey on her breath, mixing with her traditional, warm vanilla scent. She scoops up Karen's dumb magazine and drops it into her lap.

  I'm too pissed at her condition to make eye contact. “Seatbelt,” I grumble, attention fixed on the windshield as I fire up the engine.

  I don't have to look at her—I can almost feel the fire of her eyeroll as she glares at my head.

  “Anywayyy..." she says deliberately. "Thanks for saving me." She wiggles around, getting comfortable in her seat before tugging the belt across her ample chest. "I was hoping to get a different kind of ride tonight, if you know what I mean." She sputters out her infamous drunk giggle. It's annoyingly high-pitched and hysterical and absolutely adorable.

  "Wanna tell me what the hell happened back there?” I jut my chin toward the bar.

  She leans forward to flip on the heater. Then her long, wandering fingers sneak up to the radio dial. "This sexy Jason Momoa guy was totally flirting with me, no lie.” She changes the tuner to a station playing throbbing pop music, scientifically-proven t
o be the most annoying sound in the world.

  Penny is the only person who’d ever dare touch anything in my truck. If anyone else tried that shit, I’d rip their arm off and slap them with it.

  Satisfied with her music selection, she flops back in her seat. “For a minute there, I really thought he and me were connecting, y'know. But unfortunately, my Aquaman ditched me when I chickened out of going home with him.” She kicks off her heels, tucking her painted toes under her in the passenger seat.

  I throw her a sidelong glimpse as I put the truck in gear. “Aqua-who?”

  “Y'know, Aquaman," she garbles eagerly. "Remember when we watched the movie together. Actually, I watched the movie. You spent the first ten minutes grumbling that it was just The Little Mermaid for grownups then you fell asleep and snored your way through the rest of the film.”

  She continues her slurred rambling—with zero fucks to give for the grammar rules of the English language—and I can't even keep up. I really don’t know what she’s talking about, but my brain hones in on the fact that there was a guy at the bar she was interested in, one that she considered going home with. I don't like the territorial feeling that information sparks in me.

  The idea of her going home with some loser makes my skin itch. No one in this rundown dump deserves a shot with Penny Merlini. Especially not a douchebag who’d turn her down in a trashy bar like this one.

  In all the years I've known her, I've never seen Penny with a long-term boyfriend. She's dated a string of pretty boy gym-junkies but no one she's ever been serious about, as far as I can tell. Maybe she's not into that whole 'serious relationship' thing. Maybe she's happy playing the field. And even if she were looking for something stable, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be with a guy like me. Penn is drop-dead gorgeous, with glitter-red hair, eyes like emeralds and a soul-stealing smile. She treats fashion like a religion and she dresses like she's getting ready for a stroll down Hollywood Boulevard. Every where she goes, she turns heads. The idea of her in a relationship with a grimy, anti-social farmer like me is almost laughable.