Baby Daddy: A Sexy STANDALONE Romantic Comedy

by Nelle L'Amour

  I gave him the evil eye. No way.

  Way. Fifteen minutes later, we were all laced up in our skates thanks to Drake’s help. The skates felt weird on my feet and I had trouble balancing on them. I wobbled like a toddler taking her first steps. Tyson, on the other hand, was prancing around in them on the rubber matting as if she was born wearing them.

  Drake took her hand and led her onto the ice. My heart leapt to my throat as she lost her balance on the slippery surface. Thank goodness, Drake reacted in time to break the fall and keep her on her feet. My little girl was gleefully laughing while I was seriously freaking.

  “Drake, be careful with her. Don’t let go of her. And don’t go too fast.”

  Drake smirked at me dismissively. “Stop worrying. By the time I’m done with her, she’ll be ready for the Olympics.”

  Pompous jerk. I let it go as they, hand in hand, began to slowly circle the rink. In no time, my anxiety dissipated, giving way to pure joy.

  Still clutching Drake’s hand, my baby took what looked like baby steps around the circumference of the rink. She looked so tiny next to his broad six-foot-two frame. The pleasure I got from seeing the mixture of excitement, happiness, and accomplishment on her face couldn’t be measured. I could tell that Drake was enjoying every minute instructing her. They looked so cute together, my big built boss and my fragile little baby, both wearing jeans, wooly sweaters, and knit beanies. Standing at the edge of the rink, I pulled out my cell phone and began taking photos and videos.

  As they progressed, Ty’s steps grew more confident and fluid, and her speed picked up a bit.

  “Hi, Mommy!” she hollered, waving her free hand, as she and Drake passed by me. “Look at me skate!”

  “You’re doing such a great job, baby girl!” I shouted back with a big smile.

  “What about me, Mommy?” mock-shouted Drake.

  “Not nearly as well as Tyson.”

  He stuck his tongue out at me like a pouty three-year-old. I found it incredibly sexy, and the memory of it gliding in my mouth last night sent a heat wave through me despite the chill in the air. Head to toe tingles zapped me as I imagined what that deft tongue was capable of. A shiver of lust skittered down my spine.

  Halfway through their next spin around the rink, Drake let go of Tyson’s hand. To my great surprise and delight, she was able to manage all by herself. Thank goodness, Drake stayed close to her in case she took a spill. But she didn’t. I watched as Drake led her over to the side of the rink. While she stood against the railing, he gave her a lesson in stroking. Holding up my phone, I shot a video while he made Tyson imitate his smooth moves. With her little arms outstretched, she pushed off from the wall and, to my amazement, skated to him. My heart melted when he took her into his arms and lifted her high in the air to celebrate her small victory. My little skater, full of laughter, was a natural and her instant connection to Drake undeniable. A pang of guilt knifed through me. She’d been deprived of a father. A daddy to love and who could love her back. Maybe having only me wasn’t enough.

  With Tyson skating on her own close to the railing and Drake by her side, the twosome skated over to me.

  “Mommy, skating is SO much fun! You should try it!”

  “She’s right,” Drake chimed in.

  “I’m afraid I’ll fall.”

  “But, Mommy, you have a big butt so it won’t hurt.”

  Mortification raced through me. I felt myself turning as red as a beet. Kids say the darndest things, right? Wrong! My sassy almost six-year-old had no filter.

  Drake broke out into hysterical laughter.

  I clenched my fists. I wanted to punch him. “It’s not funny.”

  “Dee, you have a great butt. Now, get your ass on the ice.”

  “C’mon, Mommy,” Ty pleaded. “Please, pretty please with a cherry on top.”

  Drake’s laughter let up. “Mighty, why don’t you take a spin around the rink? You’re ready to skate all by yourself. Stay close to the railing and hold on to it if you have to.”

  “Yay!” On my next breath, she took off. My breath caught in my throat, but she seemed to be managing just fine.

  Drake stayed behind. All that separated us was the waist-high railing. He leaned into me. His sparkling blue eyes flickered with a mixture of determination and mischief while his warm breath heated my cheeks. His hands tugged playfully at the ends of my wool plaid scarf.

  “Aren’t you going to skate with Tyson?”

  He glanced in her direction. She was already halfway around the rink. “She’s doing just fine by herself. She’s a total natural. She reminds me of myself at that age. I took, like her, to the ice like a penguin.”

  “But what if she falls?”

  He shrugged. “She’ll get up.” He tugged again at my scarf. “C’mon, Dee, get your big beautiful butt on the ice.”

  “No way.”

  “That does it.”

  My eyes stayed on him as he skated with amazing grace and speed to the entrance of the rink, stormed off the ice, and marched my way. In a single swoop, he hauled me over his shoulders.

  “What the hell are you doing, Drake?”

  “Getting you on the ice,” he responded, marching back to the entrance, one hand gripping me right below my ass.

  “Put me down!” I began to kick my feet in protest.

  “Behave! And stop kicking. Skate blades are sharp and can be very dangerous. I don’t want you to cut off my dick. I’d like to keep it intact. And the same with my balls.”

  Rage filled every bone in my body. The asshole! He’d made me his captive like some kind of caveman. “Stop,” I shrieked at the top of my lungs as he marched us back on the ice and then raced around the rink at breakneck speed. We quickly caught up with Tyson.

  “Hi, Mommy!” she yelled out as we flew by. I could hear her giggling as the whooshing sound of Drake’s skates sung in my ears.

  Speeding around the ice, draped over Drake’s shoulder, I was getting dizzy. My arms hung loose like a ragdoll’s within groping distance of his perfect buns of steel. Blood rushed to my head. I’d had enough.

  “Put me down!” I breathed out.

  “Are you ready to stop acting like a brat?”

  “I am not a brat!”

  Without warning, he swatted my ass with his free hand. The slap stung straight through my thick leggings, but the incendiary sting strangely turned me on. A barrage of tingles blazed through me, clustering between my inner thighs.

  “Put me down,” I yelled again.

  He didn’t say a thing. Coming to a braking halt that left a skid mark on the ice, he set me on my feet. Standing behind me, he kept his hands anchored on my waist to keep me balanced. I stood as frozen as the ice, hoping he’d never let me go. Partly because I was nervous as shit. And mostly because it felt so good to have his hands touching me. The sparks coursing through my body were definitely not going to help with skating.

  “Okay, I’m going to teach you how to skate. Trust me, you’re going to be the next Dorothy Hamill.”

  I couldn’t help a nervous laugh. “I. Don’t. Think. So.”

  He laughed his sexy laugh. “Think again.”

  “Seriously, Drake, I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Come on. If your five-year-old daughter can, so can you.”

  My eyes darted to Tyson, who was circling around the rink. Her strokes were a little awkward, but she was definitely skating. And doing it well.

  “Tyson is fearless,” I countered.

  “What are you afraid of?” he breathed into my ear. The warmth of his breath sent a chill down my spine.

  “Of falling.” Of falling for you.

  “You won’t. I’ve got you. Now push off with one foot and then the other.”

  Trembling, I did what he asked. My legs wobbled, but I moved three feet forward. A small victory on the slippery ice.

  “Nice. Now do it again. But this time push from your hips, not your knees.”

  “Okay,” I stammered
. I did as he asked and noticed how much steadier and more powerful my strokes were. Still holding me firmly, he asked me to repeat the movements and I did so several more times. I’d probably skated a total of twenty feet.

  “You’re doing great!” He let go of me with one hand.

  Gah! Don’t let go of me.

  And then he tugged at my ponytail before repositioning himself so that we were side by side. He laced his fingers with mine. My heart pounding, I squeezed his hand.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, my voice as contorted as my face.

  “What does it look like? I’m holding your hand. We’re going to skate around the rink.”

  “No, I’m not ready for this!” I protested. “I want to get off the ice.”

  “Fine. You can get off by yourself. I’m going for a spin. See ya.”

  To my utter horror, he let go of my hand and skirted off—skating backward, no less, the damn showoff, facing me with a Cheshire grin plastered on his face.

  “Please, Drake,” I begged.

  My begging only made his grin grow bigger. “Please what?”

  “Please don’t leave me.” I’m not sure if he heard me because my voice was so shaky and small.

  His grin morphed into a wicked smile, and in a few frantic heartbeats, he was again by my side. His fingers entwined with mine once more. How warm his hand felt next to my cold and clammy one. He gave my hand a little squeeze.

  “I’m never going to leave you, D-baby.”

  My heart jumped. He called me baby. He probably called every girl that, but the way he said it so tenderly made me think I was the first. Following his lead, I began to skate with more confidence. Loving every minute of our togetherness.

  For about the next five or so minutes, we circled the rink, Drake holding my hand, me improving with each stroke. Once or twice I turned to look at him, and somehow at those moments, his gaze met mine. No words were spoken. Just silent smiles.

  Midway around the rink, my baby called out to me. “Look, Mommy no hands!”

  Half elated, half fearful, I craned my head in her direction, losing focus on my strokes. Suddenly, one of my blades caught with Drake’s and my heart lurched in my chest at that horrible sensation that I—we?—were taking a tumble. “Shit,” I heard Drake mumble as the inevitable happened. On my next rapid heartbeat, I was flat on my back on the ice and he was splayed on top of me. We were a breath apart, his heart beating against mine. The warmth of his body caging mine was a sharp contrast to the cold ice beneath me.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, the heat of his breath warming my cheeks.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Totally.”

  I gazed at his face. His lips were parted, his eyes smoldering. The heat of his body was melting the ice beneath me. Melting the distance that separated us.

  The weight of Drake’s body kept me from moving. “Can you help me up?”

  “Not yet. I like being on top of you.”

  I like you on top too. “It can’t be that hard—”

  “Yeah, it is that hard. Very hard.” He rocked his hips against me.

  Gah! It was hard. Very, very hard.

  His eyes blazing into mine, he traced my lips with his fingertip and then leaned in closer until I could practically taste his minty breath. I could feel my heart pounding, hear my breathing grow labored. My lips parted, partly because I needed to get oxygen into my lungs and partly because I wanted him to devour them. I wanted him to kiss me so badly I could scream. As his lips were about to touchdown, a little voice caused us both to jolt. Tyson.

  Giggling, she skated up to us. “You guys look so funny!”

  Yes, we were a tangled pile of arms and legs. But it was more than just the physical. Our emotions were all tangled up too.

  “I’m hungry,” said my little girl.

  Drake’s eyes burned into mine. “Me too.”

  “Me three.” I’d never hungered for a man as much as I did for my new boss, Drake Hanson.

  I should have felt relieved that Tyson didn’t catch us kissing, but instead I felt bereft.

  CHAPTER 18

  Drake

  Leaving our skates behind in the trunk of my car, which was still parked outside my parents’ mansion, we headed inside to say goodbye to my mother.

  The interior of our house was even more majestic than the exterior. Comprising over twenty thousand square feet, there were over thirty rooms, including a home gym and a special Japanese dining room where guests dined seated on pillows around a table built into the floor. My father, who regularly entertained Japanese businessmen, got the idea for the dining room from his golf buddy, Conquest Broadcasting head, Saul Bernstein, who had a similar one in his neighboring house. Keep in mind that being a neighbor in this über-exclusive gated community meant living a mile away.

  My focus stayed on Dee as she stepped into the grand entryway, which was larger than her entire cottage. Clearly, she’d never been in a house of this magnitude. The expression on her face was a mixture of awe and intimidation. Her eyes widened, taking in the fine antiques and artwork, French rugs and furnishings, and towering vases filled with exotic fresh flowers.

  “Mommy, this is just like Cinderella’s palace,” exclaimed little Tyson, who was as happy as a clam and didn’t share her mother’s inner reservations. “Look at this really pretty egg,” she chirped, picking up the jeweled, pink enameled one that stood on a gilded stand on the entryway console.

  “That’s a Fabergé egg dating from the nineteenth century. It belonged to the Czar. My father won it at an auction and gave it to my mother for her fortieth birthday. He paid a record twelve million dollars for it.”

  Terror washed over Dee’s face. Call me a bastard, but I found it amusing.

  “Ty, put that down immediately, and don’t touch anything else.” She snatched it out of her daughter’s hand without giving her a chance and nervously set it back on the stand.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Seriously, Dee, don’t worry so much. Everything in this house is replaceable. My mother doesn’t fret over her possessions no matter how grand or rare they may be. I was brought up with the philosophy not to love things that can’t love you back.”

  “I was brought up with nothing.” The somberness of her words struck a chord, and I suddenly realized that I took my privileged upbringing for granted. I couldn’t fathom what it was like to grow up poor and unloved in a trailer park.

  As we continued through the house, Dee began to relax a little even when Tyson insisted on trying out every overstuffed Louis the Whoey chair, pretending she was a princess. Her eyes wandered across the paintings lining the walls.

  “Your parents collect paintings?” my new assistant asked, staring at an original Picasso.

  “Yes, for years. They’re one of the foremost collectors of twentieth century art in the world.”

  “What about that painting over there?” she asked, pointing to a life-size portrait of an elegant little girl with blond braids and golden halos circling her big blue eyes, much like Tyson’s.

  My sister. “That’s by the late painter who went by the name PAZ. Payton Anthony Zander, the father of my buddy Jaime, who does some of our promotional trailers.”

  Moving closer, she studied the canvas. “It’s really well done. I love his technique. The little girl reminds me of—”

  “My mommy is a painter,” interjected Tyson brightly, sparing me from having to reveal the story behind the painting.

  Dee’s cheeks flushed pink and my mind flashed back to the whimsical portraits scattered on the walls of her living room. I had meant to ask her about them.

  “The paintings in your house…you did them?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was small but laced with pride.

  “My mommy wanted to be an artist when she was growing up.”

  “Tyson, please—”

  Before she could reprimand her precocious kid, I cut her off. “You’re very talented, Dee. Have you ever thought about exhibiting?”


  She let out a little laugh. “Hardly. I can barely afford to frame them.”

  “You should let my friend Jaime take a look at your paintings. In addition to his ad agency, he owns an art gallery in West Hollywood.”

  Moving away from the painting, she digested my words. “Maybe after I get settled in my job at Tyson’s school in the fall.”

  “My mommy’s going to be an art teacher there,” chimed in Tyson.

  My chest tightened. I was reminded that Dee was just a temporary fixture in my life. The temp. As soon as my regular assistant Mona returned, she’d likely be out of my life. And so would sweet, rosy-cheeked Mighty Girl. But maybe introducing her to Jaime would be a way to extend our relationship. My mood lightened.

  We made our way to the dining room. My mother, now clad in a stylish velour jogging outfit, was seated at our massive dining room table, mapping out the seating arrangement for the Gunther Saxton gala. It was as if she was putting together the pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle. She had a system in place, but neither my father nor I knew how she did it. Nor did we want to.

  Upon hearing us enter, she stopped what she was doing and gazed up at us. A smile graced her porcelain-skinned face. She’d stayed out of the sun for years to avoid wrinkles and now her self-discipline had paid off. While all her friends were constantly getting Botox injections and subjecting themselves to myriad youth-inducing procedures, my mother had never undergone either the knife or a needle and looked stunning.

  “Why, hello, children,” she began, her voice breathy and regal. “How was skating?”

  “It was SO much fun!” exclaimed Tyson, holding Dee’s hand. “Drake says I’m a natural girl, but I don’t know what that means.”

  Dee shot her a stern look. “You mean ‘a natural’ which means things came easy to you. You shouldn’t be boasting.”

  Tyson gave her a puzzled look. “What’s boasting?”

  “Showing off.”

  I quickly came to the little girl’s defense. “Mom, she’s not showing off. Tyson did amazing. By the time we were done, she could skate around the entire rink by herself and do a bunny hop.”

  I watched proudly as the twinkly-eyed child demonstrated the rudimentary jump. My mother’s face lit up. It was no secret she had always wanted another child—a little girl—but that never happened after the tragedy.