Second Chance Baby Daddy: A Billionaire + Virgin Romance

by Vivien Vale

I spot the set of numbers on Dylan’s chest easily. I use my fingers to lather some of the cream gently over the tattoo.

  There’s a pleasant peppermint scent as I lather, and I picture Dylan growing the peppermint plants himself and distilling the leaves into essential oil for shaving cream and other purposes.

  That seems to be who he is now.

  The cream is no match for Dylan’s chest hair, and I’m not able to get much of a lather going. I open the straight razor, which looks sharp enough to quickly remove just a few inches of chest hair without much trouble or much shaving cream.

  I gingerly angle the blade right at the top of the tattoo, and it just rests on the daunting blanket of Dylan’s chest hair. I try putting just a tiny bit of pressure on the blade, and it breaks right off the razor handle, falling onto the mattress.

  Dylan’s chest hair and his awe-inspiring pecs glow in the brightening morning sunshine. That freaking razor never stood a chance.

  I carry the broken razor and shaving bowl back to the bathroom, trying fruitlessly to get the blade back on its handle. I switch on the bathroom light when I get there, and the first thing I see is someone in the mirror, staring back at me.

  Some...person. Her hair is a mess, her complexion looks so lifeless, and her features look so plain.

  She has a gloomy look on her face, like she knows how ugly she looks without makeup.

  The mirror doesn’t lie—that’s me. That’s what I look like right now, without my usual routine.

  Holly crap. It really is me without makeup.

  It’s like I’ve been hiding myself, and now I see why. I snap the blade back onto the handle with tears in my eyes.

  I’m so ugly, and I didn’t even realize it.

  I tearfully put Dylan’s shaving stuff back and bury my head in my hands, hoping never to have to look at myself again.

  Chapter 23

  Dylan

  Waking up on your fucking own never feels good. Even after what feels like an eternity alone in this cabin, I’ve never gotten used to it.

  Feeling the warmth of the sun on my face is enjoyable as it should be for once, because I’m waking up to the awareness of the beautiful body and beautiful soul making my bed a little less big and a lot less fucking lonely.

  That enjoyment dies the moment I open my eyes and see that she’s not there.

  “Emma?” I ask, my arms still stupidly stretched out to her side of the bed.

  Her side...the bed feels emptier than ever.

  “Emma!” I call loudly, listening for any evidence that this whole thing hasn’t been the crazed dream of a lonely, isolated mind.

  Last night seems like a dream now—the best damn dream I’ve ever had.

  All I hear is the chirping of distant birds and the usual silence from the rest of the cabin.

  Was I going fucking mad now? Had too much fucking time on my own finally taken its fucking toll?

  The pillow next to mine looks like it’s been slept on, though. My heart starts beating faster when I notice the single long, blond hair on the pillow, glistening in the sun.

  I’m considering whether to call Emma’s name again or to just get out of bed and find her, when I finally hear a sound drift through the room.

  I lie still, concentrating. Where the fuck could she be? No sound is coming from the kitchen. And then, I hear a strange noise coming from somewhere outside my bedroom.

  Given my present circumstances, there’s a lot that could be happening, and I need to deduce everything I can about the situation before I take fucking action.

  It only takes a second or two for me to realize that what I’m hearing is Emma sobbing softly.

  I don’t think I’ve ever leapt out of bed so fucking fast.

  Waking up alone is one thing—and bad enough in a way—but waking up to the sound of Emma crying is a million times worse.

  Once I’m up, I can hear Emma in the bathroom. The door’s slightly ajar. I approach slowly.

  The sound of Emma bawling is too much for me to bear. I open the door, ready to do anything for her.

  She’s standing in front of the sink with her back to me. Her shoulders are heaving lightly as she weeps.

  “Emma?”

  She turns towards me when she hears my voice. Her eyes are red and full of anguish, tears running down her face.

  “Emma...”

  That’s all I can say. I want to take Emma into my arms and get rid of her pain, anything to make her feel better.

  I start with a gentler approach, taking a step closer and placing a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m ugly!” she exclaims before dissolving into another series of sobs, and I’m suddenly very confused.

  “Emma...what?”

  I give Emma a moment to gather herself, because I’m at a serious fucking loss for words.

  “I-I got a good look at myself in the mirror with no makeup, and I haven’t done any of my skincare regimen for days, and this is how I look, and I’m so ugly.”

  Emma wipes away a tear with the back of her hand. She looks calmer but still utterly disheartened.

  “Emma, Emma, Emma...”

  So far, all I’ve said today is her name. The problem now is I’m still stunned speechless.

  “I can’t believe you’re serious,” I say and quickly add, “but you clearly are.”

  Emma looks at me for a long moment, trying to buy into what I’m saying. It looks like she needs more convincing. I can definitely do that.

  “Emma, you’re so beautiful it’s almost painful. You’re so beautiful that it defies belief. I’ve always felt that way, and I’m right.”

  “No, not today you’re not.” Emma shakes her head, her eyes cast downward.

  “Especially today, Emma.”

  She looks at me. The sadness in her eyes is persistent, but it’s faltering. This is what she needs to hear.

  “But…how?”

  “What makeup do you use, Emma? Foundation? Lipstick?”

  “Yeah, of course.” Emma’s eyes are cast downward again. I’m losing her. “Lots of others, too.”

  “All that crap is a pale imitation. That’s my opinion, at least.”

  “Dylan…what the hell does that mean?”

  “Emma, when you’re excited…aroused, or when you have an orgasm, there’s this natural glow about you. It’s beautiful, Emma, and it’s all without cosmetics.”

  Emma looks at me quizzically. “I have that kind of glow?”

  “Emma, after all those orgasms…how many was it?”

  I see a flash of a subtle smile on her lips. “I don’t know—about a trillion, a trillion and one. It’s somewhere in that ballpark.”

  “That sounds about fucking right. And after all that coming, you’ve still got that glow. In fact, you’re fucking glowing so much you look radioactive.”

  Emma looks back into the mirror, and I see her eyes take in the reflection.

  “I don’t know.”

  Does she really not see the captivating image staring back at her? Emma turns her eyes towards me again. I see her sadness finally starting to fade.

  “That glow is still there, Emma. But that doesn’t even matter. Glow or not, you’re still ridiculously beautiful. And hot.”

  “Ridiculously?” Emma eyes me skeptically, with a touch of playful mockery on her face.

  “It’s absolutely ridiculous how beautiful you are.”

  Emma rolls her eyes slightly, but the tears are gone. She turns around to look in the mirror.

  “I don’t know about ridiculous.”

  “Emma, your beauty is staggering.”

  “Even now?”

  “Right now. And always, but especially right now.”

  Emma watches me hug her from behind in the mirror, and I watch her reflection break out into a captivating smile.

  “That’s a bit dramatic, Dylan Westmont, but I’ll take it.”

  “Dramatic? I think I’m holding back.”

  I tilt my head down over Emma’s shoulder to g
ive her a kiss on the cheek before whispering in her ear.

  “You look so fucking hot I can hardly even fucking believe it’s true.”

  Emma’s blushing and beaming, as she looks down over her other shoulder.

  “I’m still feeling that glow, since you mention it. But I’ve had enough looking in the mirror for now.”

  “Not me. I could look at you all day.”

  “Does it have to be in the mirror, or could you look at me while cooking breakfast?”

  “Maybe, although I might get distracted by how fucking hot you are and end up accidentally burning down the cabin.”

  “How about looking at me while I eat breakfast?”

  “That’d probably be safer.” I kiss Emma once more on the cheek.

  “Probably. Now let me wash my face.”

  Emma doesn’t mind me staying in the bathroom, absorbed in her beauty, while she washes her face and spends a minute considering her reflection.

  After Emma finishes, I remind her of how painfully gorgeous she looks.

  “Ridiculous.”

  “What?”

  “And staggering.”

  “Oh, that.”

  Emma and I leave the bathroom together to go downstairs for breakfast.

  “I like staggering,” she says with a grin. “Stick with that one.”

  Emma and I stop at the top of the stairs and regard each other. So far, it’s the happiest moment I’ve had in this cabin by a wide fucking margin.

  “Are you going to cook me breakfast, or what?” Emma smiles, all traces of sadness gone.

  “Fine, I’ll hurry.”

  I bound down the stairs, taking two at a time.

  “Don’t try this at home,” I say.

  I’m also thinking about breakfast, mostly about preparing it quickly but also making it the best breakfast Emma’s ever had. It’ll be a challenge, but I can do it.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I start making a mental list of the ingredients I can get to quickly—flour, brown sugar, maple syrup, eggs, of course…

  “What the... Dylan, were you robbed?”

  The very words send me into a total fucking head spin. Emma’s behind me, still slowly walking down the stairs.

  Her question triggers parts of me that lie dormant but are always close to the surface—like the part that knows danger is just around the corner.

  All thoughts of breakfast leave my mind as soon as I see several bins and bags of sugar, flour, and oatmeal strewn on the floor in front of me.

  “Is somebody here now?” Emma asks, her voice tense and low. She stops walking down the stairs entirely.

  There’s a shuffling sound coming from the kitchen, and I start walking towards it. No one. “No, there’s nobody here,” I say.

  Suddenly, there’s a loud crash and the sound of glass breaking. Emma gasps.

  “Actually, let me clarify that: there’s nobody here that we don’t know.”

  I hear Emma take a tentative step down the stairs.

  “What?”

  “It’s just our new friend, Emma. He’s also interested in breakfast, and he’s taking matters into his own hands.”

  He must know we’re talking about him, because the bear walks up to us as soon as I start cleaning the mess.

  “I’m afraid breakfast will be a little delayed this morning,” I call to Emma, shaking my fucking head. I knew it was a fucking mistake to bring the bear here.

  Chapter 24

  Emma

  “Wait,” I say to the bear cub. His big, brown eyes stare at me, melting my heart.

  Maybe this is what it feels like to have a child.

  There’s no way I can be angry about the massive clean-up, not when I look at those beautiful, brown bear cub eyes.

  All he needs to do is give me one look with those sweet eyes, and I’m ready to forgive and forget. After all, he’s so small, and he’s been through so much at such a young age.

  I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose your mother when you’re only a few months old.

  “Isn’t he cute?”

  I turn to Dylan, who’s busy in the kitchen. I’m not quite sure what he’s doing, but I hope he’s cooking breakfast. I’m hungry.

  “I guess you could call him that. You could also call him hard work, a pain in the ass, and a fucking nuisance who’ll grow up to eat me out of house and home.”

  He mumbles something else, which kind of sounds like Just like real children, but I may have misunderstood.

  I laugh and ruffle the bear’s fur. The little creature rolls onto his back, and I rub his tummy.

  After that, I decide it’s time for me to go and see if Dylan needs help in the kitchen.

  Baby bear playfully growls at me as I try to leave. He stands on his hind legs, front paws reaching up to me.

  I read his signal loud and clear.

  “I get it, I get it.” I laugh and bend down to pick him up.

  “I wouldn’t,” Dylan grumbles from the kitchen, and I feign ignorance.

  “Do what?” I know exactly what Dylan’s going to say, but I’m playing dumb on this one.

  “Pick him up just because he wants you to. Next minute, you’ll be his personal slave, and you’ll have to do whatever he wants.”

  “I think you’re exaggerating. He’s an innocent little baby bear. How could he possibly have ulterior motives?”

  “You mark my words.” Dylan points at me with his whisk as I carry the bear into the kitchen.

  “How much do you want to bet it won’t take long before he’ll stop wanting to be carried? I bet it’ll be before he’s a year old.”

  Dylan just shakes his head.

  I can see past the gruff exterior. I know he’s already taken with the furry bundle of joy, but he still feels the need to act like his grizzly old self.

  As if to add weight to my words, the bear puts his head on my shoulders and snuggles into me, with his big brown eyes looking right at me.

  “Ohhh, look at this. He likes me.”

  A kind of warm glow wraps itself around me. I’ve never felt as if anyone ever really liked me for me or needed me the way this bear does.

  This is amazing—another being that’s totally dependent on me.

  Wow.

  Of course, I’m still on a high from last night. In fact, last night deserves another ‘Wow’. Maybe even a double ‘Wow’.

  It was actually fucking awesome is all I can say. Just thinking about it sends little shivers of pleasure down my skin.

  “He needs a name,” I say, approaching Dylan who’s cooking breakfast. “We can’t just keep calling him baby bear or cub.”

  “Why not?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Because he needs a name,” I insist.

  “Next, you’ll be planning his twenty-first.”

  Is it my imagination, or is Dylan not especially friendly with our houseguest?

  Wait a minute. Did I really just refer to the bear as our houseguest? I mean, this isn’t my place. Technically, I should be thinking of the baby bear as Dylan’s houseguest.

  Sooner or later, I’ll have to return to my life.

  My life.

  How strange are those words?

  And how long ago it now seems.

  I mean, I’ve only been here, like, two days, but it feels more like two years.

  Is it that good? Or that bad?

  “It’s just a name,” I insist.

  I actually have a few ideas in mind already. How I’m going to run them past Dylan is beyond me.

  “He’s a wild animal. One day, he’ll need to be returned to the wild. You know, the place out there.” He waves his hand toward the front door. “And he may not want to have some human name to haunt him. What if the other bears make fun of him?”

  “Why would they?”

  “Because it’s not bear enough.”

  I nod. “Of course. I understand, but that doesn’t mean we can’t give him a name right now, one that’s bear enough.” I pat his fur and
think. “He might even have a name already. How do we know his mom didn’t give him one? I once read bears are highly intelligent creatures.”

  Dylan pays me no attention, instead focusing on whisking his eggs.

  “How about Dior?”

  Now he does look at me. “You’re fucking kidding, right?”

  “What’s wrong with Dior? It’s a perfectly...”

  “You can’t name a bear after a French fashion designer.”

  I shake my head and roll my eyes to the heavens.

  “And here I was, thinking you knew nothing of such things,” I say, laughing at the way he rolls his eyes. “What do you suggest?”

  I lean against the kitchen counter and grab some of the egg cooking in the saucepan.

  Dylan playfully smacks me on the arm. The bear, however, gobbles up the little bit of food I offer him.

  “Bob,” Dylan mumbles. “But I really don’t think he should have a name at all.”

  “Blah, blah, blah.”

  I poke my tongue out at Dylan. He grabs me, and I struggle playfully against him.

  Then, his mouth finds mine, and he kisses me tenderly. When the baby bear licks us both over the cheek, Dylan pulls away.

  “Now that’s going too far,” he growls and starts washing his face in the kitchen sink.

  I laugh.

  “Boss. Why don’t we call him Boss?”

  “What is it with you and designers?”

  “He’s bossy, so the name fits,” I reply shrugging. “It doesn’t matter that it was inspired by Hugo Boss, does it?”

  Dylan grabs me again.

  “As long as you don’t admit it to anyone else, let’s go with Boss.”

  Out pokes Boss’ tongue again, but Dylan is faster this time. Holding up three plates in hands, Dylan directs us to the dining table.

  Obediently, Boss sits down next to me.

  “Look at his good manners,” I say to Dylan, who’s trying hard not to laugh.

  I feed Boss his scrambled eggs, staying vigilant to make sure he doesn’t devour mine as well.

  Feeding a baby bear is harder than it looks.

  Throughout breakfast, I struggle to stop Boss from knocking my plate off the table or knocking the fork out of my hand.

  “He sure has a healthy appetite,” I observe when his plate is licked clean.

  I look across the table at Dylan, awaiting his reaction.