by Taryn Quinn
Claim My Baby
Dirty DILFs #2
Taryn Quinn
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Claim My Baby
© 2018 Taryn Quinn
Rainbow Rage Publishing
Cover by: LateNite Designs
Photo by Sara Eirew Photography
Model: Michael Chabot
All Rights Are Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First ebook edition: Taryn Quinn, February 2018
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Contents
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1. Sage
2. Oliver
3. Sage
4. Oliver
5. Sage
6. Oliver
7. Sage
8. Oliver
9. Sage
10. Oliver
11. Sage
12. Oliver
13. Sage
14. Oliver
15. Sage
16. Sage
17. Sage
18. Oliver
19. Sage
20. Oliver
21. Sage
22. Oliver
23. Sage
Epilogue
Have My Baby
Rockstar Daddy
Also By Taryn Quinn
About the Authors
Join our Newsletter at www.tarynquinn.com.
Like shorter and dirtier reads?
Anything goes with this pen name.
Sexy—check.
Erotic—check.
Sweet—usually mixed in with the sexy…so, yeah—check.
Rom Com—check.
Dark—oh, yeah…check.
Paranormal—check.
Did we mention that we like all the genres?
So, c’mon in. Pour a glass of wine and play with us.
XOXO,
Taryn & Cari
aka Taryn Quinn
1
Sage
“Earth to Sage. Hello. Anyone home?”
My best friend Ally’s voice only vaguely registered behind me. I just needed one more minute. This was a very important task that couldn’t be put off a second longer.
In the Facebook search bar, I typed Moose Masterson. Hmm. Moose wasn’t his real name. What the heck was it? Chewing on my thumbnail, I dug through my memory banks from high school and grinned. Murphy Masterson. Bam! My thumbs blurred over the tiny keys and triumphantly, I waited as Facebook searched for the man who had to be my one true love. Or my one good hookup, which would suffice until I found a candidate for the love stuff.
My results were a big fat goose egg.
Undeterred, I spun to ask Ally if she remembered Murphy’s middle name when my best friend skidded to a halt behind me, far closer than I’d expected. She was carrying a partially full coffeepot, and she flailed as we collided. I tried to steady her, the coffeepot bobbled, and the next thing I knew, I had thankfully not entirely scalding liquid soaking the front of my newly cleaned restaurant uniform.
“Fudge!” I shouted, and approximately half of the restaurant’s patrons turned to look at us. That was only like three people, since we were halfway between the lunch and dinner rush.
Ally was nearly nine months pregnant and as round as the big table in back, but she’d managed to maintain both her footing and her composure. Unlike me. Of course, her new perfume wasn’t eau de java.
I didn’t even like coffee. Well, unless it was as close to ice cream in a cup as possible.
She patted my ample chest with the napkins she was yanking out by the sheaf from the nearest table dispenser. I couldn’t even be embarrassed about extreme nippling right now. Holy crap, that had been hot.
“Are you okay? Are you okay?” Ally repeated, setting down the coffeepot and shuffling to the next table for more napkins. “Oh God, did you get burned? Thank the Lord you starch your apron to within an inch of its life. It’s probably liquid-proof.”
“Funny. Leave this. I’ll take care of it. Oh, and do you remember Moose Masterson’s middle name?”
She didn’t reply. Guess that wasn’t important right now.
My cobwebbed lady garden could wait until the rest of me had been dried off.
I shook my damp phone and set it on a nearby booth as I untied my soaked apron and peeled it away from my top. Raising my brows, I deliberately wrung out the apron onto the newly polished floors.
By me. Who would be washing them again, since Ally was not in the condition to be doing such tasks. God forbid she squeeze out a football-sized child if she bent over wrong.
This was what I got for looking for love on company time.
“I’ll clean this mess up as soon as I switch to my backup shirt.” Holding my soaked apron far out to my side, I walked between the tables toward the storage room, squeezing out my shirttails with my other hand as I went.
Why the heck not? I’d be cleaning up the floor again anyway.
I swiftly realized why not when Greta, the new day-shift manager, bellowed through the kitchen as I hurried through it toward the break room. “Why is that floor a blooming mess when we’re about to serve our dinner patrons?”
“It’s my fault.” Ally hurried into the kitchen, her hands full of wet napkins. “I spilled coffee on Sage. It wasn’t her fault.”
“Sage, who was very obviously breaking our electronic resource policy during work hours?” Greta gave me a hard stare.
“I’m sorry,” I began, hunching my shoulders.
Showed what I got for chasing a wild hair into certain sex. There was no such thing as certain sex in my world. Wasn’t that why I had endured almost half a dozen near V-destroying misses?
“Get cleaning that mess up. Mitch will be in soon, and we don’t want him to see this place looking like a wreck.”
“On it,” Ally said. “I’ll take care of it before I leave.”
“I don’t think so.” I flew forward to grab her arm, though I’d already started unbuttoning my shirt. But hey, modesty wasn’t important compared to protecting my preggo bestie.
“Like Hades. You go sit down and rest those swollen ankles. Or go back to filling the ketchup dispensers like you were earlier.”
“But—”
“No ifs, ands or buts. You’re going out on maternity leave this week. I’ll be darned if you do anything to cause my nephew to pop out early.”
Okay, so the child wasn’t technically a relation of mine, but close enough. I intended to spoil him as if he were family just the same.
Ally rubbed her lower back. “My kid isn’t that touchy, and neither am I. Besides, it was my fault. Balance is all off right now. I’ll take care of it.”
Evidently, Greta was not moved by our touching display of bestie concern. “I don’t care which of you ladies gets out there and cleans up that coffee, but one of you better get your behinds moving right now or else.”
I was about to tell Greta what exactly she could do to my behind—as in kiss it—when the sharp click of expensive shoes made me turn around.
And came face to chest with Oliver Hamilton.
He towered above my five-two by ab
out a foot. Or three. Even though he was an identical twin, there was no doubting which Hamilton I was eye-to-pec with right now. Seth never wore full suits, instead often pairing dark jeans with a jacket and shirt, sans tie. Oliver seemed to wear nothing else. I’d only seen him in jeans twice, and once was when he was helping Seth with some work around the house. The jeans had looked fresh off the rack. Just as today’s suit looked custom and exquisitely cut to fit his chiseled frame.
He had no business being back here. It was bad enough Seth showed up in the diner’s kitchen all the time, but now Oliver? But Oliver went where he pleased and was rarely told no.
“Hello, I don’t think we’ve met,” he said in his smooth, deceptively calm voice. His eyes, however, blazed like charred embers from a fire. So dark they could’ve been black, especially when he looked pissed.
Like right now.
I blinked. “You forget to take your meds again, Hamilton? What are you doing back here? Employees only.”
But he wasn’t speaking to me. No, his attention was squarely fixated on Greta, who seemed caught between squirming and fluttering at being under the relentless scrutiny of such a dominating man.
Either that, or Greta’s tighty-whities were a size too small. Which would explain a lot.
“Oh, I know we haven’t.” Greta was instantly all aglow, a bright smile wreathing her normally stern face. She pushed past me and held out a hand to Oliver. “My name is Greta Conrad. I’m new in town. Just moved here last week. Old friend of Mitch’s. He owns The Rusty Spoon,” she added proudly, as if Oliver would be impressed by her important friends.
I hid a smirk behind my hand. Not so much.
Oliver just stared at her hand without taking it. “Lovely. Let me tell you who I am. My name is Oliver Hamilton, and Alison is my sister-in-law.” He jutted his chin at Ally, who was turning the shade of the tomatoes lined up neatly on the kitchen island. “So, I would greatly appreciate it if you refrained from making physical demands on a woman who is nine months pregnant. Or else I’ll be forced to contact my lawyer, and no one wants that, do we?”
“Oliver,” Ally said weakly. “I’m fine, and I only have two days left—”
“Do we have an understanding?” Oliver interjected, staring hard at Greta.
Greta’s smile was long gone. She nodded quickly, then pinned me with a look. “What about this one? Is she your sister-in-law too, or can she actually work to clean up the mess she caused?”
I bristled. Oliver hated me. Lord only knew what he’d say. Probably tell Greta I could clean the floors and the toilets too, for good measure.
“She’s on a break right now.” His gaze dropped below my face and lingered. “She must be, since she isn’t even fully dressed.”
I let out a startled squeak and grasped my half-open shirt tighter to my now heaving bosom and raced into the back hallway. I beelined for my locker in the break room, moving as fast as my sensible soles would carry me.
Thank heavens the break room was empty. See, the universe could be benevolent now and then.
Talking to Greta and Ally with my shirt half open over my granny bra—hello, DDs require more support than your average demi cup—was one thing. The line cooks had been on a smoke break out back, and I’d been flustered enough not to give them a second thought. Jean, one of the other waitresses, had probably come in and gone out without my notice, but she probably wore granny bras too.
Oliver, however, was a very different story.
Rule number one of having a mortal enemy—never let them see you sweat…or walking around in your underwear, especially if it wasn’t remotely sexy.
I spun the combination on my locker. Okay, so he wasn’t my mortal enemy. We didn’t have any grievous reasons not to like each other, except that he slept with any female who moved, and I couldn’t get any action unless I paid for it. Not that I should hold that against him, but I did because he was a humorless boob who took himself far too seriously.
And who had just swept in and defended his sister-in-law—and me, sort of—like a knight in Hugo Boss.
I tossed my wet apron into the bottom of my locker and whipped off my shirt, dropping it in the same pile. I’d tidy up later. The important thing now was to grab my highly revealing tank top—great job in choosing a spare shirt, past Sage—and apron. Well, after I used some of the tissues I kept for emergencies to blot my considerable cleavage. At least the coffee hadn’t done much more than slightly irritate my skin. The pinkness was already beginning to fade.
Small favors, because an ER trip for burned boobs was the last way I wanted to spend the afternoon.
I peered into my bra and peeled the cotton away. Ick, some of the coffee had soaked through. I didn’t have a spare bra with me. My locker was only so big. At this rate, I’d need to store an entire new outfit in there.
Handily, my loft was close by. I could sneak out and run over to my place, then take a quick shower and scrub my cheeks until I stopped blushing like a…well, a virgin.
I tugged out my tank top and spare apron, slipped them over my head, grabbed my lanyard with my apartment keys, and slammed my locker door shut.
And turned to find Oliver standing in the doorway, arms folded over his distractible chest.
“Jesus Christmas! You’re like a goddamn cat, always sneaking around.”
So much for my New Year’s resolution to stop swearing. I never used to, but working at the diner, I’d picked up the habit. Since the first of the year, I’d been trying Seth and Ally’s swear-jar trick. They’d started the practice to cut down on swearing so their daughter Laurie didn’t overhear bad words, but I’d decided to employ it too.
Thus far, I’d had to trade in my swear jar for a swear milk carton. The plastic gallon size. And it was only approaching the end of January.
“I do not sneak. I followed you at a reasonable pace, but you were far too involved in your task to notice me.” He cocked his head. “I must say, your sense of fashion is truly unique.”
My first inclination was to make another undignified noise and wrap my arms over my chest. But the apron was thick and, all things considered, offered decent coverage. The tank, not so much. Whatever. I’d be damned if I acted flustered around him again.
I’d be darned. Whatever. I’d just count this day as one big swear and put a twenty in the dang carton.
“Do you have a purpose in being back here or did you just want to make an already shitty day worse?”
No one could say I didn’t go all in with breaking my resolutions.
An unnamed emotion flitted through his dark eyes, but his lazy, curious pose never changed. “You don’t have to tolerate this, you know.”
“She’s new, trying to prove herself. I’m sure she’ll be perfectly fine once she settles in.” I wasn’t sure of that at all, but I wasn’t going to spill my guts to a guy who didn’t really care one way or the other.
“You have money from the sale of the bed-and-breakfast,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You must. Your parents wouldn’t have taken off in their Airstream and left you penniless after such a profitable sale.”
“How do you know how profitable it was?”
Dumb question. Hamilton Realty was run by Oliver, his brother Seth and their father, and they’d handled the deal. Even if they hadn’t brokered this particular one, real estate transactions that occurred in Crescent Cove were their business. They knew what would be hitting the market before the owners had made up their minds.
Now Oliver was trying to peer into mine, and I didn’t appreciate it.
“Working isn’t merely about material compensation.” I sniffed and looped my lanyard around my neck. Which required me to lift my arms, of course, and shifted the apron in a way I wouldn’t have thought much of, if not for Oliver’s sudden shift back from the door. He didn’t leave, just backed into the shadowy hallway.
I frowned. Weird. I hadn’t forgotten the deodorant today, had I? There was no way to discreetly check, but then again, I coul
dn’t smell anything but coffee right now. Good thing I was learning to almost like it.
“So, you expect me to believe you work here for the satisfaction? Does that include the bunions you’re trying to avoid by wearing such ugly shoes?”
This time, I did gasp. There was no avoiding it. When dealing with a frenemy, not much was off-limits. But insulting a woman’s shoes? That was beyond the pale.
“They are exceedingly comfortable. What exactly is it that you want? And why are you hiding in the hallway?”
“I’m not hiding.” His voice sounded strained as he stepped forward, moving quickly enough that he seemed to be right in front of me in two long-legged strides. “I have a meeting I’m late for, and I almost forgot to give you this.”
I was still trying to adjust to his sudden nearness—how could I smell his spicy cologne even over the coffee?—when he plucked an object out of the inside pocket of his jacket and dangled it in front of me.
“Missing something?” he asked when I didn’t move.
How could I? I’d just accidentally cut my gaze to his waist. And below. Right below. To where either his impeccably cut suit had a design flaw or else he was facing an affliction even a virgin could spot from five feet away.
He was hard. I was almost positive. Surely, even I could detect an erection despite my limited experience.
“Sage. Eyes up.” His voice was pinched. Utterly without amusement. Because it was fine if he sorta-kinda ogled my breasts, but I wasn’t allowed the same courtesy.