by Kira Blakely
I tried to sit up, but he held up his hands and then set the gifts on the floor.
“Don’t.”
“I’m about maybe twelve weeks along, not a beach ball,” I said, leaping off the bed and into his arms. He spun me around and kissed me long and hard, his tongue dancing with my own, tempting me in a way that so was not appropriate in a hospital suite. “You really came!”
He nodded and sat beside me as I resumed my seat on the exam table. Taking my hand, he said, “You can thank Penelope for that. She gave me the most epic ass kicking of a lifetime, everything I deserved.”
“I bet!”
“I was scared, Belle. I know that I shouldn’t be, that I’m this tough guy and ex-soldier. Beating people up…” He paused before continuing, “Even killing people, you can get used to.”
Swallowing hard, I nodded. I had no illusions about his past. “I know.”
“But I don’t want to mess up someone’s life, let alone a kid I love and made. I want them to have everything, and part of me still thinks—will always think—that there’s some guy out there who will be a million times better for you and the baby than I am.”
“I don’t think that could ever be true,” I said, leaning forward and kissing him.
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
“But,” he continued. “Penelope talked with me and told me straight and she’s right. As scared as I am that I might mess this up, the last thing I want is to live in a world where I never see a little girl with your blue eyes growing up. I couldn’t bear to mess her up, but I couldn’t bear to be without her or you either.”
I squeezed his forearm, appreciating the sleeve of tattoos peeking out from his t-shirt’s sleeve. My soldier, my Marine, that was Drake. “The only way you could mess this up is if you weren’t here. We’d both never make it without you.”
“I hope so,” he said, kissing me back. “But if anything ever happens… if I’m not good at this… I’ll understand.”
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and I wiped at them. “I think you’re off to a good start. Is that a raccoon?”
“What?” he said, breaking away from me long enough to pick up the stuffed toy. “They’re a popular pet in Japan and mascot. I thought the stuffed kind was probably way more baby friendly than a pet.”
“We are not giving our daughter a pet raccoon.”
“Yet,” he said, winking at me.
I was about to continue the argument when the doctor came in with the ultrasound cart trailing behind her. She gave each of us a brisk nod and then gestured to her nurse. The younger girl went to work rubbing the gel over the wand and then prepping me for the procedure. When it was all prepared, the nurses nodded back to the doctor and said something fast in Japanese.
The doctor looked between us and smiled. “You’re the father then.”
Drake paused for a second, looking at me. I took his hand and squeezed it, and then he smiled at the doc. “I am.”
“Good, then we’re sorry we started without you.”
“That’s okay. I’m all about making up for lost time,” he replied, squeezing my hand back.
“This might be a bit cold, Ms. Fontaine.”
“Mrs. McManus,” Drake corrected. “We’re getting married as soon as we’re home from the vacation.”
The doctor smiled a little more broadly. “Fine, Mrs. McManus, this might be a bit chilly but I assure you that’s normal.”
She slid the wand over me and I turned to the 3D ultrasound. Watching it floored me and left me in tears. The baby’s face popped into view first, then the body and legs. She was even sucking on her little thumb. Then the wand passed lower and I frowned, not sure what I was seeing.
“Doctor?” I asked.
“You look to be almost thirteen weeks, Mrs. McManus. Congratulations to both of you,” the doctor said, looking between us. “You have a son.”
Drake’s face brightened, and he swept me up in a hug. Then he grimaced, realizing now he had gel on him, too. “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to do that.”
The doc laughed. “I’ve seen that one before, too. Megumi and I will get the photos printed out and update your chart. Take all the time you need.” With that, both women hurried out the door.
Drake’s expression was wide and open, so filled with wonder, and easily the most at peace I’d ever seen it. He helped me to my feet and, it seemed, reluctantly helped me dress as well. When I was more or less ready to follow him back to the reception desk, he pulled me into an embrace and kissed me, a move that curled my toes.
“We have a son.”
I nodded and bit my lower lip. “This doesn’t change your plans, does it?”
He blinked at me, genuinely confused. “Huh?”
“Well, Dad, I know you were thinking of a beautiful little girl with bright blue eyes. Instead, I think we might be getting a handful of a son with black wavy curls who will be beating the girls away with a stick.”
Drake groaned. “Oh, shit, I hope that karma’s not real. I was hell on my parents as a teenager.”
I laughed and kissed him again. “Good thing we have fifteen years to prepare.”
“And the rest of our lives to enjoy it.”
One Hot Daddy
I want to shove her against the wall and f*ck the innocence right out of her.
There’s just one problem.
She interns for my company and we have a no fraternizing policy.
As a single dad, I don’t have time to get wrapped up in scandal.
This is going to be... hard!
Imagine my shock, ok, desire, when I stumble upon her in the elevator where I live and find out she’s just moved in.
I’m screwed!
I can’t take it anymore. Her firm breasts, peeking out beneath her business suit. Her bright smile, greeting me, making me hard the minute she looks at me.
It’s too much!
This is so wrong. And WTF was I thinking making a no-fraternizing policy?
Well, we know which head will win this battle. I’ve been wearing the good guy hat too long.
F*ck being Mr. Nice Guy. Nice guys finish last.
I’m going back to the old me. I’ll show her what a real man is like.
I’m going to finish again, and again.
Chapter 1
Charlotte shuffled up the front steps of the downtown Manhattan office building wearing black, pointed shoes. She held her head high, her chin sure and firm, her eyes glazed with false confidence. After moving to New York City just a week before from her small, sleepy town in Ohio, she was beginning her first “adult” gig as an intern at Mad Music Magazine—MMM—a writing gig she’d coveted since she was a girl. Peeking at her figure in the side mirror of the building’s foyer, she inspected her taut, tight waist, her firm, rounded breasts, and her long, swirling brunette hair. If she hadn’t chosen to write about bands and music, she would have been welcomed as a groupie, unquestionably. But she felt herself to be too intelligent for that.
The rest of the interns were huddled, quivering, in the far corner of the MMM offices, wearing similar black business jackets and standing unsteadily in heels. Redheads, blondes, a few quirky gay guys wearing dark, thick glasses, all stood like deer in headlights, peering up at the woman who’d hired Charlotte. Maggie. The intern-organizer. The woman who’d half-bragged about her outrageous party days in her twenties, when she hadn’t thought for a moment about taking a job in any office like this. Not until Quentin McDonnell took over as editor, of course. That’s when Maggie had known the magazine was going to take a turn. That’s when she knew the street cred would shine. Of course, Quentin wasn’t who he was when Maggie had first known him. He was grown up. Older. Responsible. No longer the rock star he’d been before he’d become editor.
Quentin McDonnell had been editor of MMM for the previous two years and had virtually revamped the magazine, giving it back to musicians and artists, moving away from supporting top-tier labels and other “moneymake
rs.”
“Man, fuck those guys,” Quentin had been quoted as saying, ten years before. And he’d stuck by this statement, obviously.
Charlotte slipped in line beside a redhead named Pamela, gripping her notebook tightly against her breasts. Maggie took attendance with sharp jolts of her pen across a white sheet of paper, her eyes piercing across the top of their heads. Charlotte leaned quickly, rabbit-like, toward Pam.
“Have you seen him yet?” Charlotte asked.
Pam shook her head lightly, not allowing her eyes to sway from Maggie’s gaze. “Haven’t spotted him. Think he’s in his office. Had a meeting with a band this morning. The Morning Stars.”
“Shit. They’re huge,” Charlotte murmured, impressed. “Of course, he collaborated with them, back in the early ‘00s. Must be how he knows them.”
“Right,” Pam said, her eyes dancing, as if she were pretending to know this.
Charlotte had been studying Quentin McDonnell for several years, since she’d been a ragtag teenager and constant listener to his grunge rock band, Orpheus Arise. Back then, he’d been a drug-addled sex-addict, with long, black, scraggly hair, taut muscles, and wild, black eyes. He’d had those kissable, pink lips, hidden there against his dark black beard. He’d been anxious, destructive, dominant, going through every model, female rock star, and actress throughout the ‘00s. Charlotte had followed his every move, becoming a kind of fan girl, obsessing over his hot body and his clearly tormented mind.
“All right,” Maggie, the intern organizer said, scratching the last mark on her attendance sheet. “Ladies. Gents. I’d like to take you into the office and show you your desks. Several of you are social media, and you’ll be working together, while the rest of you are up-and-coming writers with aspirations to become actual music journalists. Quite an aspiration. I’ve been there, myself. And look where I stand today.” She gave them a little smirk, obviously confident.
Charlotte’s face twitched with a brief feeling of jealousy. Becoming a writer intern at a music magazine meant she was a badass writer, sure. But it didn’t necessarily mean she’d “make it” in the industry. You had to have balls. You had to have gumption. And, quite often, people from Ohio just weren’t born with all that. They were born with shy sensibilities and too many bright, white teeth.
Maggie ushered the interns into a side room, telling them she needed to take a pause and leave them for a few minutes. She gestured wildly, saying, “Talk amongst yourselves, now. Make friends. Don’t be shy.” She winked and then scurried out into the larger office, walking with abrupt movements and tossing her hands back as she walked.
“Well, well,” said a particularly flamboyant, blond-haired intern who had introduced himself as Randy, off to Charlotte’s side. “I know we’re all thinking the same thing. Where’s the man of the hour? Mr. Quentin McDonnell himself?”
The interns all tittered, eyeing the door. The flamboyant intern continued, his voice rising. “I mean, we all got into music at around the time he was a fucking rock god. I certainly had my first little boy wet dreams about him, as a teenager. Oh, boy. Good days.”
“He’s even hotter now,” one of the interns piped up. “He doesn’t do drugs anymore. Hardly drinks, I hear. And takes good care of himself. He’s a hunk if I ever saw one. But he still exudes cool.”
“You saw him?” another girl asked.
“Sure. When I came in for my interview, he was having a meeting with Maggie. Maggie said something about sleeping with him, a long time ago. But I keep staring at her, wondering. She can’t have been hot back then. She’s certainly not anything to look at now.”
“Well, she’s his age. I don’t think it’s too far outside of reality,” another girl said saucily. “Besides, I don’t think Quentin cared back then what his girls looked like. He was set on fucking them, regardless.”
“I wish he was still like that,” Randy said loudly, laughing. “I’d do anything to wake up in bed with him. The famous Quentin McDonnell.”
The group sighed collectively. Charlotte’s heart ached with jealousy, knowing, now, that the other interns felt the same as she. But who was she kidding? It wasn’t as if Quentin would take a single notice of her. Perhaps if she’d been twenty-four when he’d been an addled, crazed rock star…
“Don’t even think about it,” Pam said, her voice tart. “There’s a strict no-fraternization policy. Didn’t any of you read the handbook before you came in? He’s got a daughter now. I think it’s frankly disgusting to speak of him this way.”
“So, you’re just here to work?” another girl asked, snorting loudly.
Several of the other interns joined in laughter, taunting Pam. Pam lifted her chin, pointing her nose toward the door and obviously praying for Maggie to save her.
Suddenly, Maggie reappeared in the main office with Quentin McDonnell himself beside her, speaking quietly and conspiratorially on the other side of the glass. Immediately, Charlotte’s throat clenched. Hunting for oxygen, her tongue tipped against the top of her mouth, making it difficult for her to breathe. He was the most handsome man she’d seen in her life, taking the outrageous gruffness of his earlier years and marrying them with a sophisticated, editorial look, with horn-rimmed glasses and salt and pepper hair. His muscles were thick, curved beneath his immaculate, gray suit, and his pink lips were just as kissable as they’d been ten years before—when he’d haunted Charlotte’s sexual dreams.
“Jesus Christ,” someone whispered. “A no-fraternization rule? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Suddenly, Maggie beckoned toward the team of interns, mouthing the words, “Lunch! Go to lunch!”
They hadn’t been at work for more than twenty minutes, making them confused—yet eager to feel comfortable again.
“She must not have time for us right now,” someone joked as they churned from the intern office, bounding back toward the elevator. One by one, they passed both Maggie and Quentin, who were bent over the spread of a future print of the magazine.
Charlotte hung back, allowing herself to be one of the last to pass by Maggie and Quentin. Her eyes turned toward Quentin. Her hips shimmied from left to right, articulating her curves, her femininity. She knew what she was doing; it had become automatic. Quentin looked up from his spread, making intense, immediate eye contact with Charlotte.
The tension around them grew immensely, causing Charlotte to panic and drop her notebook onto the ground. The notebook smacked, bringing heads back toward the scene, as if they were watching a car crash. Her face burning, she knelt quickly, retrieving it, and feeling the stern eyes of the rock-star-turned-editor on her ass.
He’d noticed her.
She lifted the notebook quickly, spinning back and hiding her ass, blinking wildly into his dark eyes. Her tongue searched for words of apology, words that would tell him that she was sorry for interrupting his meeting. But seconds ticked along, with both of them holding the intense eye contact. Neither formed words.
Perturbed, Maggie took a dramatic step back, dropping her hands to her sides. “Didn’t I say interns go to lunch now?” she asked, obviously forgetting Charlotte’s name. She was still new, nameless, and unimportant. But she still held court for the editor. At least in that moment, he only had eyes for her.
“Wait a moment,” Quentin said firmly. His voice was provocative, dominant, powerful. Maggie pressed her lips together, clearly frightened. He continued to stare at Charlotte, his eyes glossing over her frame.
In this moment, Charlotte felt like one of his groupies from ten years before, when he’d ransacked the bodies of teenage and twenty-something beauties all over the country. His penetrating gaze made her feel suddenly sexually charged.
Charlotte still didn’t speak. The tension mounted, with Maggie and Charlotte sitting in wait, holding their tongues.
Finally, Quentin removed his horn-rimmed glasses, shaking his ear-length, salt and pepper hair. “Who on earth are you?” he finally asked, as if she should have told him already. As if, all al
ong, he’d been waiting for her.
“Charlotte,” she answered, her voice a whisper. Why did his gaze make her cower? Why did she feel exactly five inches tall? “Charlotte Barracks. I’m an intern. First day.”
Silence hung between them, then, with Quentin towering over her, making her feel weaker by the second. One of the other interns, a man, piped up from behind them. “We’re all new interns,” he said, his voice taking on false confidence. He’d probably read somewhere that he was meant to make an impression on the first day.
But Quentin’s eyes didn’t waver from Charlotte’s face. Nobody else in the room existed. Not when Maggie began to introduce some of the interns whose names she remembered, trying to act excited, attempting to yank Quentin’s attention back to her. Not when the rock stars he’d been interviewing poked their heads from the side office, asking if they might grab a cup of coffee.
Instead, Quentin found words. “Where do you come from? You’re clearly not from around here.”
“New York, you mean?” Charlotte asked, wondering if he was poking fun at her. Was it so obvious that she wasn’t from the East Coast? Did her cheeks shine with Midwestern sun? “No. I’m from Ohio.”
“Oh-HI-oh,” he whispered, his voice gruff. “I have a few good stories from there. And some I even remember.”
The band, now stationed behind him, began to titter with laughter. Charlotte swallowed harshly, remembering reading about the many orgies Quentin had had as a rock star. She’d read that article in the very magazine they were both now working for, something like a million years before. God, how times had changed. And, God, how she wanted him to splay her over a table and make love to her—or just fuck her, in the way of his ten-years-ago rock star self.
“My experience was a bit more wholesome than that,” Charlotte finally answered, her voice catching in her throat.
“And now you think you’re going to make it in the big, wide world, do you? First, this magazine, then eternity?” he asked, crossing his arms firmly across his chest. His eyes danced. He no longer appeared like the fatherly, nice-guy-editor. He was now all hard edges and bright eyes and bad boy arrogance.