Table of Contents
A Daddy for Mother’s Day
Also By Crimson Vixens
Dedication
Description
Table of Contents Instructions
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Double Dealing
3 Men of the House
Caught On Tape
Painting Her
Taste
Hard Pressed
Hard & Fast
Wanted: Big Bad Brother
A Daddy for Mother’s Day
A Secret Baby Romance
By Natalie Knight & Daphne Dawn
Copyright 2018 by Crimson Vixens
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work intended for adults only.
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Also By Crimson Vixens
Vivien Vale
Mountain Man Baby Daddy
Hard Pressed
Hard Bargain
Hard & Fast
Hard Luck
Big Package
The Good Twin’s Baby
Spring Break Bride
His To Protect
Burning Hearts
Daphne Dawn
3 Men Of The House
Baby Bargain
Double Dealing
Double Feature
Double Stuffed
Triple Pleasure
Second Chance Baby Daddy
Wanted: Big Bad Single Dad
Triple Taught
Double Stuffed
Triple Threat
Natalie Knight
Taste
Painting Her
Caught On Tape
4 Men of the House
Wanted: Big Bad Brother
The Other Brother
The Marriage Mistake
The Proposal Problem
Dedication
To Riley
Description
For years she’s been the mother to my child.
Now it’s time to find this woman.
And make her my wife.
I’m an international sensation, baby.
You see me on your screen.
My flash.
Pizzazz.
You swoon over my face. Coo over my body.
You want my toys.
And all I want?
Is my family.
Several years ago they were torn away from me.
I’m incomplete.
Without my child.
And a bride by my side.
But it’s not so easy.
There are skeletons from our past.
Darkness in our thoughts.
We have pain to get over.
Sadness to overcome.
All I know is this.
I’m going to make her mine.
Nothing will stop me from possessing those lips.
Nothing will keep me from owning that body.
I’ll do whatever I have to.
I swear on my life.
By the time I’m done, the three of us will be a family.
And I just might make her a mommy times two...
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Natalie Knight
Daphne Dawn
Chapter 1
Izzie
“Isn’t it lovely?” Fran asks me as we make our way through the stadium.
I follow her gaze to the emerald green turf and the crisply painted lines. The sight makes my heart flutter in my chest.
I did it! I’m finally here.
Fran heaves a contented sigh, and then continues with the tour while I linger a moment more to admire the view.
“We did it,” I whisper, then hustle down the corridor after Fran’s sleek gray bob.
When the San Antonio Rangers had posted a job opening for a team Sports Nutritionist, there was no question in my mind. It was meant to be.
For a small-town Texas girl with football in the blood, working for the Rangers was the end-all and be-all. I could aspire no higher.
And now, as I follow Fran, the Human Resources director, through the maze of corridors behind the scenes, I truly feel like I’ve arrived.
Fran leads me into the weight room, which is next to the fueling and recovery station.
“Well, here you are, sweetheart,” she says with a smile.
I’m fairly certain the mega-wattage of my answering grin could blind her if she’s not careful. I try to turn it down, but I just can’t—I think my face is frozen like this. I will die with this smile on my face.
At that thought, I’m reminded of all the times my mother admonished me, “Isabella Grace, if you keep making that face, it will freeze that way!”
My heart squeezes in my chest, and though I feel the dull ache of grief at the memory, I still can’t stop beaming. Because there, on the wall next to my office door—my office! Oh my God—is my name: Isabella Williams, RD, CSSD, LDN.
Isabella Williams, Registered Dietitian, Certified Specialist in Sports Dietetics, and Licensed Dietitian/Nutritionist.
I. Will. Not. Squeal.
Because I’m a professional.
Undoubtedly, my attempts to hold in the shrieks show, because Fran gives me a slightly bemused look and says, “I’ll leave you to get settled in, shall I? And then just come get me when you’re ready for the rest of the tour, okay? Do you remember how to get to my office?”
I merely smile and nod. It seems I have temporarily lost the ability to speak. The kind woman, bless her, just gives me a knowing smile and a motherly pat on the shoulder.
“Like I said, just come get me when you’re ready. I’ve got to run now; we’ve got something big in the works,” she says with a wink, and then she’s off, hustling down the hall and up the stairs to her own office.
My hand shakes as it grips the handle. I still can’t believe I’m here, I still can’t believe this is happening.
I take a deep, steadying breath, and open the door.
The office is by no means lar
ge, but it’s not cramped, either. There’s a nice-sized desk with built-in shelves behind it, a shiny new computer, and an ergonomic desk chair.
Though I’ve never had my own office—so my standards are, admittedly, rather low—I still think it’s the most beautiful office that has ever existed. In fact, I’m sure of it. No other office can possibly compare.
The crisp white of the walls is an echo of the beautiful white lines of the field; the carpet has that crunchy spring to it of the freshly-cleaned; and the whole place is perfumed with the scents of industrial lemon cleaner and new paint.
I think I might have died and gone to heaven.
I make my way into the room and bump the door closed with my hip. I want a moment alone to bask in my 180-square foot queendom before I’m bombarded with the dietary needs of two hundred-pound (and then some) sweaty men. I heave another contented sigh, partially out of relief, as I thump my heavy box down on my desk and begin unpacking it.
The absolute necessities come out first, the picture of my parents my older sister snapped on the field on the year my father’s team won the State Championship. Even at a young age, Lucy was talented—she had an innate knack for capturing the heart of a moment.
However, out of all the pictures she took of our parents, this one is my favorite. It was taken post-victory, after the team had doused my father in Gatorade, so he’s soaked through and beaming, my mother at his side.
The look of love and adoration on both their faces makes my heart hurt. I want that.
Next, comes the picture of our grandparents that Lucy took her sophomore year of high school. She won a contest for it.
It was spring, two years after our parents died. We were on a family picnic with Gigi and Pappy, and the bluebonnets were in bloom all around us.
Lucy said it looked like we were adrift in the ocean. It was sunset, and I remember her making me clear away all of our picnic things so that it was just Gigi and Pappy on the quilt.
Then Lucy went far away and captured the perfect moment—Gigi smiling as she rested her head on Pappy’s shoulder while he kissed her hair.
There was joy, grief and contentment in the picture, amongst the endless blue of a new season. I love it. And I want that, too.
The final pictures lack the priors’ artistic flair, but they’re no less beloved. I put up the one of Lucy and me at her high school graduation next. She’s flushed with excitement, and we’re both laughing, our mouths thrown open in joy.
Or, she looks joyous and beautiful, and I look a bit like a braying donkey, with my nose crinkled and my eyes half shut. But I don’t keep it for me. I keep it because this is the last picture I have where Lucy looks so happy and carefree.
Which brings me to the last photograph: last year’s school picture of Liam.
Kind, clever, fearless, occasionally infuriating, incredible, lovable Liam.
I made it here for him, just as much as for myself.
The rest of the box is easy. I lean my framed diplomas and certifications against the wall, making a note to bring something to hang them up with tomorrow.
And then I put the few diet and nutrition books that could fit in this box on the shelves. My goal is to just bring a box a day until I have everything how I want it.
Once all my personal things are put away, I take out the paper with my login instructions and begin setting up my computer. I want to familiarize myself with the schedule and software. I’ll need to set up one-on-one appointments with all the players to get everyone on track before the season starts.
I probably want to get Jeremy McDaniels in first since he’s the current quarterback and he’s still recovering from last season’s shoulder injury. I wonder what they’ll do if they have to bench him this season.
My thoughts begin wandering to calculating kilo-caloric intakes and how much time I have to get all fifty-three main roster players—plus the ten practice squad players—set up on individually-tailored nutrition plans. We’re already almost halfway through pre-season.
Then I hear it.
At first, I think it must be the players stampeding in. I almost feel the need to brace myself. But I check the schedule Fran gave me and know that that can’t be it.
The weight room is a ghost town, so I make my way out and follow the noise, down the corridor and up the stairs to the administrative offices.
Everyone is cheering and patting each other on the back. We must have gotten something big.
We.
I feel my heart flutter in my chest again at the thought. I’m part of this now.
I spot Fran and make my way to her, a bemused smile playing across my lips. When I get to her, she grabs me into a hug and, I swear, the sixty-two-year-old grandmother starts jumping with glee.
“We got him! We got him, Ms. Williams!”
I laugh with her. “Yay!” I shout. “And please, call me Izzie.” Then, as Fran and everyone else continues celebrating, I ask, “Got who?”
Fran stops and looks incredulous, then comprehension dawns on her face. “Of course! I’m so sorry, Ms. Will—I mean Izzie. That’s right, you just got here.”
“We’re all acting like idiots,” at this, she waves her hand to encompass the entire floor, “because we just made the deal of the century.” Then she pauses for dramatic effect.
My smile is huge, and I’m vibrating with anticipation. Did we get that new hotshot running back? Did Owen Rodriguez become a free agent?
“Well! Tell me! Don’t keep me in suspense! I want to know why we’re all jumping up and down,” I beg.
Finally, Fran relents, and this time, it’s her smile that’s blinding.
“We got him. We got Brady Thomas!” she exclaims.
No.
I feel my stomach drop. I’m pretty certain if I look down, I’ll find it on the floor. It’s a herculean effort to maintain my smile, but, thankfully, Fran has moved on.
I make my excuses and flee.
No-no-no-no.
Not him. He can’t be coming here—he just renewed his contract with the New York Bulls.
My fluttering heart has become a wild animal in a cage, and it feels like it’s going to break my ribs by the time I make it back to my office and shut the door.
I’m pacing, frantic, and then I stop myself.
I can do this. I’m a professional, and he’ll just be part of the job.
But as I sink down into my chair and stare at the pictures on my desk, I let myself say the one word I haven’t uttered since Liam turned two:
“Fu-u-u-uck.”
Chapter 2
Brady
VVVVRRRRRRRRR…VVVVVVRRRRRR...VVVVRRRRRRRR!
I crack my eyes to the sunlight streaming in through the wall of windows in my penthouse apartment.
“Fuck, that’s bright,” I groan, bringing my hand up to shield my vision and rub my face. I blink my eyes and try to remember what woke me up. Then I hear it again.
VVVRRRRRR…VVVVRRRRR…
My phone. My phone. Where the fuck is my phone?
I find it under a pile of hastily discarded clothes. It just stopped vibrating.
It’s a little after ten in the morning, and my missed call log is up to thirty. I flip through and see they’re almost all from my agent.
The phone starts buzzing again, AGENT flashing across the screen. I slide my feet to the floor and sit up on the side of my bed, stretching, my muscles bunching and flexing beneath my skin.
I look down and notice a few scratches on my chest and a bite mark on my bicep. What—or should I say, who—did I do last night? The phone stops buzzing and then immediately starts again.
Oh, well. No sense putting it off.
I huff a sigh and swipe my finger across the screen. “Yeah?”
“Open your goddamn door!”
“Well, good morning to you, too, Rudy. Have a nice night?”
“Brady,” he bites out. I can practically see him clenching his jaw. “Open your motherfucking door!”
“All righ
t, all right, man. Calm your tits,” I say, but he’s already hung up.
I get up and reach into the pile of discarded clothes, tossing away panties and bras, looking for my boxer briefs. I snag them and grab some sweat pants and a discarded t-shirt from a chair.
On my way out of my room, I almost trip over a blonde and a redhead sleeping curled up together under a blanket on the floor.
Ah. So that’s what I did.
Some people might think I’m a dick for making them sleep on the floor when I have a California king-sized bed.
And they’d be right. I am. But those are my rules:
I’ll fuck a girl any way she wants, all night long. But I sleep by myself.
I make my way out of the bedroom and into the giant living room with its panoramic view of New York City.
God, I love this place. Life here is on an entirely different level. It’s non-stop, perpetual motion—like me.
It can fuck you up, but it can fuck you right, too. There is no place else I’d want to be.
My peaceful moment of reflection is interrupted by a pounding knock on my door.
Through the solid wood comes a muffled shriek. “Open the fuck up, Brady!”
I don’t even use the peephole. I know exactly who it is.
I open the fucking door.
“It’s my daughter’s bat mitvah tomorrow, asshole—”
“Good morning to you, too, Rudy.”
Rudy Goldstern, my agent, busts into my apartment with a briefcase and what appears to be a hastily packed overnight bag. He continues as if I didn’t say a word.
“—and do you know what I’m doing right now? Instead of helping my wife with the caterers and insuring that everything goes right and that the DJ has the correct set list—because heaven forbid he play something ‘lame’ in the eyes of a bunch of prepubescent boys and girls—”
“No, Rudy.” I smirk. “What’s that?”
He drops his bags on the floor, and makes his way to my refrigerator to pop open a diet coke. I notice his suit is rumpled, like he slept in it, and his eyes are bloodshot.
“I am here with you, you ungrateful fuckwad, having just flown across the goddamn country on a five-and-a-half-hour red-eye flight, to find myself cooling my heels while you decided today would be a great day to not answer your fucking phone and sleep in!”
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