A Daddy for Mother's Day_A Secret Baby Romance

by Natalie Knight

  I drive back to Brady’s and key the security code in to open the gate, which rumbles slightly as it sweeps back across the pristine driveway. No potholes here.

  I park my car, for once not caring if I’m leaving it right out front. So what if it’s a Mazda that’s seen better days? No one will see it—though it does look odd in front of the mansion’s grand façade.

  Like a zit on a supermodel.

  I giggle.

  I key in yet another code and open the front door. The polished foyer echoes my footsteps, and even though I know Brady’s housekeeper is at home in her apartment above the garage, I have a momentary shiver of uneasiness.

  Calm down, Izzie, I tell myself, dropping my purse and keys on a table with a clatter.

  No dicey neighbors, voracious termites, or noisy traffic in this place. Just me, a bottle of wine, and a delicious soak in a hot bath.

  I detour into the kitchen and grab a wineglass, then on impulse, a few decorative candles from the counter.

  As I go upstairs to my room, I suddenly remember the massive whirlpool bathtub in Brady’s master suite. His bathroom’s tub is bigger than my entire bathroom at home, but why not live it up?

  “You owe it to yourself, Iz,” I say aloud, kicking off my shoes and peeling off my clothes. I throw on the thick terrycloth robe that I’d found in the closet, then grab the wine and candles.

  Let the spa night begin.

  It’s still a little eerie creeping through the empty house, and I’m relieved when I make it to Brady’s suite.

  As soon as I go in, I can smell the distinctive scent of his soap. I cross the room, trying not to notice the huge king-sized bed, but I can’t help glancing at it.

  Satin sheets? Really?

  I swallow hard at the image that suddenly takes over my brain, to spite me.

  Brady, his muscles sliding across the satin as he sprawls lazily in bed…

  No, no, no, Izzie. Stay away from that thought!

  The bathroom is even more amazing than I remember from the quick tour Brady gave us. The tub is practically the size of a swimming pool, with a dizzying control panel that would seem at home in a seven-four-seven.

  It takes me a few minutes, but I finally get the water running at just the right temperature, and the whirlpool swirling gently.

  I put the candles on the granite countertop and light them, then dim the overhead lights.

  Ah, ambiance.

  Wine bottle and glass on the edge of the tub. I slither out of the robe, and then slide into the tub.

  Bliss.

  The bubbles gently caress my body, and I sink lower, grabbing the wine glass. Nothing fancy, but it works for me. The warmth relaxes my muscles, and I realize once again just how tense I’ve been.

  The hot water creates a gentle steam cloud, which fogs the mirror. I probably should have turned on the fan, but what the hell.

  Too lazy.

  I finish the glass of wine and pour another, lying there lazily in the bubbles, idly staring at the way the candlelight flickers in the huge mirror over the sink. Only a real narcissist needs a mirror like that.

  I close my eyes, sinking even deeper, totally relaxed and content.

  I have no idea how much time has passed, as this amazing tub keeps the water at a steady temperature. Drowsy, I suddenly hear the click of the doorknob, and I’m suddenly wide awake.

  What the fuck?

  Panicked, I accidentally knock my glass off the edge of the tub, and it shatters on the polished tile floor with a musical sound.

  “Who’s there?” I call, trying to keep my voice from quavering.

  I hoist myself up a little, but not too much, wondering why the hell did I drop my robe on the other side of the room.

  Shit, shit, shit…no cover!

  What can I use for a weapon? Wildly, I look around the bathroom, but nothing seems obvious.

  “Izzie?”

  Double shit! It’s Brady’s voice.

  “Izzie, is that you?” Brady comes into view through the cloud of steam, setting the candles to flickering wildly.

  “What the hell…” His voice trails off as he sees me.

  I use my toes to flick the whirlpool control to a higher speed, desperately hoping more bubbles will conceal me.

  “I, uh…hi, Brady.”

  Brady comes a little further into the room. He looks a little travel-rumpled and tired. He looks at me with a quizzical expression, half questioning and half interested.

  Uh-oh.

  “Watch out for the broken glass,” I say weakly, hoping the bubbles are screening most of me from his gaze.

  “I’m sorry…I thought you were gone until tomorrow, and Liam’s at a friend’s, so…I guess I was indulging in a little pampering.” I manufacture a chuckle that doesn’t fool anyone.

  Brady sidesteps the broken glass, eyeing the candles. “You seem pretty cozy here,” he remarks.

  I blush. “It’s been a long week,” I offer lamely.

  He smiles. “I bet.”

  “I, uh…” Oh come on, Izzie, try not to sound like a total wine-sodden imbecile.

  “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t resist the idea of a whirlpool bath. If you give me a moment, I’ll get out of here and clean up the glass.”

  “There’s no hurry,” Brady drawls, and then leans back on the edge of the counter, folding his arms. He studies me, raising one eyebrow, as I sink lower into the bubbles.

  “Nice view,” he finally comments.

  Jeezus, I’m torn between wanting to crawl into a hole and hide—fully clothed—and half wishing he’d crawl in here with me, which is totally unacceptable.

  This is Brady, I remind myself. Remember? The dick who killed your sister?

  But somehow, the words have lost their righteous indignation as I try not to run my eyes over him.

  I swallow, trying to sound normal. “Wh..what brings you back so early? I thought you wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.”

  Brady shrugs. “I didn’t feel like staying. Not in the mood for a big team bar blowout, I guess.” He pauses, then says, “I kinda thought it would be nicer to hang with you and Liam.”

  “Um, yeah…” I say. “Well, if you’d give me a minute to get out and put something on, maybe we could have a glass of wine together and watch a movie or something.”

  “Or something,” Brady echoes, with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.

  Damn. I can feel every inch, and I mean every inch of my body tingle.

  This is not good.

  Not good, Izzie.

  I close my eyes and try to think of totally depressing, gross, not-hot things.

  “Izzie,” Brady says, and his voice is suspiciously closer. I open my eyes and he’s standing closer to the tub. “You know…”

  “No!” I say, putting my fingers into my ears. “Whatever you might think about suggesting, I’m not listening. ”

  “Izzie…” His voice is low and sexy, enough to move me from tingling to feeling like I’m on fire.

  Suddenly, an image of Lucy’s face in her last moments rises in my mind, and inexplicably, tears come to my eyes.

  So, what if he’s hot, and available, and I really, really want this? I can’t forgive him for what he did to my sister.

  I can’t.

  Anger replaces the desire coursing through every inch of me, and I stand up in the tub, not caring if it puts every part of me on display.

  Brady takes an awkward step to the side, not sure what I’m doing.

  Without looking at him, I climb out, narrowly avoiding stepping on the broken glass, and grab my robe, which I wrap around me tightly enough, but not too tight to cut off circulation.

  “I’ll be back later to clean up the glass,” I say, my words terse. “I apologize for all of this.”

  “Izzie…” Now Brady’s voice is soft. “Izzie, what’s going on?”

  I start to leave, then turn back and grab the bottle of wine. I’m definitely going to need it.

  I can feel Brady’s
eyes on me, and I blush all over again, half in shame and half in curiosity, wondering what he thought when I stood in front of him for a moment, naked and dripping.

  I shake my head and charge out the door.

  The cooler air of Brady’s room is a shock, and I shiver as I make my way back to my own room, pretending that I can’t hear him calling my name again.

  Brady

  “Thomas!” Coach screams at me, gripping my helmet’s facemask. “What the fuck is your problem out there?”

  The score is seven to zero. Not even halfway through the first quarter, and I’m already stinking up the place. We’re playing the worst team in the league, and they’ve already begun posting numbers on the scoreboard.

  “Sorry, Coach,” I yell back over the stadium’s noise. “I’ll get my head back in the game.”

  “I’d settle for you acting like you’ve been on a fucking football field before,” he says and then storms off, leaving me standing there on the sidelines with every news camera pointed at me.

  Fucking wonderful.

  I’m not trying to throw a shitty game. I can’t seem to stay focused on one thing these days.

  Well, that’s not right.

  When I’m running drills, I’m remembering something Izzie said about avocados being healthy fats.

  When I’m in the weight room, I’m picturing Izzie there beside me.

  Our defense takes to the field, so I pull off my helmet and sit on the bench, watching the plays on the tablet.

  What Coach McGoy said was exactly what my college coach said to me. And he was right, just like McGoy is right.

  I haven’t come this far to let another woman distract me from my game—from my future. I can’t let it happen again. I’ve got to get her out of my mind, before I lose everything.

  Tossing the tablet to Joel, our equipment assistant, I throw my helmet back on as I run onto the field at the start of the second quarter.

  Once in the huddle, I block everything else out—the crowd, the shitty first quarter I just played, and especially those little nagging doubts that I let creep in every once in a while.

  The doubts that say I shouldn’t be here, that I’m not good enough to be a first-string QB in the NFL. I know those thoughts aren’t real.

  I’ve proven myself time and again to myself, and every other fucking person, who dared to doubt me.

  When they said I wasn’t focused enough, that I wasn’t disciplined enough, to make it at the college level, I proved them wrong by winning the Heisman.

  Then, there were the assholes who said I wouldn’t be able to transfer my talent to the pro league, even though I posted top numbers at the Combine, and became a sought-after first-round draft pick.

  For the rest of the game, I prove why I’m the best in the league, easily connecting with my running backs for a few touchdowns to even the score by the beginning of the fourth quarter.

  I look over at the sidelines and think how much Liam would love to be here watching the game. Maybe I’ll have tickets for him at our next home game.

  Thanks to Sean’s fifty-yard dash right at the end, we finish the game twenty to nineteen.

  Not my best performance. Not by a longshot.

  After I finish the post-game press interview where all they want to talk about is that scoreless first quarter, I run into Willis in the hall outside the locker room.

  “Are you heading back to San Antonio now or with the team?” I ask.

  “Now, why?”

  “Think I can hitch a ride with you? Don’t think I can handle another noisy night on the team hall.”

  “Sure, but Brady,” Willis says, coming up to put what feels like is supposed to be a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “This is your team. You’re going to have to start leading them at some point.”

  Returning back home, all I can think about is enjoying some quiet and solitude before tomorrow’s team meeting. I know everyone will have a lot to say about my less-than-stellar performance in the first quarter when we review the game tape in the morning, and I don’t blame them.

  But no one’s a bigger critic of me, than me.

  Ever since I can remember, my football skills were my ticket out. Out of my childhood home, out of my hometown, out of obscurity. Playing a pick-up game with Liam, or helping Izzie make one of her skinless chicken dinners sounds like the answer to this shitty day.

  Fuck anyone who says that a win is a win.

  I flip on my bedroom light as I walk into the room. I’m just about to pop the game DVD into the player, when I notice golden light streaming in from the bathroom. And that’s when I hear the sound of glass breaking.

  I walk into the bathroom, pushing open the almost-closed door to be greeted with a massive amount of steam.

  Either someone broke into my house just to hotbox in my bathroom, or...yep, it’s a very naked team nutritionist and current house guest, lounging in my tub.

  Well, not lounging really. More like startled, deer-in-headlights scared shitless.

  But still smoking hot.

  Not the homecoming I was expecting when I hopped on the early plane, but hey, it looks like this night is definitely looking up.

  “Hi, Brady,” Izzie says with the cutest quiver in her voice.

  Izzie warns me about the broken glass as I scan the room, taking it all in: enough candles to stock a Yankee Candle store, a half-empty wine bottle sitting precariously on the edge of the tub, and Izzie’s robe way on the other side of the room.

  Interesting.

  I think she’s going on about something, but really, all I can concentrate on is her, a drop-dead gorgeous woman dripping wet right in front of me.

  Damn those fucking bubbles blocking my view of her tits. I can still see that there’s a bit more to them than those team polo shirts hint at.

  I wonder if my position as the quarterback has enough pull to get those shapeless shirts permanently banned. It’s a crying shame to keep those babies hidden away under a layer of thick cotton.

  If that had been any other woman but Izzie in my tub, I would have already stripped and jumped in the whirling tub to join her. But Izzie hasn’t exactly been given off flirty vibes to me.

  She’s been downright immune to my considerable charms, which just amps my desire for her.

  I’m just a red-blooded guy, after all.

  Hell, up until this recent fucking morality clause cramping my style, I would have poured on the charm even with the ice queen and see where the night takes us.

  She’s the one who made herself at home in my tub.

  No harm in trying, right?

  “You seem cozy,” I say, throwing some charm her way to see if she’ll bite.

  But she shoots me down with talk of getting out of the tub—and not in the fun way I’ve already started picturing.

  As she talks, I notice how flushed the hot water has made her face. Her skin is glowing, and her lips are swollen and red like she was stung by a bee. Or turned on.

  I know I’m feeling something, enough that I need to change my stance as I’m standing here looking at her so I can hopefully discreetly rearrange my swelling package.

  I lean back against the granite counter just a foot away from her, making sure every inch of her is still within my sight and tell her not to hurry. I’m still hopeful that we might really get to know each other tonight.

  “Nice view,” I say, turning up the charm dial to eleven.

  She leans forward like she might just invite me to join her.

  A few more charming exchanges between us lead me to believe we’re on the same page.

  I might have decided to come home early in order to have a quiet night, but I think it’s about to get a lot noisier. At least in my bed.

  Shit, she’s even offering to drink wine with me.

  Oh, honey, I’m a sure thing, I feel like telling her. You don’t have to get me drunk.

  It’s now or never to make my move.

  “Izzie,” I say, as I step away from the counter and in
her direction.

  And then, out of fucking nowhere, the chick goes crazy.

  Like a four-year-old, or at least what I imagine a kid would do. Up until Liam, I’ve never spent any time around kids.

  She puts her fingers in her ears saying, “I’m not listening...”

  I’ve been with lots of women. Lots. And most have been completely sane.

  The rare few who were a little, hmm, let’s say unusual, were more of a slash-my-tires, sleep-with-my-roommate kind of crazy.

  I don’t think I know how to calm a grown woman down from a tantrum.

  I’m not ready to throw the night away yet, though, so I give it my best shot by saying her name in a soothing voice.

  It works, apparently.

  Izzie stands up, the bubbles dripping from her wet body.

  No, that’s not right. Her fucking sexy body. Her tits are full and perky with hard nipples, begging me to reach out and squeeze them.

  Her waist is small enough to fit comfortably in my grasp, which is no surprise, given how often I see her in the weight room when no one else is in there.

  But the best view is the one between her legs.

  It’s a view I’d love to get a close-up look at. Well, for starters, at least.

  The growing bulge in my pants turns into a full-on hard-on, testing the strength of my pants’ stitching.

  Before I can reach for her and prove my theory about her tiny waist, she’s wrapped in her robe and leaving tiny wet footprints all through my bedroom.

  I pause for a second at the bathroom door, watching her retreating shape disappear out of my room and down the hall. I have no doubt that I won’t be able to get that view out of my head for quite a while.

  I’m also sure that I’ll never look at quiet, innocent Izzie the same way ever again.

  I get the feeling there’s more to her than she lets on.

  Izzie

  My hands filled with overflowing grocery bags, I struggle across Brady’s foyer to the kitchen counter, hoping my arms won’t give out. Liam, right behind me, struggles with his own heavy bag. He’s such a great little helper.

  “More fruit and veggies, I see,” Brady says as he grabs water from the fridge.

  “Nice hydration choice,” I commend.