Page 137 of Daddy's Wild Girl

“Everything will be okay, baby.”

How could he be so sure?

“And when the snow settles lower, I’ll take you tobogganing okay?”

He didn’t say anything about the other stuff. But she could figure something out.

Right?

Corbin’s phone beeped as they drove along the long driveway toward a gorgeous, large house built out of wood and stone, nestled between two tree-covered hills. In the distance were snow-topped mountains.

Breathtaking.

“Kent said to meet him at Clint’s place,” Corbin said.

“All right,” Hayes said as he parked in front of what seemed to be the big house.

Corbin turned to her. “You want to come in, baby? Meet Kent?”

“This is his house?” she asked.

“No. This belongs to his brother, Clint, who runs the Ranch. Kent’s house is up the hill. That’s where I live too. By JSI.”

“Same,” Hayes grunted.

“All right.”

She waited for Corbin to get out and open her door. Then he held out a hand to her.

He’d been like this all day, doing these sorts of things for her. He’d always opened her door before too. But it already felt different. Now he was her . . . her boyfriend and everything felt more intimate.

And he certainly hadn’t held out his hand to her like this before.

Or held it as she followed him into the house. They walked through a big foyer with a set of stairs leading up to the next level.

“Can you wait here, baby?” he asked. “I think Kent is in the office, I’ll go get him and bring him out to meet you.”

She nodded.

“You promise to wait right here?”

“I will.” Where else would she go?

He kissed the top of her head. Hayes’ phone rang as Corbin disappeared. He frowned down at it.

“Stay right there. I’ll only be over here.” He pointed at her before walking away and she heard him talking quietly.

All right, then.

She glanced up as a large man with a rugged face and dark hair thundered his way down the stairs.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and she noticed that he had a tiny baby strapped to his chest. The big guy scowled at her. He was kind of scruffy-looking, his hair was up on end, and he had more than a five o’clock shadow on his cheeks. His clothes were rumpled and stained.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?”

“Um, well, I . . .” She stumbled over her words, his aggressive tone making her want to hide or to beg his forgiveness.

He’s not the asshole.

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