Page 39 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

Around a mouthful, she says, “No time.”

“Even when it was slow?”

“I was busy—orders, paperwork, preparing sides, baking. I wear all the hats, except chef most days. And of course, keeping this one from having a meltdown.” She tucks the blanket into the side of the basket.

“Is she yours?” I ask, oddly worried about the answer. Not because that would make Honey a mother, but because there was once someone in her life she loved enough to share a life with and all the flirting, smiles, and memories that come with that. Yet, he’s not here which means someone got hurt.

Honey sets down her fork. “Is she my baby? Technically, yes. Biologically, no.”

“I thought you were babysitting. At least, at first.”

Leonie lets out a wail and Honey launches to her feet. The woman is definitely a mom. Resting the baby on her shoulder, she bounces slightly and gently taps her back. “That’s it. You just need to burp.”

After a few minutes of this, Leonie lets out a man-sized belch. Then she nestles down in the crook of Honey’s neck.

She closes her eyes and wavers on her feet. “Ooh. I have to go.”

I guide her to the chair and notice the spit-up dribbling down her back.

“I’ll get you a shirt.”

“Maddock, I’m used to this. You don’t have to?—”

But I’m already in the other room, rooting through my clean laundry until I find a Reno FD T-shirt.

When I return, Honey says, “As I said, I come with strings attached.”

I try to take the baby from her arms, but she has her pudgy little fingers wrapped in Honey’s hair. I gently peel them loose. Making contact with her silky hair sends a jolt straight into my heart. My breath catches and I stagger slightly. Thankfully, Honey is too tired to notice.

Like I’m handling a live bomb, I carefully take the baby out of Honey’s arms and tell her where the bathroom is so she can clean up and change.

“I know where it is,” she murmurs.

Leonie nuzzles against me. Her sweet baby scent tickles my nose. I tug my shirt up a bit on my neck. I need to shave and don’t want her soft little head rubbing against my sandpaper stubble.

Her little fists relax and she becomes a baby blob in my arms. Completely at ease, safe and secure.

Honey returns, wearing my gray shirt. It’s oversized and grazes her thighs. I swallow thickly and cannot tear my gaze away.

She says, “Maybe you do have the magic touch. So far, only ladies have been able to soothe her, which was a bit of a problem since our caseworker was a guy.”

I don’t imagine the fine lines around Honey’s eyes were there a few months ago. Even though some of them likely resulted from fatigue and stress, I imagine more came from smiling the way she does now as she pats Leonie’s rump.

She says, “Let me take her so you can finish eating.”

I shake my head. “Nah. You eat first.”

“No, seriously. I’ll eat later.”

“Honey.” My voice is stern because I eat most of my meals seated and at a regular pace. Plus, I don’t want to disturb the baby ... and I rather like the idea that she’s content in my arms “Please eat.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“And you’re so sassy.”

“So what does that make us?” she asks.

That makes us the worst or best match ever.

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