Page 78 of Filthy Rich Single Daddies

I close the distance between us with a step that feels like crossing into a new world. My hands lift to cup her face, my thumbs tracing the sharp curve of her cheekbones. She doesn't pull away, and her stillness is an invitation I can't refuse.

My lips meet hers in a kiss that's gentle, a question rather than a demand. The softness surprises me, an emotion like hope or maybe something even more terrifying blooming in my chest. It's raw and undefined, but it anchors me to her in a way that nothing else has.

Skylar kisses me back, her lips tentative against mine, as if she's not sure she should be doing this. But she is, and her hesitation tugs at something inside me. I feel her walls, sense her holding back, and it only makes me want to draw her out more, to show her it's safe here with me.

"Sky," I murmur against her mouth, pulling back just enough to see her. Her eyes are a storm of emotion. "The ball's in your court. But I want you to know, I want this. I want you. Even if it means sharing you with Theo and Cohen."

It's a concession that rips through my need for exclusivity, for control. But when it comes to Skylar, I'm starting to realize that the usual rules don't apply. She's under my skin, a constant pulse in my veins that's rewriting the script of what I thought I knew.

Her breath catches, and she looks at me like she's seeing someone new. Maybe she is. Maybe we both are. There's no going back from this moment, from this admission that shakes the foundation of who I am.

"Say something," I urge softly, needing to hear her voice, to understand what's churning behind those guarded eyes.

But she doesn't speak, and the silence stretches between us, heavy with possibilities and fears. I've laid my cards on the table,bared a part of my soul I didn't even know was there. Now, it's up to her to decide how this game ends.

I study her face, the way she bites down on her lower lip, the indecision flickering in her eyes. She's still holding back, and that ice around her heart hasn't melted yet. But I can't let her walk away now, not when everything is at stake.

"Skylar," I start, my voice steady despite the tumult inside me. "I don't want you to just be a passing part of our lives." My hands find hers, fingers entwining as if they could convey what words might not. Her skin is warm against mine, a stark contrast to the coolness of her gaze.

"You're more than that, more than just a nanny to Lucas and Elodie." The mention of the kids seems to soften something in her, a subtle shift in her posture that tells me I'm getting through, bit by fragile bit. "You've become a part of our family, a part we can't afford to lose."

The room feels too big around us, every inch echoing with the gravity of this moment. Her presence fills all that space, commanding, undeniable. God, how did I ever think I could walk away from this woman?

"I want you to stay, Skylar," I say, letting the truth of my words sink in for both of us. "Not out of obligation, not because of the kids. But because you belong here—with us, with me. As a permanent part of our lives."

There's a vulnerability in laying this bare, a crack in my armor I never thought I'd reveal. But with Skylar, the risk feels worth it. Maybe even necessary. She's the chaos to my order, the question mark at the end of a sentence I thought I had punctuated long ago.

"Think about it," I whisper, my thumb brushing across her knuckles. "Really think about what it could mean, for all of us."

I look into her eyes and I know I've hit a nerve. Good. Because if there's one thing I've learned from dealing with SkylarDeveraux, it's that she doesn't back down from a challenge. And neither do I.

Chapter 25

Skylar

Ihate hospitals.

There’s no sob story behind the aversion; I just don’t like them. The too-bright lights, the sterile smell of antiseptic and sickness, the way time seems to slow to a crawl the second you step inside. It’s the waiting, the uncertainty, the quiet tension that clings to the air like a second skin.

People come here to get better, but it never feels that way to me. It feels like a place where people unravel—where control slips away, where vulnerability is exposed under fluorescent lights and scratchy sheets. Where you sit in a stiff plastic chair, waiting for news you may not be ready to hear.

I square my shoulders and head down the hall, my boots echoing against the linoleum. The scent of disinfectant clings to the air, mingling with something artificial and vaguely floral—an attempt to mask the inevitable. I hate it. All of it.

But I love Birdie.

And that’s why I’m here.

That and I needed an escape from the house, from the chaos that is Theo, Austin, and Cohen—three men who've managed to knot themselves into the fraying edges of my life.

Birdie has been in here much longer than she expected to and I've been by to keep her company many times in the past few weeks.

I pause outside her room, pressing my hand against the cool metal of the doorframe. Just a second to breathe, to push back the tightness in my chest and the worry about Birdie’s future…and my own. Then I step inside.

Birdie is sitting up, propped against a mound of pillows, her thinning silver hair brushed back neatly. She looks smaller than she should, swallowed by the hospital bed and the endless wires and machines that beep softly in the background. But her eyes—sharp as ever—find mine, and she smiles.

My chest tightens at the sight of her, the vibrant spirit I know now muted by illness.

"Hey, Birdie."

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