The Billionaire Boss Next Door(94)

Mostly her father.

Quince stares down at his daughter with nothing but unconditional love shining from his every fucking pore. Just born and she already has her soft-hearted daddy wrapped around her tiny finger.

Emory sits in the hospital bed, gazing up at her husband and daughter, and looking exactly like what I’d think a fucking Kardashian would look like after giving birth. Full face of makeup, some kind of fancy gown thingie that I fucking know didn’t come from the hospital, and her hair is damn near runway ready.

Fucking women.

I love them—looking at them, smelling them, tasting them. I especially love making them come.

But do I understand them when it comes to anything other than pleasure?

Not even a little.

Truth is, I haven’t even tried for the last decade or so. I’ve been more than content to fly by the seat of my dick, enjoy the company of a woman for a short time, and move on with my life.

I’m too busy to get locked down in some kind of soul-sucking, life-ruining monogamous love story like Quince and Trent, and I’ve never really been the kind of man who pictures marriage and babies and shit in my future—I get bored when things become too predictable.

“Look at how little she is, Trent,” Greer says, her voice laced with wonder and awe and a whole bunch of other shit women tend to have when looking at babies and puppies and fucking kittens.

Trent, the lovesick bastard, smiles. “She’s perfect.”

I watch them share a quiet look laced with silent words that we’re not privy to, and whatever it is makes my heart clench inside my chest.

What the fuck is that about?

I rub at my chest and squint.

Something’s got to be coming from the ventilation system.

Carbon monoxide maybe?

Because for as willingly as my two best guy friends are throwing in the towel on their freedom, their fucking bachelor life, and settling down with women who have captured their hearts, I can’t even fathom that kind of love.

And I don’t want to.

In the span of three hours, I’ve witnessed—and helped because I’m an awesome friend—one of my best friends get engaged to a woman he once hated with every ounce of his being. And I’ve watched another become a father.

It’s crazy. They’re crazy.

I’m, without a doubt, the sanest human being in this room.

Well, me and the handsome fuck who just walked in.

Milo Ives is Emory’s cousin and one of my most successful clients. Of course, because of my natural likability, he loves me and considers me one of his good friends.

I’ve gone along with it. You know, for his sake.

God, I’m funny. If only I could wink at myself.

Seriously, though, our friendship means I’ve seen him in all sorts of situations, including, but not limited to: a drunken brawl, a revolving door of women, and the kind of success that recently put him on Forbes list of richest men in the world.

“Congratulations, guys,” he says as he steps toward the hospital bed and takes a peek at a now sleeping Hudson in Quince’s arms. “Goddamn, what a beauty.”

The brand-new mother and queen of glam smiles proudly. “Obviously, she gets her looks from me.”

Greer snorts. “Honestly, it’s hard to tell with all that makeup you’ve got caked on your face.”

Emory’s responding look is a glare that could penetrate walls. “At least I met my daughter without looking like I just rolled out of bed.”

“You and I both know that is exactly how I will meet my future daughter.” Greer laughs. “And you know I’m just kidding, Em. You look gorgeous. Kim Kardashian’s glam squad fucking wishes they could make her look that good post-birth.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. No matter how much of a lovesick bastard Greer Hudson has turned my best friend into, she cracks me up.

“Don’t even start, Cap,” Emory retorts, and I just shrug.

“I didn’t say a word.”

The conversation switches back to the baby, and it’s hard to believe that one little human being holds the kind of power to mesmerize a room full of grown-ass adults.

I’m just about to give my formal congratulations when Greer informs us we need to exit the room. “Okay, it’s time for you bastards to get out of here. Emory needs to get her tits out.”

“Jesus Christ,” Emory mutters. “Stop saying that.”

“Fine. Emory has to get her boobs out.”

Emory rolls her eyes. “I have to breastfeed.”

It sounds like the kind of activity I’d love to stick around for, but Quince spears me with a look I can’t mistake—a silent threat against my most favorite appendage.

I follow Milo out of the room without spying any nipples.

“Where are you headed now?” I ask as we walk the short hall to the elevators. There’s some weird voodoo energy surging through my body still, an aftereffect of all the deadly gas, I’m sure, and I need some way to burn it off.

Manly stuff. Wild stuff. Bachelor stuff.

“Back to work.”

“That’s fucking boring.” I groan and tap the down button between the two elevator carts. The one on the left dings its arrival almost immediately.

Milo laughs before stepping onto the elevator with me, and I scowl.

Why doesn’t it seem like he’s feeling what I’m feeling?