Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(62)

“Daddy?”

“I’m here,” he murmurs, and I suddenly feel like an infant again.

Tears roll down my cheeks as I check the room for the real infant. Where is she?

“Grant’s got her. Don’t worry.”

Relieved, I sigh, and my dad reaches with cool fingers to wipe my tears away.

“When did you get here?” I ask.

“Grant called after you told him about the contractions. I caught a flight in the nick of time. I’ve never cursed airport security more, though. Thought I was going to miss it, but here I am. How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?”

“I’m good.” I smile and then let out a laugh. “I’m really good.”

“Good.” He sighs, clearly relieved. “My baby girl’s had a baby girl.”

“Yeah.” I chuckle wetly through my tears. “Weird, right?”

“Not weird at all. Does she have a name yet?”

I think for a moment, biting my lip. I’ve thought about names a lot. I’ve thought about strong names, names that will promise to carry my baby into a protected life. Names that will say, Don’t mess with me. My mother raised me to be a warrior.

“Don’t laugh, but . . . Hunter.”

My dad reaches for my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze to match the soft wrinkles around his smiling eyes.

“That’s a good name. Fierce.”

“Right? I think so too.”

? ? ?

Here I thought birthing a child was going to be the hardest part. Little did I know that breastfeeding was an entirely different beast.

Lucky for me, Grant has stayed with me every night since we got the okay to leave the hospital, alternating nighttime feeding duty like a real pro with milk I pumped during the day. If I didn’t know for a fact that Grant was a bachelor, I would have certainly guessed him to be a seasoned dad.

A really wonderful seasoned dad.

And even though I haven’t told him, I’m so grateful I’m not alone. I wanted to prove to myself that I could do this, but now that seems like the stupidest idea in the world. Of course I could if I had to . . . I’m just so glad I don’t.

“I’ve got this one,” he murmurs, when we both wake up to the sound of Hunter fussing through the baby monitor on the nightstand. He rolls out of my full-size bed that’s too small for him, and stumbles through the dark of the room.

“Thank you.” I sigh, nestling deeper under the covers.

“It’s no problem,” he says, and for once, I believe him.

I can tell that he loves being needed. That he loves both me and Hunter, even if he hasn’t said so yet. He once spoke of his dream to be a dad, but I never took him seriously until now.

Grant is an amazing caretaker. He’s helped with breastfeeding, with errands and emergencies, cooking and laundry. He’s been the one almost exclusively taking care of Hobbes, and with sleepless nights like this one . . .

When Grant snuggles back into bed with me nearly forty-five minutes later, I welcome him with open arms.

“How is she?”

“Just grumpy,” he says with a chuckle. “But I held her until she fell back asleep.”

“You’re the best.”

He plants a soft, warm kiss against my forehead. “Get some rest.”

And I do.





27




* * *





Bittersweet





Ana



The first few weeks of child rearing prove to be an emotional roller coaster. There are plenty of sweet moments to match the frustrating, exhausting ones. Sometimes I’m impressed with my ability to handle it all. But nothing—and I mean nothing—could ever prepare me for the words that come out of Grant’s mouth on this particular evening at home.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

His tone is so serious, I find myself suddenly nervous for what he’s about to say. I hold Hunter closer to me, her little face tucked away behind a nursing blanket. “What is it?”

“Something happened today. I got a call from Coach. It’s Jason.”

What?

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with Jason?”

That’s a name I haven’t thought of in weeks, and what a relief that’s been.

Grant plants a hand on my knee, his eyes locked on mine with the promise that he’ll be as careful with his words as he can.

Just say it! I want to snap.

“He died.”

He . . . what?

“Ana, look at me.”

I do, struggling to keep focused on his concerned expression. My mind is racing with thoughts and questions, but I can barely remember how to form words. “What do you mean?”

“He got in an accident. It was a DUI collision.”

“You mean . . . he was . . .”

“Yeah.”

My heart squeezes painfully in my chest. “Did anyone else get hurt?”

“No.” Grant sighs. “There were some cuts and bruises, but everyone else is alive.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I say, my voice low and forced. My lower lip trembles as a fat tear drips down my cheek and onto Hunter’s forehead. She gurgles, done feeding.