One Baby Daddy (Dating by Numbers #3)(50)

“Can I ask you something?” James asks, sticking his hands in his suit pants pockets, his shoulder tilted in my direction, as if we’re about to share a special conversation.

I take a sip of my coffee and look over the lid. “I would be surprised if you didn’t.”

Blunt. It’s the only way to deal with this kind of men.

The kind of men who think they’re doing the right thing by looking out for “their guys” when in fact, they’re ready to blow everything up. I’m not stupid. I know what this man’s end game is. He only makes money if his boys are performing well, if he’s able to portray them as perfect specimens. So why would he want Hayden to have a “distraction” in his life. To publicists and agents, a girlfriend is a distraction.

And I have a feeling he’s about to tell me that.

“How long have you known Hayden?”

“A little over a month. We met through a mutual friend.”

He nods. “And it’s going well between you two?”

“I’d say it is.”

“And what is it that you do?”

“I’m a nurse at a hospital in Binghamton.” Another sip of coffee. “Tell me, James, what exactly is your burning question? Are you trying to scope out information from me so you have dirt for the media? Are you thinking of every which way you can spin our situation so you can make me look bad and make Hayden look like a hero, in case things go sour?”

Silence falls between us as James chews on the side of his cheek, his eyes searching mine, calculating his next move.

Plastering on a fake smile, he says, “I would never dream of doing such a thing. I only want to get to know you.”

“Well I have no desire to get to know you.” I take down another gulp of hot liquid. “I know why you’re really here, okay? I’m not a vapid airhead; Hayden has the whole package. He is not only extremely talented on the ice, but he’s a kind human being, overtly attractive, and has a heart of gold. He’s exactly what every publicist dreams of. So your number-one priority is to make sure no one messes with your perfect package. I get it.” I lean forward, drawing him closer. “But I’m going to tell you right now, I’m not here to bring Hayden down. I’m here to lift him up, and I suggest you do the same instead of trying to dig for dirt from a girl who plans on sticking around for a very long time.” I pat his cheek, putting an end to our conversation just as Hayden walks up, looking drop-dead sexy in a pair of white boxer briefs.

He places a kiss on the side of my head and looks to James. “Everything okay over here?”

“Oh yes,” I answer. “James was asking if he could get me anything for my hangover. Sweet guy, this one.” I thumb toward James who purses his lips.

Not buying it, Hayden eyes James, but before he says anything, he’s called on set. “Got to go.” Dipping his head down, he clasps my chin and gives me a slow, sweet kiss before taking off toward a well-lit set, draped in deep blue fabric. With his tan skin, white briefs, and popping muscles, he’s looking so damn delicious.

I can’t wait for the show.

James steps forward, close enough so only I can hear him. “I’ve seen it before, a woman takes down a man of Hayden’s caliber. I’ve seen them lose everything, and I don’t want that for Hayden. I only want what’s best for him.”

I nod and stand from my chair, wanting to move it closer. Before I excuse myself from the conversation, I look at James and give him a sweet smile. “Thank you, James. I really appreciate your concern for Hayden. But I’m going to tell you this once and only once . . .” I pause and pat his chest. “You can fuck off.”

Test shots flash, people mill about adjusting lights and the backdrop, PAs stand around with headphones, waiting for their next request while Hayden does pushups on the floor, vigorously working up a sweat.

Me, I sit back in my chair, legs crossed, coffee halfway to my mouth while staring at my boyfriend.

When did shoulder blades become so sexy?

Because Lord Jesus, Hayden has a set of shoulder blades that will tickle any women’s fancy. With every drop to the ground, they form into peaks, surrounded by bulge after bulge of muscle. From his traps, to his shoulders, to his biceps, sinew flows effortlessly, ripples with precision.

Up and down.

Up and down.

I’m transfixed, unable to move, unable to pull my eyes away.

“You about ready?” the photographer, Hildi, asks.

“Yeah, ten more,” Hayden calls out, his voice strained.

Pumping up and down, he shows no struggle in his last ten pushups. His large hands spread over the ground, his forearms working overtime, his head tilted down, giving me the perfect view of his tight, round ass in his white briefs.

Oh heavens.

That ass.

What was he thinking bringing me to this photo shoot? Was this another way for him to torture me?

Because it’s working.

Hopping to his feet, Hayden rubs his hands together, dusting them off, his chest popping, his abs flexing, his body looking better than ever with a light splattering of hair across his thick, barrel-like chest.

A low thrum starts to form between my legs.

My veins are tingling with awareness.

I’m turned on.

From pushups.

And I want more. I’ve become a harlot for pushups. Why am I not filming this? Because then I can watch pushups on replay for hours on end.