Page 23 of Golden Goal

“Yeah.” His voice is quiet.

“And, she’s yours?”

“She is.” He grins down at his daughter, who has finally stopped crying, and my ovaries nearly explode seeing the look of love and pride on his face even though he’s obviously exhausted and at his wits end. “If only she would sleep somewhere besides in my arms with me constantly moving. I’m sorry she woke you.” He grimaces. “Can’t promise it won’t happen again, but I’ll try.”

“It’s fine.” I wave his apology away. Now that I know the situation of the crying baby next door I’m not nearly as mad about being woken up. How can I be? “How about I hold her? I can rock her or walk around. You seem like you could use a break.” I put my arms out.

Danger. Danger.

The warning bells go off in my head, but I ignore them. This is most definitely crossing a line, but he’s clearly desperate for help, and I’m the only one here. Me holding his daughter for twenty minutes while he takes a break won’t hurt anything. No one needs to know I was in Holt Abbott’s apartment at three in the morning.

He stares at me for a second, and I think he’s going to say no. I wouldn’t blame him. But he doesn’t.

“You sure?” he asks as he hands her over to me.

“Absolutely. You go take care of you for a little while.”

“Thanks,” he stutters, stepping back. “I fed her and changed her diaper. She should be good. I’m going to go shower real quick and maybe clean up a bit.”

I smile down at Hazel, who is staring up at me with the same piercing blue eyes as her father. “Take all the time you need.”

I’ll be soaking up all the baby snuggles I can get. Would it be weird for me to volunteer to hold Hazel in the evenings when he needs to do other things? He’d probably think I’d lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

“Thank you.” He makes a hasty retreat, and a minute later I hear the water running.

I pace the room the way he was doing, rocking Hazel gently and singing under my breath. Her eyes are getting heavier with every step I take. I tuck her closer to my body, inhaling the scent of baby shampoo and whatever it is that naturally makes babies smell good. Well, except when they shit their diapers. Or spit up.

I keep pacing in circles for a few minutes, and when I finally peer down at her again, she’s sound asleep. I stop moving, and when she doesn’t cry, I take a seat on the coach, careful not to disturb her. After a few minutes of her not stirring, I wonder if I should attempt to set her down in her crib. Maybe she’s finally worn herself out and will let Holt sleep. Deciding to at least try, I get to my feet. I feel a little awkward wandering around Holt’s apartment without his permission, but I figure he’ll forgive me if I’m able to get Hazel successfully in her bed. I think I’ll take my chances.

His apartment appears to be a mirror of mine based on the three closed doors that greet me when I walk down the hallway. The sound of the shower coming from behind the middle door makes that the bathroom, just like my apartment. But which room is his? The one closest to the living room or the one further away. On an impulse I open the first door.

“Bingo,” I mutter as I spot a bassinet along the far wall on the other side of the King size bed.

I take a deep breath, which is a mistake because, fuck, his bedroom smells good. A woodsy scent that I realize is all him. I want to stand here and breathe this smell in, but I can’t. I need to focus on my goal of putting Hazel in her bed without waking her. I tiptoe over to the bassinet, pausing to rock her gently when she stirs.

I say a silent prayer and gently lay her down. She starts to wake up, but I give the bassinet a gentle nudge, and it begins to rock slowly, and she falls back to sleep. Turning to leave the room, I spot a baby monitor and receiver on the nightstand. I flip it on and grab the monitor before creeping toward the door, grateful I got her down to sleep and did it before Holt came out of the shower and found me in his bedroom.

A noise has me peering over my shoulder, so I’m not paying attention when I walk into the wall.

“Ow,” I mutter, putting my hands out to steady myself.

Why is the wall warm and damp?

Oh shit.

What I ran into was not the wall, but rather Holt.

In a towel.

Still damp from the shower.

Fuck his chest is all hard and muscular. I wonder if the rest of him is the same. I want to explore the ridges and valleys of his muscles with my fingers. With my tongue. My face heats up, and I’m thankful it’s dark so he can’t see me blushing.I drop my hands and take a step back, but I catch my foot on something and stumble.

With catlike reflexes, he grabs me at the last second, and I fall against him. He must have been holding his towel with one hand because I feel all of him.

All of him.