Page 35 of Hired By My Rich Baby Daddy 3

“I don’t care what happens to you after this,” I said over my shoulder. “If we need to discuss anything, we’ll go through my assistant or Uncle. Pickups, drop-offs, all that shit. You’re dead to me.” I paused at the door, my hand on the frame. “Oh, and I’m getting full custody of my daughter.”

“I’m sorry!” she screamed behind me, her voice cracking. “I’m sorry, Princeton. Please don’t do this!”

I kept walking out.

My driver had the truck running out front, the door already cracked open and waiting on me. I climbed in, and he shut it behind me, ran around, hopped in the front, and pulled off, my other security truck falling in line right behind us.

I sat back against the leather seat and just stared out the window for a second, trying to slow my heart rate down. My hands were still a little unsteady, more from the adrenaline than anything, ’cause I damn sure wasn’t scared of Paisley. I was more shook by the fact that she really tried it. That she really looked at me and decided pulling a trigger was the move.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and went straight to Nourah’s name in my contacts.

I needed to know she was good. Not just because of the embarrassment of Paisley pulling up shooting like she had lost her whole mind, but because I really liked Nourah.

We’d spent the whole day together before all that happened, talking, laughing, and getting closer in a way that felt good. And then all this shit had to happen right on top of it.

ME: You good, baby?

I stared at the screen for a good minute after I hit send, not expecting a reply this late. Then those three dots popped up.

NOURAH: A little shaken up, but I’ll live.

ME: I apologize for everything. Get some rest. I’ll check on you in the morning.

NOURAH: Okay, Gn.

ME: Gn, love.

I just sat there looking out the window as we got closer to my own house, the streetlights sliding past one after the other.

I rubbed my hand down my face, then ended up yawning. I was ready for bed and to end this weird-ass day.

It was the next morning when I walked into the kitchen, stretching my arms above my head. Before I could fully make it through the doorway, the smell of bacon, pancakes, and something buttery hit me all at once.

A nigga’s stomach growled damn near immediately.

Miss Carolyn turned around from the stove with a spatula in her hand and smiled.

“Good morning, suga. Did you wash up?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I glanced down at the clothes I had on. “And thanks for the extra clothes, wherever the hell you got this outfit from. Clearly, somebody saved this shit from the eighties.”

She threw her head back and laughed.

“Well, I think it looks nice on you.”

“Yeah, right.”

I looked down at myself again and shook my head. The velour tracksuit was oversized as hell. The pants bunched around my ankles, and the jacket hung off me like it had been made for somebody twice my size. It looked like something a pimp would wear while stepping out of a Cadillac. All I was missing was a fucking toothpick, some platform shoes, and a cane.

“But for real, thank you,” I said. “And for the rag, towel, extra toothbrush… all of that.”

“You’re welcome, baby. Noree will probably be getting up soon,” Miss Carolyn said as she turned back toward the stove. “That girl has always loved sleeping late.”

I laughed. “I’m sure.”

“Have a seat. I wanted to have a little one-on-one conversation with you.”

I paused.