Baby for the Bosshole

“Everything! It’s so…bright. It’s just wrong!”

“So.” I decide to intervene before he starts complaining about something like how pretty she is when she smiles. “What I hear you saying is she’s fun. Spontaneous. Laughs a lot. Smiles a lot, too. And smells good.”

“Distracting.”

“Uh-huh. Sounds terrible.”

“Like a little sparkly dollop of evil,” Amy says.

“She’s everything that’s wrong with humanity,” Griffin grouses.

“Right. Because humanity needs more grumpiness. Good thing you’re around to balance things out,” I say.

“What I have is discipline, not grumpiness.”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. Anyway, the next time you see this pink ray of sunshine, tell her we said thanks for the presents.”

“Yes!” Amy says with a bright gleam in her eyes.

“I’m not having this discussion.” He hangs up.

“Bet he’s calling Sierra now,” I say.

“That poor woman… Although it sounds like she can handle him.”

“Most definitely. She has the power to neutralize his grumpiness.” Then it finally hits me where I’d heard of Silicone Dream before. It’s the name of the company Griffin’s supposed to do a case on with his class! He said it was in high tech, but I don’t know any high-tech firms that beta-test sex toys.

“So.” She runs her hands over the toys. “You think we should help with their testing?”

I laugh, picking her up. She grabs the box, and we make our way to our bedroom.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Emmett

After ten hours of labor, Amy is exhausted. But she still glows like only a new mom can.

But I know I’m a mess, too, all choked up and emotionally drained. For some reason, the epidural didn’t dull her pain much, and watching her agonized struggle cut hard and deep. What good is modern medicine if they can’t make the birthing process painless?

But now it’s done and our baby girl is gorgeous. Perfect. Her skin is pink and soft, and she smells like all my future hopes and dreams.

Mom flew in from London and has been dabbing her eyes. Amy’s dad’s eyes are red too, and he’s wearing a broad grin. My brothers come by in a complicated rotation and stare at our baby girl like she’s so fragile that she’ll shatter if they breathe wrong.

My dad isn’t here because I never told him.

“She’s beautiful,” I whisper, then kiss Amy on the forehead. “Thank you.”

She smiles. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” I kiss the baby’s head. “Have you decided on a name?”

We have a list, but Amy’s been waffling, saying they’re all too wonderful.

She nods. “Yes. Monique Emma Lasker.”

Mom flushes with pleasure, her hands covering her mouth. Amy’s dad pats her shoulder.

“That’s a perfect name,” I say.