Brogan (Carolina Reapers 9)

“Fiona?” Brogan said my name like a question as if he’d said it a few times.

I blinked out of my oh-so-awkward stare fest and cleared my throat. “Yeah?” I asked, returning to my bouncing steps while I wiped down the kitchen island with more attention than it required.

“Haven’t I told you that you don’t have to clean?” he asked, heading toward the fridge and grabbing a water. His eyes scanned the prepped meals, and I swear the corner of his mouth ticked up just a fraction. He closed the fridge door, and the scowl was back. “Or cook?”

I tossed the dishrag in the sink, washed and dried my hands, then started patting Skye’s butt when she wiggled in the wrap on my chest. “And haven’t I told you that part of my job description is doing just that?”

He huffed, taking a long pull from the water bottle.

He’d told me he was going for a run, but holy hell, did running really require tight athletic pants that hugged his massive thighs and no freaking shirt?

“Fine,” he said. “Thank you,” he added. “For the meals.”

I nodded, glancing down at Skye, who gazed up at me with the prettiest blue eyes. I smiled down at her, wishing she’d nap but happy that she wasn’t a crying mess. If I took her out of this wrap? We’d go nuclear in seconds.

“How’s my girl doing?” he asked after grabbing one of his workout towels and drying off his chest, and damn it, a little zap of heat raced down my spine at the shift in his tone. He’d gone from his normally broody and gruff voice to his reserved-only-for-Skye voice, and it did things to my body. Things my body had no business feeling.

It’s just because he’s shirtless. And carved out of muscle. And so damn tall. And looking down at his baby girl like she’s the most important thing in the world even though he had no idea about her until a week ago…

I closed my eyes, locking down my traitorous thoughts and focusing on his question. “No nap yet today,” I said, glancing down at her as he stepped closer to smooth his hand over her tiny back. And since she was wrapped to my chest, that put him close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his body. And damn him to hell, how did he smell good after a run? He should stink, not smell like the ocean and salt and all man. “But,” I forced myself to continue, “she’s been in a good mood today, so I’ll take it.”

He stepped closer still, shifting so he could catch her eyes. She wiggled and cooed as he came into her view, and he did that thing where he smiled for her and only her. It lit up his hazel eyes, despite the exhaustion underneath them.

“Hey there, little demon,” he said, his voice soft.

She wiggled again, and I shifted back a step, reaching into the wrap to gently pull her free. Brogan automatically held out his hands, the move effortless even after only a week of having her. He carefully took her from me, cradling her head and butt in his hands so he could look down at her.

I lingered for a minute next to them, admiring their silent way of staring at each other, the bond shining between them. Then I remembered the whole thing about personal and professional space and hurried out of the kitchen and into the living room. Skye and I had spent the better part of the morning in here playing with the fabric books and blocks and stuffed hockey pucks she had. Well, I played. She kind of just drooled on all of it.

Picking up the toys, I hurried to clean up the space, tossing everything into her designated basket before tucking it near the glider Brogan had hauled in here a few days ago. The thing was a godsend for soothing Skye when she was in a spiral.

“You’re cleaning again,” he said, his tone grumbly since he was speaking to anyone other than Skye.

I turned around to face him and almost ran into a whole lot of chest and baby. He sank into the glider, cradling Skye gently against his chest as he started to rock back and forth. I opened and shut my mouth a few times, hating how damn good he looked doing that. How content and natural and all the things I shouldn’t notice or care about.

He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss.

“You’re going to have to get over that,” I finally managed to say, and he looked up at me, cocking an eyebrow at me that suggested people didn’t normally talk to him like that. I shrugged. “I won’t always be able to clean,” I said. “Or cook. There will be times Skye takes every drop of energy I have and then some. There will be days you’ll probably want to throttle me because everything is out of place and Skye and me are a mess, and I’ll order junk food you would never eat. But, on the good days—on the days that I can clean and cook—I will.”