Brogan (Carolina Reapers 9)

Fiona. I repeated her name silently so I wouldn't forget it. I was shit with names. Her dark hair was piled into a knot on her head, and more than a few strands had busted loose, giving her a just-rolled-out-of-bed look. Then again, it was only eight-thirty on a Sunday morning, so I couldn’t fault her on that one. Her sweatshirt hung haphazardly off one shoulder, and—wait, were those Crocs? Yep, she was rocking a pair of electric green crocs at the end of her black leggings.

Skye’s cries escalated to torturous, all hitting the same pitch in the same rhythm.

Fiona blinked, watching her for a few seconds before stepping forward and looking up at me with a set of Carribbean-blue eyes rimmed with a set of thick, sooty lashes. “May I hold her?” she asked, her voice this soft, soothing tone that made me blink.

Right, because it was my choice who held Skye. The weight of that responsibility settled on my shoulders and shockingly didn’t take me out at the knees. I looked Fiona over again, this time objectively. Her hands were outstretched, so she was eager and willing. Her frame was lithe but strong, so she could probably handle Skye’s meager weight. The Crocs didn’t speak to her coordination, but she hadn’t tripped or anything while walking in, so I was just going to have to trust that she wouldn’t drop Skye.

And if she’d passed Langley's tests, then she was qualified.

“Sure,” I said, pulling Skye away from my chest.

Fiona flashed me a quick, distracted smile as she concentrated on Skye, taking the baby from my arms and give her a once-over. “When was she fed?” she asked the room.

“About a half hour ago,” London answered. “And burped.”

“Hmmm,” she hummed, walking toward the table. “Does she have a blanket?”

“Here.” Sterling pulled the pink blanket out of the car seat.

“Excellent.” Fiona spread out the blanket on the table, then laid Skye in the middle of it, watching her for a minute as she continued to cry.

I was about a half-a-second from taking her back.

“Does anyone have scissors?” Fiona asked, already unsnapping the pink pajama-looking-thing.

“I’m sorry?” I moved forward. “Why the hell would you want scissors?” The woman might have some pretty eyes—fine, stellar eyes, but she wasn’t cutting my kid up into little pieces.

“They’re for her jammies,” Fiona responded, pulling Skye’s little, chubby legs out of the outfit. Fine, baby legs were cute, and her tiny toes weren’t awful, either.

Asher appeared with the scissors, placing them in Fiona’s hand.

Fiona snipped off the pajamas at the ankles, then buttoned Skye into them again. “She might not like to have her feet bound up,” she said absent-mindedly.

That made two of us, since I couldn’t stand anything confining my feet besides my Nikes and skates. My aunt called it sensory issues. I called it common fucking sense.

“Did she come with a pacifier?” Fiona asked.

“I’ll check.” Langley dug into one of the suitcases and popped out a teal green piece of plastic, handing it to Fiona.

“Thanks.” Fiona wrapped Skye into the blanket with some kind of sorcery that turned her into a burrito, then popped the pacifier in her mouth and held her tight against her chest, rocking while she shushed her loudly, her mouth close to her ears.

Skye stopped crying.

Fucking. Magic.

Everything in my chest eased up a little, like a vise slowly loosening, and I took my first full breath since I’d found the baby on my doorstep. My brain cleared, too, as if it had been too preoccupied with Skye’s cries to function properly.

I stared in wonder at Fiona, and I wasn’t the only one. Every head in the room had turned to watch her rock and shush the now-silent Skye, who gave a delicate little hiccup as her eyes shut.

“She was just overstimulated,” Fiona said softly, continuing to rock. “There’s a lot of nervous energy in the room and she picked up on that.”

My mouth opened, but I couldn’t find a single word. Not one. The woman was a fucking enchantress when it came to my baby, and I was here for it.

My baby. Mine. All ten fingers, ten toes, and hellacious lungs—she was all mine, and I was damned if I was going to send her into foster care where it would take only God-knew-how-long to get her back out of it just because of some legal tape. Paternity test first, because I wasn’t stupid, but I was already certain. Skye was mine, and whatever I had to pay the magical nanny in front of me to keep her content just like that, she was worth it.

“What?” Fiona asked, looking up at me as her dark brows furrowed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re hired.”

2

Fiona

I stared at my open drawers and scanned the contents inside, curious as to what exactly I needed to pack.