She's My Baby
The corners of Garrick’s lips twitched into a smile. He reached for the baby.
This wasn’t exactly the kind of emergency he had in mind when he bolted over here, but it was a job that still needed to be done.
Garrick nestled the little girl in the crook of his arm. As he swayed back and forth, the baby quieted down. “That’s a good girl,” he cooed.
“How did you do that?” his neighbor asked wide-eyed.
“I’ve been told I’m a natural with babies and animals,” he boasted proudly.
“You’re a godsend.”
The woman raked her fingers through her hair—something she should stop doing, he noted.
“Yeah, well, I guess if you just get us a new diaper, I can help you change her and then I’ll get out of your hair.” He didn’t mean to mention her hair, but it had a way of drawing the eye.
She blinked. “A diaper?”
ADRIANNE BYRD
has always preferred to live within the realms of her imagination where all the men are gorgeous and the women are up to all the challenge of whatever trouble they manage to get into. Her first Kimani Press release, She’s My Baby, was inspired by a true-life incident. Ms. Byrd’s youngest sister politely informed her that she was having a baby—ten days before her due date! Her little sis and baby moved in. They’ve been living with Ms. Byrd happily, temporarily, ever after.
She’s My Baby
Adrianne Byrd
www.millsandboon.co.uk
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For my niece Courtney Breanna White I hope I don’t screw this up
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed Leila and Garrick’s story. I have to admit that it was one of my easier subject matters to write about since I positively break out into a cold sweat every time my sister even hints for me to babysit my one-year-old niece. Some women, like me, really have to work to dust off unused maternal instincts. Like Leila, I discovered that even after sleepless nights, countless diaper changes and constant worrying, there is a unique joy in being around a baby. Nothing gives you the same kind of pleasure as when a child smiles at you. So much so that you find yourself doing the most ridiculous things—like “goo-gooing” while you’re holding up the line at the grocery store—just to win another toothless grin.
So, now I have a baby at the house…all I have to do is keep peeking out the window to find my Garrick Grayson.
It could happen…
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Leila Owens, founder and editor director of Atlanta Spice magazine, gaped at the world’s greatest assistant—her assistant—and her good friend and prayed that her ears were clogged with wax. “You’re pregnant?”
“Yes. Isn’t it great? The news is kind of an early Christmas gift to my family.” Ciara Winston beamed a radiant smile as she closed Leila’s office door and journeyed into the room.
“Nooo,” Leila half moaned, half groaned, and then dropped her head into the palms of her hands. “Why on earth would you go off and do something so…silly…and suicidal?”
“Silly and suicidal?”
“Babies are career killers in this industry,” Leila snapped, jerking her desk drawer open to grab the industrial-size bottle of Rolaids. “They need constant attention, they are always sick, and they are always crying for something.”
Ciara crossed her arms. “Babies aren’t the only ones who do that.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” Leila added as she popped a few pills into her mouth.
Her assistant laughed, but when Leila’s sharp gaze stabbed her, Ciara sobered. “Leila, this has nothing to do with you.”
“Doesn’t it? What do you think is going to happen to me while you’re off having morning sickness, water-retention issues, and raging mood swings? I have a company to run and I can’t do that without my right-hand woman at my side. I need you.” Leila downed two more tablets for good measure.
“I’m not dying. I’m just having a baby.” Before Leila could respond, Ciara held up a silencing finger. “Please, let me finish before you say something that will cause me to turn in my resignation.” She lowered her hand.
Leila clamped her mouth close.
“Elmo and I—”
“Elmo. What kind of name…”
Ciara jutted her finger back into the air and Leila grudgingly fell silent again. “Look, don’t get all neurotic on me. I like you. I’m also insane enough to say that I like working for you. But I am ready for the next chapter in my life—motherhood. Now, the polite thing for you to do is to congratulate me.”
Leila ground her teeth and then lowered into her chair.
“I can be just as stubborn as you and I can stand here all day.”
It was true, Leila knew. Her assistant’s bullheadedness was one of the reasons that made Ciara a perfect match for Leila. Yet, for every common denominator between them, there were five differences. This whole family-and-marriage thing was just another example.
Ciara cleared her throat and waited.
“All right, all right. Congratulations. I hope you and Tickle Me Elmo have a slew of rug rats, if it makes you happy.”
“Thank you.” Ciara smiled sweetly. “I knew you had it in you. One day I hope you will experience the joy of marriage and children.”
“Spare me.” Leila leaned back in her chair. “And don’t think I’m going to suffer through ‘children are great’ sermons from you on a daily basis. Not all single women are miserable. Atlanta Spice is my marriage and I’m completely happy with it.”
“If you say so.” Ciara pivoted and headed back out. “By the way,” she said, opening the door. “Your sister called this morning. Twice.”
Leila reached back into her drawer-slash-personal-pharmacy for some antacids. “Which sister?”
“Roslyn. Said it was important.”
“Everything is important to her. Thanks…and can you see about getting me some aspirin? I’m running low.”
“You got it,” Ciara laughed and finally made her exit.
Leila, meanwhile, placed mental bets with herself on when Ciara would quit. She could hear it now: Elmo and I agreed that I should become a full-time mom. That’s what all twenty-something women wanted to do nowadays.
Disgusted, she reached for the phone and punched in Roslyn’s number. She sidelined her magic pink pills until she heard what her sister had to say. On rare occasions important issues weren’t so bad.
“You have to be the hardest person in the world to get on the phone,” Roslyn launched into saying.
“Well, hello to you, too.”
“Sorry. Hello. Have you heard from Samantha?”
“No.” Leila snatched up the Pepto. “Should I have?”
“She’s missing.”
In any other family those words might sound off an alarm; but not with the Owenses, and not when the missing person in question was Samantha. “Sam is not missing. Sam just failed to tell anyone where she’s going—as usual. No big deal. She’ll turn up.” And hopefully not at my place.
“I’m not too sure. I’ve been calling her new apartment out in Las Vegas for two weeks. Finally, I reached one of her neighbors, Ms. Friedman, and just found out some disturbing news—”
“Ms. Owens, we have a problem.” Deonté Stylianos, her photo director, jetted into the room, red-faced and wild-eyed.
Leila lowered the phone and placed a hand over the mouthpiece. “What is it?”
“Erika hasn’t turned in the photos of the Laura Biagiotti collection. Those were set to go to the printers by five.”
Leila glanced at her watch and jumped to her feet. “It’s four. Why am I just now hearing about this?”
Deonté sighed. “I covered for Erika when she missed the first deadline because she swore to have the pictures to me in time for the printers.”
“Damn it.” Leila pressed the phone back to her ear. “Roslyn, I have to go. I have a real emergency to deal with right now.”
“But, Sam had a—”
“I’ll call you back. I promise.” Not waiting for a response, Leila hung up.
Roslyn exhaled a long frustrated breath and returned the phone back to its cradle.
“What did she say?” Patrick asked.
Roslyn frowned as she glanced over at her husband. “I didn’t get a chance to tell her. She had to go.”
Patrick flashed his deep-pitted dimples as he moved next to her and draped a strong arm around her waist. “Honey, maybe you’re making a big deal out of nothing? This isn’t the first time Sam has pulled a stunt like this.”
“I know, but this time it’s different. There’s another life involved.”
“We don’t know that for sure. Ms. Friedman could’ve been mistaken. Sam could have been babysitting a friend’s kid for all we know.”
He had a point; but as Roslyn thought about her sister’s elderly neighbor, doubt crept over her. “I don’t think we should go on our trip until we get to the bottom of this.”
“You’re joking.” Patrick’s body deflated as his arm fell from her waist. “We’ve been saving for two years to go on this trip. Barbados in December—you said it would be a dream come true.”
“I know, I know, but this thing with Samantha.” She shook her head. “Something’s not right. I can feel it.”
“Nothing is ever right with Sam. She pulls these little stunts for attention. You know that.”
She did.
As if sensing he was making some headway, he drew her close again. “The tickets are nonrefundable and the kids are excited. Besides, if there is a real emergency, Leila is more than capable of handling it.”
That was true as well. Leila’s tough-love tactics always worked better than Roslyn’s please let me try to fix everything for you strategy.
“You’re right.” Roslyn smiled, laying her head against her husband’s broad chest. “If anything is wrong, Leila will handle it.”
Chapter 2
“Lord, save me from gold diggers and career-driven women,” Garrick Grayson prayed into his glass of eggnog before he downed it in one long gulp. At the very least he’d hoped to drown out the overly cheerful song “Jingle Bell Rock” that blasted from every speaker in his brother’s house.
“Hey, bro. You better ease up on that. I have no intentions of carrying you out of here with my bad back.”
Garrick flashed Orlando a wounded look. “It’s been a bad day. Indulge me.” He glanced around his brother’s crowded Christmas party.
Orlando shook his head. “This is about Miranda, isn’t it?”
“I stopped drinking over Miranda two years ago. This is about me perfecting the fine art of screwing up my life. I’m forty-five years old and I haven’t accomplished anything meaningful.”
“Ooh. It’s going to be one of those evenings?”
“C’mon. You know it’s true.”
Orlando laughed. “I don’t know any such thing. I know you’re a man with the Midas touch when it comes to wheeling and dealing, which is why Dad left the family business in your capable hands. God bless him.”
Garrick studied his brother. “You don’t feel slighted?”
“Heavens no.” Orlando laughed with genuine amusement. “I’m no architect and I don’t enjoy pushing paper around. The football field is where I belong.”
Garrick smiled at the truth of Orlando’s words. His brother had never made it past college ball, but he was just as happy coaching his beloved junior-high-school team.
Tamara, Orlando’s beautiful full-figured wife, looped an arm around her husband, and then leaned lovingly into him. “You’re supposed to be mingling.”
“I am.” Orlando delivered a quick peck against her voluptuous lips. “I’m making sure this bum you invited doesn’t guzzle all the eggnog.”
Tamara turned her glowing smile toward Garrick. “He’s harmless…and so is the eggnog. No alcohol.”
“I knew it tasted funny,” Garrick joked.
Sliding gingerly from one brother to the other, Tamara planted a kiss against Garrick’s cheek. “Merry Christmas, Garrick.”
“Merry Christmas, gorgeous.”
“How’s the new house?” Tamara asked.
“I’m enjoying it so far. Of course, I’ve only been there a week. But it seems like a nice quiet neighborhood.”
“Why didn’t you just build another house? You do such great work.”
“It’s a transitional house and it’s just me.” He shrugged.
“Then maybe I should come up and see you sometime,” she said in her best Mae West imitation.
They exchanged a few minutes of harmless flirtation—just long enough to playfully stir Orlando’s jealousy.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Orlando pulled his wife back to his side. “Me Tarzan, she’s Jane.”
“Oh, are we playing that one tonight?” Tamara murmured against her husband’s ear and slid her arm around his waist.
“I think I can dig up my leopard-print loincloth.”
“Hello. I’m still standing here,” Garrick reminded them.
The mushy husband-and-wife team chuckled. However, the duty of playing hostess called and, with a great show of reluctance, Tamara glided out of Orlando’s arm.
“I’ll leave you two alone, but, honey, don’t forget to mingle.”
“You got it.”
Garrick ladled another cup of eggnog as he watched his sister-in-law vanish into the crowd. “I envy you,” he blurted.
Orlando’s smile turned sly. “I know.”
Garrick chuckled, but his mood darkened in the next instant when Bing Crosby vowed solemnly that he would be home for Christmas. “Miranda is getting married again.”
“Tamara told me. Some doctor or another, right?”
“Yeah.”
Orlando fell silent for a moment, glanced around to make sure no one was listening, and then asked, “Are you still in love with her?”
“I’ll always love her,” Garrick admitted in a voice laden with emotion. “But, no. I’m not in love with her.”
“Tamara said she’s pregnant.”
Garrick lowered his head as he clenched his drink. The news hurt just as much the second time around. “Yeah,” he croaked.
During his seven-year marriage to Miranda, Garrick had waited, prayed, and then begged to start a family with his ambitious ladder-climbing wife. However, the answers were always: after this next deal, after this next trip, and after this next promotion—they were all deviations of the word no.
“It just means that it was never meant to be,” Orlando said, and then winced. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean—”
“It’s okay. I know what you meant.” Garrick sighed and backed away. “Forgive me, but the last thing I want engraved on my tombstone is how I was a whiz at business. I want the same thing Dad has and you’ll have. Here lies a great husband and a wonderful father. I want a real legacy.”
“You’ll get those things, bro.” Orlando met his brother’s direct gaze. “I know you will…because Tamara and I have already lined up the perfect woman for you.”
Garrick groaned. “Tamara set me up with Miranda, remember?”
“Trial and error.” Orlando shrugged. “On all our parts. So what do you say?”
“Is she here tonight?” he asked, unable to keep the dread out of his voice.
“Nah. You know I wouldn’t land a sneak attack on you like that.”
Garrick’s eyes narrowed.
“All right. She was here earlier, checked you out, and gave us the okay to pass you her number.”
“I was under surveillance and you didn’t tell me?”
“Tamara told me not to. So what do you say?”
“I say you’ve been married too long and have forgotten the brothers’ allegiance.”
“Yes or no?”
Garrick weighed his options, thought about his love life that was on serious life support, and then caved. “All right…on one condition.”
“I know. I know. No gold diggers and no career women.”
Garrick smiled. “You got it.”
On Christmas morning, Leila stretched languorously in her eastern, king-size Italian bed and gave serious thought to staying put for the entire day. Why not? With Roslyn and her family in Barbados and Sam living it up in sin city, she was actually going to be alone for the holidays.
“Peace and quiet,” she moaned, curling back up against a pillow.
The phone rang.
Leila laughed as she crept an arm out toward the nightstand. “Hello?”
When no one answered, she frowned and made a concerted effort to suppress her irritation. It was Christmas, after all. Dropping the receiver back onto its cradle, she once again prepared for another flight to dreamland.
The phone rang again.
Spewing a string of curse words, Leila snatched off her night mask and grabbed the phone.
“Hello.”
The caller didn’t respond, but Leila could make out someone breathing—no, crying—on the other end.
“Who is this?” When the caller refused to speak, Leila’s sixth sense tingled to life. “Samantha?”
The caller hung up.
Leila held the phone. What kind of game was Sam playing now?
Huffing out a tired breath, Leila finally hung up the phone and climbed out of bed with all her dreams of spending the day in bed gone. Her mind was still wrapped on the strange call as she donned her robe and slipped into her favorite pair of slippers.
If she had any hopes of figuring out the new game her baby sister was playing, she would need her morning coffee—preferably a full pot.
Midway down the stairs, the sound of music caught her ear. She stopped.
Had she left the stereo on? Wait, she hadn’t listened to it last night. Her heart skipped a beat until she thought of the unlikelihood of a killer sneaking into her place only to play… “Rock-a-bye Baby.”
“Hello?” She crept down to the landing, trying to convince herself she was naming the wrong tune. As she followed the music, her confusion grew. It was coming from the kitchen.
Her usually dependable creative imagination had drawn a blank on what awaited her; but nevertheless, she put on a brave front and continued placing one foot in front of the other.
The moment she entered the kitchen, her gaze zeroed onto a frilly pink bassinette in the center of the kitchen table.
Leila blinked. When the image remained, she blinked again. It was still there and the looped music reverberated off the walls.
She rubbed her chest, certain that her heart was going to break through. “It isn’t. It can’t be.”
Her denial grew with each step while a knot tightened in the pit of her stomach. “It isn’t. It can’t be,” she repeated until she finally stopped to hover over the bassinette.
For half a heartbeat, Leila relaxed. The small, perfectly formed brown baby with rosy cheeks had to be a doll, which meant someone was playing a cruel joke. However, when the angelic child cooed softly, Leila jumped back in terror.
Who would—? When did she—? Where—?
“No. No.” She pivoted so fast she nearly tripped out of her pink slippers. Escaping the kitchen, she could only think to shout one name at the top of her lungs. “Sam!”
Leila bolted through the dining room and into the living room.
Both were empty.
“Sam!”
Swiveling, Leila tripped; but she saved herself from making a splat on the floor by dropping to her knees. Yet, adrenaline propelled her back to her feet and she was once again flying up and down the house.
Guest rooms—empty.
Bathrooms—empty.
Closets—empty.
“Sam…please. Don’t do this to me,” she begged.
Fear and anxiety knit a fine sheen of sweat across Leila’s brow, but she kept going. She reached an all-time low when she crawled on all fours to check beneath her own bed.
Samantha wasn’t there either.
Leila raked her fingers through her hair until her day-old mousse achieved the Bride of Frankenstein look and she nearly succumbed to the temptation to curl up into a ball. Then a thought occurred to her. She hadn’t checked outside. What if Sam was still out there, trying to unload her car or something?
Granted, it was far-fetched; but hope gave credence to the wild notion. Leila sprinted down the stairs, fluffy pink slippers and all; but before she reached the front door, a thin, high-pitched wail filled the house.
Leila skidded to a stop. The baby was crying. “What should I do?”
You should go check on her.
“But I don’t know how to take care of a baby.”
How hard could it be?
Leila mulled over the internal question. She was a smart woman in charge of a successful publishing company. Surely she could handle a baby.
The wail climbed a few octaves and Leila was forced to head into the kitchen. “Okay, okay. I’m here,” she soothed, rushing to the bassinette.
The baby stopped screaming…just long enough to draw a deep breath and then let it rip again.
With rattled eardrums, Leila panicked. She grabbed the bassinette by the handle and raced out of the house. So much for her being able to handle a baby.
“Sam!”
Garrick bolted upright, but was confused by what had awakened him. Yet, in the next second, a woman’s shrill voice penetrated his double-paned windows and he was out of the bed like a shot.
“Sam!”
Widening a slit in the venetian blinds, Garrick peered out to the house across the street. This was supposed to be a quiet neighborhood.
“Sam!”
Who’s Sam? His eyes lowered to the large pink basket she was carrying. A baby. Something was wrong with her baby?
Garrick turned and raced from the window. His heart lodged in his throat at all the wild possibilities. Was the baby sick, hurt, or worse?
“Sam!”
There was no snow this Christmas, but the cold December wind was an instant wake-up call against his bare chest. Yet, there was no way he was going to turn around now that he could also hear a baby screaming.
“Ma’am, ma’am. What’s wrong?”
“What?” The lady stepped back. “Who are you?” Her eyes raked him.
It hit him then that he was standing in his neighbor’s driveway in just his pajama pants. “I—I’m Garrick Grayson. Your new neighbor across the street.”
She took another step back but confusion still clouded her face. Actually, she looked every bit the part of a crazy woman with her hair standing straight on her head. Maybe this was trouble he didn’t need.
“Ma’am, you were screaming at the top of your voice. Is something wrong?”
She blinked out of her trance and glanced around the neighborhood.
Garrick looked as well and saw a few people milling out of their houses.
“Just great,” the woman mumbled under her breath. “Sam has turned me into a screaming lunatic.” She turned, clutched the bassinette tighter, and headed toward her front door.