“Want to grab a bite before we head to the hospital?”
Layla turned away from the window, her adorable face scrunched up in confusion. “I’m going to the hospital with you?”
“You don’t want to?”
“Of course I want to go see the babies,” she said. “But I thought you removed me from the visitor list.”
“I called the hospital and told them to reactivate your access card.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome,” I whispered back, reaching over to squeeze her hand.
It would’ve been wise to stop touching her, but I couldn’t help myself. Her soft, warm flesh was addictive.
And that line of thinking would bring nothing but trouble. Layla was my employee, the nanny to my newborn triplets. They needed her more than my cock did.
But try telling that to the constant hard-on in my pants whenever she was around.
“How can you go to a restaurant?” she asked. “Won’t you get mobbed?”
“Not if we go to my restaurant. We can slip in the back door and eat in the private dining room.” I pulled out my phone and fired off a text to my maître d.
“I’m not really dressed appropriately for a fancy restaurant,” she said.
“Westinghouse isn’t fancy,” I chuckled. “It’s a pub.”
“A pub that sells twelve-dollar beers and twenty-five-dollar burgers.”
“Did you just Google my menu?”
“No,” she mumbled, tucking her phone back into her purse.
“You did too!”
“I did not!” she cried, turning to face the window again.
“Let me see your phone then.”
“No,” she giggled, tucking her purse into her side.
“I could get that purse away from you in about two seconds,” I teased.
“You sound like a mugger.”
I threw my head back, laughing harder than I had in a very long time.
“You should never go into a woman’s purse without her permission,” she warned, clutching the worn handbag tightly.
“I’m just teasing you,” I said. “I promise to never look in your purse.”
“Can you just order for me?” Layla requested, setting down her menu. “I don’t even know what half of this stuff is.”
“You should learn if you want to become a chef.”
“When did I say that?”
“You didn’t have to,” I said, picking up my water glass. “I saw it in your eyes when you were in my kitchen.”
“I enjoy cooking. That doesn’t necessarily mean I want to do it for a living.”
“True,” I agreed. “But you do though.”
“Maybe,” she lamented. “But I can’t afford culinary school.”
“Not all great chefs go to culinary school.”
“My life is kind of a mess right now, Briggs,” she said quietly, staring down at her long, slender fingers. Her hands would look amazing with a professional manicure and some jewelry.
As if I knew anything about girlfriends. I’d had a few relationships. But they were all casual, with a guaranteed expiry date. I’d never bought a woman any type of jewelry. That was a hard no.
“Why is your life a mess?”
“You really have to ask that?”
“You’re young and healthy,” I said, tilting my head as I smiled across the table at her. “And you just got a great job offer working as a nanny for a super sexy hockey player.”
“That is true,” she agreed with a shy smile.
“A super sexy hockey player who happens to own a chain of restaurants.”
“I appreciate everything you’re doing for me, Briggs,” she said. “But I think I just need to focus on one thing at a time. And right now, that’s my three nephews. They’re going to be a full-time job.”
“I am aware of that,” I chuckled. “Hence the need for two nannies.”
“What is the other nanny like?”
“Of course,” she laughed.
“That’s Mary.”
“What!”
“Her name’s actually Mary, and she looks and dresses like Mary Poppins~.”
“She does not!”
“She does,” I said. “You just wait and see.”
“Mary is fifty-five.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You’re bullshitting me,” she laughed. “And the real Mary Poppins was a younger woman.”
Fuck, I loved the sound of her laughter. And that smile. It didn’t come out very often, but when it did, she lit up the room.
I reached under the tablecloth, making sure my balls were still there. They were. Right below my throbbing cock. This was such a bad idea. I should tell her I’d changed my mind.
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” I said. “But you can ask her yourself when you meet her.”
“How is an old woman supposed to get up in the night with triplets?” she scoffed. “And good luck keeping up with them once they’re on the move.”
“As if.”
“You’re gonna love her,” I promised.
“Did you even taste that burger?” I asked.
She smiled behind her napkin. “That was the best burger I’ve ever had.”
I felt like my face might split in half. When was the last time I’d smiled and laughed so much in one day?
There was something refreshing and surprisingly attractive about a woman who wasn’t afraid to eat. Layla consumed her lunch like she hadn’t eaten in days.
She didn’t appear to be malnourished, though. She was tall and thin, but in a healthy way. People who work in the restaurant business never go hungry. There is always leftover food that has to be eaten up. Even in a diner.
“Kobe beef is the best,” I said.
“How does anyone go back to regular beef after eating that?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged.
“And that cheese.”
“It was Gruyere.”
“It was Gruyere-eat!”
The waiter chuckled at her joke as he collected our plates. Blaine was a long-time employee.
All of my staff signed non-disclosure agreements, but I’d requested for someone to wait upon us who I knew could be trusted not to sell a story about my lunch date to the tabloids.
The paparazzi had always been a thorn in my side, but ever since the triplet story broke they’d become relentless vultures.
“Layla is one of the nannies I hired,” I explained.
“It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Layla,” Blaine said, his eyes scanning her chest with an appreciative stare. If Layla noticed, she didn’t let on as my waiter continued flirting with her.
But not anymore. I hardly ever hooked up. And when I did, it was usually only with women I knew. Women who didn’t harbor any fantasies about landing Canada’s most sought-after bachelor, a title I’d owned three years in a row.
In the present circumstances, I would gladly have given the title back.
Jealousy wasn’t a familiar emotion to me, but I recognized it immediately when it surged through my veins like a tsunami. I cleared my throat. “Thank you, Blaine,” I said sternly.
“Uh, you’re welcome, Mr. Westinghouse,” he stuttered before hurrying away with our dirty dishes.
Layla stared at the table, her cheeks flushing, as she fidgeted with her napkin.
“Would you like dessert?” I asked.
“No, thank you,” she said softly. “I’m stuffed.”
“I’ll text Vlad and let him know we’re ready.”
“Layla!” Bernice cried, pulling my nanny in for a hug. “I didn’t expect to see you around here anymore.”
“Things changed,” Layla explained. “Mr. Westinghouse hired me to be his children’s nanny. Isn’t that great?”
“Wow!” Bernice exclaimed, narrowing her eyes at me over Layla’s shoulder. “That’s great.”
“I know,” Layla gushed. “I get to look after my nephews.”
“I was just about to gather up my students and feed the babies,” Bernice said. “But now that you two are here, you can feed them.”
“Great!” Layla said excitedly, shrugging out of her jacket. She went to the cupboard and pulled out cans of baby formula. Apparently, this wasn’t her first time.
“Do you need any help, Layla?” Bernice asked.
“No,” she said as she poured the formula into small, narrow bottles, screwing nipples on top.
“Okay, sweetie. I’m gonna go for a coffee. But I have my phone on if you need anything.”
I stepped aside to let the nurse pass. She glared at me before stepping out the door and sliding it closed behind her.
What was that all about? She wasn’t warm and fuzzy with me the day before either. On the other hand, Bernice seemed very protective of Layla. Was that why she didn’t like me? Because she thought I might hurt Layla?
“Sit!” Layla ordered, pointing to the rocking chair in the corner.
“Uh, I don’t know if I’m ready to feed them,” I said.
“Briggs,” she said, with hands on her hips, her tone letting me know that I was doing it whether I was ready or not.
I removed my jacket and hung it over the back of a rocking chair. Since when did I take orders from my employees?
“Wash your hands,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who would you like to feed?”
“Um, I don’t know,” I laughed. “You pick.”
She scooped up one of the babies from the crib and waited while I dried my hands and settled into the chair.
He looked so tiny in my arms. They all weighed over four pounds now. One was creeping up on five pounds. But they were still pretty small compared to full-term babies.
Layla leaned over and placed the bottle’s nipple against my son’s mouth, rubbing it gently along the seam of his lips. I inhaled her sweet scent, her luscious breasts inches from my face.
I was definitely not in the running for father of the year. Fantasizing about a young woman’s breasts while holding my baby was a whole new level of pig for me.
Layla was thin, her tits seeming enormous on her small frame. They were swaying right in front of my face. They were fucking fabulous. The creamy moons of her full breasts descended into an inviting declivity, all too obvious at the V-neck of her T-shirt.
The sound of my son sucking snapped me out of my inappropriate thoughts. I gazed down at the little guy as his mouth latched tightly onto the nipple, his eyes closed and fingers clenched.
Instinct kicked in. I slipped my finger into his hand, my heart swelling with love when he wrapped his tiny fingers around my pinky.
“Good job, George,” Layla whispered.
She turned her back to me, reaching for another baby. “I gave them nicknames,” she said. “It’s not like they’ll remember. Shelly couldn’t be bothered. They’re six weeks old. It’s not right that they haven’t been named.”
“I’m not upset,” I said. “Just surprised.”
She lowered herself into the other rocker with one of the babies in her arms, whispering softly to him as she encouraged him to take the bottle.
“What’s his name?”
“Harris,” she said without looking up.
“And sleepyhead over there. What’s his name?”
“Jerome.”
“George, Harris, and Jerome,” I said thoughtfully. “Layla?”
“Yes?”
She lifted her head, her mouth hanging open as she stared in disbelief. “How did you know that?”
“I am educated, you know.”
“Me too,” she whispered. “I read it in high school. They had a weathered old copy in the library. I was the only person who ever signed it out. When I graduated, I asked the librarian if I could have it.”
“Did she let you keep it?”
“He,” she corrected. “And no. He said I’d have to pay for it if I wanted it. I didn’t have enough money to buy it.”
“I love how the author uses humor to break up the seriousness of some parts of the book,” I said. “I hate reading depressing stuff. That book is hilarious.”
“I know,” she said, smiling wistfully. “I used to lie in my room at night, laughing as I read the same passages over and over.”
“George is done,” I said, holding up the empty bottle.
“Do you want to feed Jerome?”
“Sure.” I stood up and walked over to the crib.
“You have to swaddle him,” she said. “Otherwise, he’ll be awake again in no time.”
“Okay. How do I do that?”
I watched as she prepared a receiving blanket, bundling my son into a cocoon and handing him to me.
“How’d you learn all this?”
“Bernice.”
We sat in silence while I fed Jerome.
“I think I’d like to keep them,” I said.
“Well, I hope so,” she said with a nervous giggle. “You already agreed to take full custody.”
“I meant their names. I’d like to keep the names you gave them.”
