Be My Hero Page 18

  It didn't seem to matter how many parenting articles I'd read, nothing had prepared me for this. This was real.

  A nurse entered while I was sitting in the rocking chair, my arm resting inside the hand hole of the incubator to softly pet her miniature fingers.

  "Sweetie, you probably need to head back to your room and get some rest now. You've been here quite a while. We don't want you to have a setback."

  I barely even looked at her as I studied the little cowlick in my baby's hairline. How the hell had Pick gotten that right?

  Maybe I'd just imagined the description he'd given me of her. There were a lot of fuzzy spots in my memories of the night she was born.

  "I'm okay." I didn't want to leave her yet. I didn't think it was possible to love something so much. My chest felt completely full. I could've sat in that chair and just watched her sleep and breathe for the rest of my life.

  "Does she need a blanket?" I asked when her tiny frame shuddered in her sleep as if she were shivering. "She looks cold."

  The nurse's lips pinched with irritation. "She's fine. But you really need to get back to your own room. They said you just got off dialysis yesterday. You don't want to overdo it."

  I nodded as if agreeing, but answered, "Just a little bit longer."

  With a grumble, she spun away and stalked off. When I heard the phrase, " . . . typical single teen mother. Thinks she knows everything . . . " I turned and stared after her, watching the extra twenty pounds of weight on her waistline shift back and forth as she marched off in an angry huff.

  I don't know why I let her comment get to me. Maybe it was leftover pregnancy hormones swimming through my veins, the start of some baby blues, or normal insecurity issues of a typical new nineteen-year-old mom. But tears immediately filled my eyes. I turned back to my child, small and helpless, fighting for her life, and the floodgate opened even more.

  What the hell did I think I was doing?

  I'd gone into this with my usual fake confidence, thinking sure I could raise a kid. Millions of women popped out babies every year. Why would I have a problem with it? And look, I'd almost gotten Skylar killed.

  I sobbed even harder, my chest heaving. I had to pull my hand free of Skylar's incubator and bury my face in both my palms to muffle the gut-wrenching sounds so I wouldn't wake her.

  She was here, like this, because I was unfit, because—

  "Hey," a cheerful voice interrupted my pity party. "Well, looks who's up and out of bed already."

  He sounded so relieved and happy. I turned to look up at Pick. He stood in the doorway with the biggest grin and a pink gift bag dangling from his hand. When he saw my face, his smile dropped flat.

  "What's wrong? Skylar?" He dropped the bag as he hurried to the incubator.

  The worry on his face warmed my heart and helped calm my tears. "No, she's okay. Getting better every day."

  A heavy sigh escaped him as he set his hand on the clear plastic separating him from my daughter. "Thank God."

  I blinked, still in awe over how worried he'd been. "How did you get back here?" They hadn't even allowed Reese into the NICU. She still had to look at Skylar through the window in the hall.

  "Being a flirt comes in handy sometimes." He finally turned to me and winked. "The nurses love me." His grin was brief though. His worry returned almost immediately as he reached down to pluck me out of the chair. "Now what're all these tears about? You're looking better, by the way. The yellow skin and swollen face scared the shit out of me."

  I didn't realize he was going to sit me in his lap until he was already settling me into place. I felt even younger, and stupider than I had when I'd started my crying jag. A silly little girl needing to sit on a nice comforting lap to get over herself.

  "I don't know," I mumbled, wiping the drops off my cheeks and feeling lame. "I'm just so . . . overwhelmed." Along with scared, worried, lost, unsure—ugh! What had happened to the cocky Eva Mercer I'd been a year ago? I'd take a nice, big dose of her right now.

  Pick chuckled and kissed my forehead, stirring up a nest of butterflies in my stomach. Or maybe it was the staples in the C-section cut that created such a sensation, except I really couldn't feel much in that area. Awesome drugs and all.

  Unable to help myself I plunked my head onto his nice, wide comforting shoulder. I mean, he was offering it. I couldn't resist. And it felt good, so amazingly good to let someone hold me for a minute.

  "I'm sorry," I started, sniffing up the end of my tears. "Just ignore me. I—"

  "No, I will not ignore you. I will never ignore you. You have every reason in the world to have a freak-out moment. Fuck, you just gave birth. That alone would put enough strain on anyone's emotions. Tristy cried for three weeks straight after Julian was born."

  I'm sure if he'd looked at me in that second, he would've seen a frown line appear between my eyes. I really didn't want to hear about his wife right now, not when I was snuggled on his lap, letting him comfort me and wishing things from him that he could never give. But I guess it didn't bother me enough to slide off him. It would take the Jaws of Life to get me off Patrick Ryan's lap.

  I ran my finger over a tattoo of a cat face on his forearm as he kept talking.

  "But look at what else you've had piled on top of that. I don't know all of it, but what I do know seems like a lot of shit. It'd certainly break me down if I were in your shoes." He kissed my temple this time. "You don't have to be brave and strong all the time, Tink."

  My lips fluttered with amusement. "You're never going to get over that nickname, are you? A girl wears Tinker Bell on her shirt one time—"

  "Embrace it." He grinned before nuzzling his nose against my temple. "Not everyone can pull off the Tink image."

  My smile bloomed wider. Petting the cat's ears, I asked, "Does this one mean anything? The cat tattoo?"

  He glanced down. "Of course. They all mean something. I don't get random images tattooed on my skin for no reason at all."

  He sounded defensive enough for me to glance up. "Then why do you?"

  With a shrug, he glanced at the cat face. "I grew up in foster care from birth to eighteen. I didn't stay at the same place but a couple years each, if that long. And you learn young that the rules change from house to house. You don't always get to bring much with you wherever you go next. And you don't always get to keep what you bring. Forget photos or sentimental knickknacks. It's just you and the skin on your back. So if I ever wanted to keep a memory of anything, I just—"

  "Tattooed it into your skin," I finished for him. Studying him in a new light, I glanced back at the cat. "Was that cat your first pet?"

  "Only pet," he corrected with a grin in his voice. "Actually, it wasn't really a pet at all. It was just some mangy alley cat. A stray that came by our place. I snuck out some food to it, and it kept coming back. After a while, it let me pet it while it was eating. It never let anyone else in the neighborhood come near it."

  I smiled, liking that story. "What'd you name him?"

  He sent me an irritated look. "He was a wild stray. You don't name strays."

  Something in his narrowed brown eyes made me nudge him lightly with my elbow. "Whatever. You so named him. Now spill."

  With a sigh, he leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling before mumbling, "It's stupid."

  That only made me like him more. "I don't care. Tell me."

  "Shakespeare," he said, rolling his eyes. "I named him Shakespeare."

  Aww. There I went, liking him even more. I touched his chin, loving the way his rough jaw scraped against my fingers. I wanted to touch the metal hoops in his lip next, but managed to restrain myself. "You were a daydreamer, weren't you?"

  His voice was dry and still full of irritation as he grumbled, "If you knew how many fights I've gotten into over the years, you wouldn't think that."

  "Bet I would. I've seen why you get into fights. It's frankly shocking I don't see a hero cape inked anywhere on here." I scrolled my fingertips up toward his
elbow. "I can only imagine how many other damsels in distress you've saved over the years."

  "Ha ha," he muttered.

  I grinned. "My daughter and I have our lives to thank you for, Patrick. I'm not just going to forget that."

  He stared at me, and something thunked heavily into my stomach. My breasts tingled and I seriously don't think it was my milk coming in.

  "Why do you call me Patrick so much?" he whispered.

  "Because it's your name," I whispered back, not even daring to breathe. The glaze in his eyes told me he wanted to kiss me. And, oh hell, I wanted to kiss him back.

  But he glanced away toward Skylar.

  "Only social workers and teachers ever called me Patrick."

  The moment was growing too deep. Remembering I was sitting on a married guy's lap, I refrained from pushing the issue. I didn't ask whether or not he liked me calling him that. Instead, I focused on another tattoo of a plant. "What about this one? What does this stand for?"

  "My favorite foster mother. She liked to garden."

  We went through the list, from his wrist to his shoulder, going over the meaning behind each tattoo. I sighed wistfully after he explained the one symbolizing the first car engine he rebuilt from the ground up. I liked knowing what mattered most to him.

  "I'd like to get a tattoo someday," I said thoughtfully, knowing exactly what mattered most to me as I gazed at my daughter.

  "You will." Pick traced his finger delicately along the bare patch of skin behind my left ear. "Right here. You're going to get my name."

  I rolled my eyes, fighting back a smile because I knew I shouldn't encourage his flirtatious attitude. "Always so sure of yourself, aren't you?"

  He grinned. "Of course. I don't say shit I don't mean."

  He sounded awfully serious about that. But I shook my head and finally let a smile seep out. Resting my head back on his shoulder, I continued to outline the pictures on his arm with my fingernail. "Your wife would probably kill me if she knew I was letting you hold me like this."

  "Nah." He leaned in and buried his nose in my hair. As I listened to him inhale deeply, something tight and foreign wrapped around my stomach. "She's not like that."

  Well, maybe she should be, because I wasn't feeling friendly companionship for him just now. Experiencing something so much deeper, I opened my mouth to argue. Accepting, non-jealous wife or not, this was still wrong. He belonged to someone else. I shouldn't let him keep coming to my rescue. It might not mean so much to him, but to me, it meant way more than I knew it should.

  "In any case," I said, letting the issue drop so he wouldn't know just how much I was crushing on him. "I really appreciate you being here and talking me off my crying jag. You always know when to show up at just the right time to save me."

  His arms tightened, and I knew he was thinking about what Alec had done.

  I touched his face. "I'm serious, Patrick. Look at me."

  He lifted his face, and I wanted to press my mouth to his so bad. "You did everything right that night. Now stop worrying about it."

  Shaking his head, he gave me a small smile. "Right after you stop reading my mind, woman. It's too sexy."

  I opened my mouth to tell him he found the strangest things sexy, but the nurse who'd made me cry returned. An irritated line deepened between her eyes before she focused on Pick's face. And just like that, her cheeks flushed with pleasure.

  "Oh, my lands. I didn't think I'd ever get to see your gorgeous tush again, Mr. Pick."

  Pick grinned at her. "Hey, Charlotte. Have you been taking good care of my two girls, here?"

  She glanced at me, looking slightly guilty before turning back to him. "I had no idea they were yours, but of course we have. Now come here and give me some sugar."

  When she leaned past me, Pick dutifully kissed her on the cheek. Pulling back with a happy glow, Charlotte ducked her head from the room and called into the nurses' station. Within moments, the entire room was crowded with women crawling all over him, demanding hugs and kisses. He gently slid me off his lap and placed me back into the chair so he could oblige them, telling Whitney he liked her new hairstyle, and Megs that she looked as if she'd lost too much weight. In return, they pawed at him, cooed, and asked how Julian was doing.

  Julian, right. That must be how they knew him. He had to have been here when his wife gave birth.

  Another round of envy bit me in the ass as I watched him become the center of all my nurses' attention. He pulled out his phone to show off pictures of his son, and I shook my head in wonder. The man certainly knew how to work a roomful of women.

  When he caught my eye, he winked and pointed as he asked the ladies, "My Tink's not giving you any trouble, is she? I know how sassy she can be."

  The nurses rushed to assure him I was a perfect patient, aside from the fact I needed more rest.

  After that, he took it upon himself to personally escort me to my room for a nap. I touched Skylar's fingers in farewell, hoping I'd soon be able to kiss her forehead, or cheek, or tiny little toes, or actually hold her in my arms. Then Pick took my hand and walked me back to my room. Once he tucked me back into bed where everyone seemed to want me, he pulled up his gift bag. The stuffed pink pig he brought for Skylar was perfect. I thanked him and held it to my chest long after he had to leave, saying he'd already stayed way past his lunch break.

  The nurses were much nicer to me after that. One eyed the pig I was clutching and smiled knowingly. "From Pick?" she guessed.

  I nodded, cuddling the stuffed animal to my chin.

  "So, how long have you known our favorite daddy?"

  "Oh," I smiled up at her. "Not long. My cousin Mason works with him at the Forbidden Nightclub."

  The nurse nodded. "Well, he's a one of a kind, that's for sure. I think every single nurse fell in love with him when he was here for that Tristy gal. He was amazing with her baby. Patient, good-natured. A real natural."

  I smiled softly, faltering when I realized she'd said 'her' baby, not 'his' baby. Strange. "I bet he was. I haven't met Julian yet. Just seen a picture Pick showed me."

  The nurse clucked her tongue. "He was so proud of that kid. Damn shame it wasn't his."

  I blinked. "Wait, what? What do you mean not his?" Oh my God. There was no other meaning for such a phrase. But that would have to mean . . . "Holy shit. Does Pick know?"

  With a snort and roll of her eyes, the nurse checked the level of water in my pitcher. "Honey, that baby came out blacker than I am. Ain't no way that baby can be his. And everybody knew it."

  I drew in a sharp breath. "Oh . . . wow. I . . . I just assumed the mom was . . . I can't believe his wife cheated on him."

  "Wife?" the nurse squawked, pausing as she plunked the pitcher down. "No, don't you dare tell me he went on to marry that girl." She shook her head sadly. "Worst patient I ever had. I tell you what," she leaned in closer and lowered her voice. "You didn't hear this from me, but no one liked her. Mm-hmm. She was a bitch with a capital B. And I don't even curse." To prove herself right, she lifted her gaze to the ceiling, and murmured, "Forgive me, Father," as she pulled a crucifix from her under her blouse and kissed it.

  My mouth fell open. My biggest worry had been that his wife would be sweet, gorgeous, and awesome. But learning she wasn't as grand as I'd feared was almost worse. I didn't want to learn he was strapped to a bitch who'd fucking cheated on him.

  My poor, poor Patrick. I wanted to scratch her eyes out.

  "Did he know the baby wasn't his before it was born?" I asked, my voice just as low as the nurse's.

  She straightened, slapping playfully at my hand. "Well, of course. He and that girl never had that kind of relationship, if you know what I mean. They were more like brother and sister. I think he said they'd been in the same foster home once." She rolled her eyes. "He's been looking out for her for years. And if they got married, it's only because of her baby."

  My chest suddenly felt tight and I wanted to cry. A guy like Pick—who'd beaten up Alec be
cause he'd tried to kill my baby, who'd taken on the care of an infant he knew wasn't his, who'd held me in his arms to comfort me—deserved a true love match, a wife who adored him.

  My crush on him grew even stronger. If only I'd known him the night I'd met Alec "the Bastard" Worthington. But even if I had, I probably still would've gone after Alec, because I'd been stupid and prejudiced. All I would've seen in Pick were his bad-boy tattoos and non-branded clothes. I would've labeled him a sleazy loser. But Alec was the true loser, and Pick was the sweetest, most honorable man I'd ever met.

  Chapter 15

  EVA

  As soon as she could breathe, eat, and stay warm on her own, Skylar was discharged from the hospital. She was twenty days old when I was finally able to take her home.

  I'd only had to stay for a week myself. After my kidneys decided to function on their own again, they'd kicked me out two days later. It was the hardest thing in the world to leave the hospital without my baby, my little girl who'd been with me for the past seven and half months. So, usually I just stuck around there all day, annoying the nurses with every question under the sun. I think they were patient with me only because they knew I was Pick's friend.

  For Skylar's situation, her doctor didn't foresee any long-term problems. He warned me she'd probably have some delays in developments, maybe a little trouble in school. But physically, she was fine.

  That first night with her home was rough, and not because Skylar was fussy. In fact, she was a dream come true compared to some of the new-baby horror stories I'd read. I actually had to wake her a few times for her scheduled feedings. What made it rough was that I couldn't stop worrying. I popped out of bed to check on her every time she moved or breathed a little too loudly.

  Before the night was over, I shifted her crib until it was squished against my bed, so she was no longer all the way across the room from me. I could only fall asleep when I slid my hand through the crib's slats and rested my fingers on her. If I hadn't feared I might roll over and accidentally suffocate her, I would've kept her in bed with me.

  Morning came before I knew it, and I woke to what I swore was the sound of Pick's laughter. At first, I thought it was part of the lovely dream I was having. He was holding Skylar, telling her what a princess she was, right before she passed gas.