Baby Daddy: Special Preview
A special 12-Chapter sneak preview from New York Times bestselling author Nelle L’Amour’s sexy new romantic comedy standalone, Baby Daddy.
I have three cardinal rules:
1. Never mix business with pleasure.
2. Never let a woman spend the night.
3. Never date a woman with kids.
Kids freak me out. God only knows how many this baby daddy has. Man, what was I thinking when I was in college? Me, Drake Hanson. God’s gift to women. Aka Donor 5262. It was a piece of cake and two hundred dollars a deposit (in sperm bank speak) came in handy. I just didn’t think about the consequences. One day, some kid is going to call me Daddy and I’m going to get hit up for child support. Big time.
Now, my father is pressuring me to settle down because the investor who’s looking to acquire his animation company doesn’t want a player running a family-oriented business. Just in time, she came along. The temp, Dee Walker. The minute the sexy as sin brunette with her killer curves and those chocolate brown eyes stepped foot in my office and saved me from an ugly disaster with her magic hands, I wanted her to be mine. Except she’s totally off limits. And there’s someone else she loves with all her heart and soul that I can’t replace.
Can my temp become my forever before my past catches up with me? I’m willing to break all the rules.
©Nelle L’Amour 2017
It was the most dreaded day of the year.
Not Black Friday.
Not Valentine’s Day.
Not Tax Day.
It was fucking Bring Your Kids to Work Day. The third Wednesday in May. God, I hated this day. It wasn’t even nine o’clock and dozens of kids were flocking the halls of Hanson Entertainment, the animation company founded by my father.
My legendary old man, Orson Hanson, loved this day. Kids were after all what made him a multi-millionaire ten times over. Danger Rangers, the series he created when I was eight was an overnight sensation. The theme song, “Go, Go, Danger Rangers” became a national anthem among children and stores couldn’t keep the toys in stock. Now in its second decade, the show was still going strong on Peanuts, the children’s broadcasting network owned and operated by Conquest Broadcasting. Over the years, our slate of animated series had expanded and included many other hit series. Approaching the ripe old age of sixty-five, my father was looking to retire…sell the business and achieve what he’d always wanted — to become a billionaire and be ranked among the world’s moguls on the Forbes Top 40 list. No matter whom he sold the company to, he wanted me to continue to run it.
The kids’ business—not the cartoon kind—had netted me a small fortune too. My old man sent me to UCLA, but he insisted I get a job while I was taking classes. To see what it was like. To build a work ethic and values. And to keep me out of trouble. Dad knew I was a party animal, a lazy son of a bitch, who’d rather screw around than study and who had trouble keeping his pants on. Well, I found the perfect job: Wanking off.
The minute I saw the ad for “Sperm Donors Wanted” on a bulletin board at the campus coffee shop, I knew I was a shoe in. I went online and filled out the form. I was perfect breeding material. Six feet two inches tall (no shorties or fatsoes wanted), dark, thick hair (no gingers allowed because no one wanted a carrot top), baby blue eyes, and straight as an arrow (sleeping with guys eliminated you immediately). I was healthy and came from a family where almost everyone lived to be a hundred. Plus, I had an amazing skill set—I was athletic, could sing like a rock star, and had a 150 IQ. Okay, I goofed off and my C grades reflected that (I lied and said I had a 5.0 GPA), but the potential was there. Plus, I was hung like a horse. I had no STDs and my specimen past the test with flying colors—getting a higher score than I’d ever gotten on any academic test. My sperm count was worthy of the Guinness Book of Records, their morphology museum-worthy, and the real clincher was my little testicular tadpoles were Olympians that could swim like Michael Phelps.
The sperm bank was conveniently located in Westwood Village, a few blocks away from the UCLA campus. It was the perfect “job.” I only had to go in three times a week, whenever I chose, and it took ten minutes or less to complete the task. An easy peasy three hundred dollars a shot, netting me almost a thousand dollars a week. Not bad for a few hours out of my week. Some called it a sperm bank, but I called it the wank bank. Wank, bank, and go!
“Be a hero!” proclaimed the home page of the website. “Give a childless family their dream.” Looking back, what the hell was I thinking? My nightmares had started a few years ago right after my best bud, Brock, dragged me to see the Vince Vaughn movie, Delivery Man. Vince played a hapless dude, who, like me, had given batches of his seed to a sperm bank while he was in college. Fast forward several years, the sperm bank was being sued for a shit load of money by the women he impregnated, demanding to know his identity. Had I known what the movie was about, I would have never gone to see it.
Given how many batches of Donor 5262 (as I was officially known) sperm I deposited (in sperm-bank speak) and had frozen, half the kid population in LA might be some form of mini-me. Okay, I’m exaggerating a little, but still, there were likely hundreds, if not thousands. And right here, right now in our studios, a few might be roaming around. Though I didn’t do open donation where the parent and donor mutually agree to let the kid contact and meet you at the age of eighteen, I still constantly felt the inevitable would happen. One day, I would run into a clone of myself and my life would change forever.
After taking a sip of my coffee and a bite of a glazed donut that I purchased at a nearby Donut King on the way into the office, I booted up my computer. The day, filled with one parent-child activity after another, was going to be a total time suck. I had a lot of shit on my plate, including readying a pitch to Conquest Broadcasting, so the last thing I needed was a presentation to all the little brats about the cartoons we produced. Last year was a fucking disaster…one of the kids started throwing his chicken nuggets at me and before long the entire screening room had erupted into a nasty food fight. This year could easily be a repeat. Even worse.
Studying my calendar and looking less and less forward to the day ahead, I looked up when I heard an unexpected voice.
“Mister, can you tell me where the bathroom is?”
My eyes landed on a chubby little boy, wearing shorts and an Astro Camp sweatshirt. Probably eight or nine, he was a freckled carrot top and wore large horn-rimmed glasses that covered most of his pudgy face. His eyes beneath the thick lenses looked glazed.
“It’s down the hall on the right,” I replied as I sized him up. Nah. For sure this little nerd wasn’t one of mine. From my research on genetics, one could only be a redhead if both parents had the genes in their ancestry. Not one ginger existed on either my mother or father’s side of the family.
“Could you please show me?” His voice grew smaller. Waterier.
“Fine.” I mentally rolled my eyes. I had better things to do. Reluctantly, I stood up from my desk and strolled over to the youngster who didn’t budge. As I neared him, he paled and clutched his stomach.
“What’s the matter?”
The boy’s mouth opened wide as if to say something, but instead a loud BLEGH! dislodged from his throat.
The sound shot through my ears as a spray of hot molten lava with chunky bits splattered across my T-Shirt.
BLEGH! Another round of projectile vomiting, this time hitting me below the belt. All over my crotch.
The kid began to cry. I’m talking big fat ugly tears that rolled down his face from under his glasses. “I want my mommy.”
Shit! With his freckled face now the shade of puke green, he looked like he might barf again. Parents shouldn’t be allowed to bring their kids to work. When I became President of this company, this day was going to be eliminated once and for all. Covered in vomit, I inhaled deeply and regretted doing so as the odiferous smell drifted up my nose. I began to feel nauseated myself. Crap. What was I going to do? A new voice distracted me. It was soft and raspy, innocent and sexy at the same time.
“Hi, I’m Deandra. But you can call me Dee.”
My gaze shifted to the doorway of my office. At the threshold, stood a shapely brunette wearing a gray fitted skirt, sensible black pumps, and a cropped red sweater over an ivory blouse. Her lustrous chestnut hair was swept up in a ponytail, showcasing her slightly freckled but otherwise flawless complexion, doe-like brown eyes, full upturned lips, and a cute as a button nose.
“Are you his mother?” I yelled out above the wails of the child. Get him out of here.
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed the attractive, twenty-something woman, taking notice of the disastrous situation.
The kid’s sobs grew louder and he cried out again for his mommy. Obviously and unfortunately, this woman bore no relationship to him.
“Who are you?” I asked as she hurried toward us.
Keeping my eyes on her curvy body, I watched as she took the hysterical little boy into her arms. “You poor baby.”
You poor baby? Hello! What about me? I was the one who’d taken a barf bath.
Stroking the boy’s copper curls, she made eye contact with me. “I’m your new assistant. The temp.”
I processed her words. I’d totally forgotten that my regular, soon-to-retire assistant, Mona, had taken her overdue vacation time to visit her daughter, who’d given birth two weeks early. She would be away for at least three weeks, and always efficient, no matter what the circumstances, she’d managed to arrange for someone to fill in for her until she returned.
I met my new assistant’s chocolate orbs. “Okay, then start by getting this kid the hell out of my office and find me something I can use to clean myself up.” I was unable to look down at the damage and the stench was really getting to me.
“Sure,” she replied with a small dimpled smile. Even in my distressed state, I had to admit this girl was cute. One hot little number. My eyes stayed on her as she escorted the kid, whose crying had subsided, out of my office, one arm wrapped around him in a motherly way. My gaze traveled down her taut body, spending way too much time on her spectacular heart-shaped ass and shapely calves.
I stayed in one spot awaiting her return, decorated with revolting chunky bits. Growing more and more nauseated and disgusted, I grew impatient. Where the fuck did she go? Five long, wretched minutes later, she reappeared, holding a thick stack of paper towels and a glass of sudsy water.
“I found his mother,” she beamed as she approached me. “Everything’s good. She’s taking him home.”
“Good,” I mumbled, watching her soak a wad of the paper towels with the soapy liquid. “What are you doing?”
“Stand still. I’m going to try to clean up this mess.”
“Hurry! I’ve got a presentation in an hour.”
I stood as still as I could as she began to vigorously wipe the chunky bits off my T-shirt. Bit my bit, they disappeared, but the horrific smell lingered. “Work on my jeans now.”
The disgusting red chunky bits (what the fuck did that kid eat for breakfast? Dog food?) were clustered around my fly with a few scattered down the legs of my jeans. After tossing the wet towels she used for my T-shirt onto the floor, she moistened another bunch and began to scrub my crotch with small, vigorous strokes.
“Jesus,” I moaned.
Still working, she gazed up at me. “Am I hurting you?”
I silently hissed as I felt my cock swelling beneath the denim. Holy shit. She was giving me a fucking hard-on.
“Rub harder,” I gritted through my teeth.
At my command, her strokes grew faster and more forceful. I hissed. Christ. Didn’t she know what she was doing to me?
“Don’t stop,” I breathed out, feeling the makings of a volcanic eruption between my thighs. I was so close to coming…about to cream my pants and scream out in relief. And then on her next stroke, I did, cursing under my breath, just as she stopped her ministrations.
“I’m sorry. This isn’t working,” she said, frustration in her voice. Oh, it worked just fine. If she knew I’d just had a full-on orgasm, she didn’t show it. In fact, she probably thought I was yelling at her.
She examined her handiwork, no pun intended. “I’ve gotten most of the puke off, but I can’t get rid of the smell.”
I looked down at myself. Nope. This wasn’t good. My Danger Ranger T-shirt was soaked and stained, and it looked like I’d taken a leak in my pants. And she was right. The horrible odor was palpable.
I dug my hand into a pocket and retrieved my cardholder, pulling out my Visa. Still feeling a hot, tingly sensation between my legs, I handed it to her.
“Listen, I need you to run to the Galleria and pick up a new pair of jeans and a T-Shirt. There’s a Bloomingdale’s there…they should have what I need.”
“What size are you?” Her eyes roamed down my body, staying a little too long where they shouldn’t have.
For a minute, my mind jumped to my cock. Big, very big! I bit down on my tongue and answered, “I wear a Size Large T-shirt and a 32 in jeans.” And silently I added, “While you’re there, pick up some Calvin Klein briefs. The ones with extra support.”
Without wasting a second, she flew out of my office.