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Chapter 1
James
I’ve only had Grayson for four days, and I’m already failing miserably at this whole guardianship thing. On top of the sudden, heart-wrenching grief of learning my older sister, Lauren, passed unexpectedly from a recently revealed heart condition, I’m now the legal guardian of her son—my nephew, Grayson—who is only three months old and hasn’t stopped wailing like he’s in pain since I brought him home. He hasn’t slept any longer than an hour or two here and there, and that’s only when sheer exhaustion pulls him under. Then he’s right back at it.
I’ve spent countless hours holding him and pacing my house, walking up and down the hallway, across the living room, and into the kitchen, then back to do it all over again in the hopes that the rocking motion will soothe him. This is after rushing him to the emergency room twice, convinced there must be something wrong.
The multitude of doctors I’ve spoken to have all assured me that, according to Grayson’s medical files, Lauren had Grayson examined and then tested for the same heart condition, but they found nothing abnormal. When I pressed them to run their tests again, they got the same results. They sent us home with strained, sympathetic smiles, a print-out about colic, and a muttered, “This too shall pass.”
Before bringing Grayson home, I didn’t know my neighbor, Miranda Fischer, from across the street all that well, but we’d been on somewhat friendly terms since I bought my small ‘50s ranch-style house and moved into the sprawling, mature neighborhood nearly a year ago.
I’m not sure exactly how many kids she has, but there are always tons of them coming and going from her house, running around the yard, squealing, and laughing wildly while the adults sometimes set up a semi-circle of lawn chairs and watch them play on the weekends. I’ve always gotten a kick out of how much noise they make, how happy and rambunctious they all seem to be—so unlike my childhood.
When she saw how panicked I was after bringing Grayson home from the hospital the second night I had him, she kindly offered to help with anything I needed and gave me her phone number. I took her up on it immediately since I don’t know a thing about caring for babies. The two days I had to prepare for bringing Grayson home weren’t enough for the crash course I’ve undertaken to learn everything I need to know about caring for him. With as often as I’ve been calling her in a panic, though, I’m sure I’m on the brink of wearing out her kindness.
It’s nearing midnight, and I pace by the front door, expecting Miranda’s knock any minute now after calling her yet again, begging her to come over. I feel terrible about waking her up, but I’m desperate. Grayson is desperate.
I switch him to one arm when there’s finally a blessed knock at the door, and the relief I feel is bone-deep, knowing that surely she’ll know what to do. Except, it’s not Miranda standing on my narrow front porch. It’s one of her daughters, the one I try my hardest to steer clear of so I don’t come across as a creep. Because that’s exactly what I am—a Grade A creep for her.
I have been ever since I spotted her across the street a few days after I moved in. I had been taking the empty moving boxes to the curb and stopped dead in my tracks at my first glimpse of her pulling up to her house in an old white Honda sedan with a Keep Texas Beautiful bumper sticker. She smiled and gave me a little wave when she caught me staring dumbly at her before walking through her front door and disappearing from view.
I’ve been a goner for her ever since. And like the old creep I’ve turned into since seeing her for the first time, I’ve caught myself watching her from time to time through the slits between the blinds of my front window. I drool over how unbelievably sexy she is in the tiny bike shorts she wears when it’s warm out and the way her skin-tight leggings mold to her fine ass when it’s cold. My mouth waters at how her large breasts, the ones that would spill out of my palms if I were to cup them, bounce in the itty bitty tank tops she’s fond of wearing.
And now here she is, within arm’s reach, and I wonder if I’ve died and gone to heaven. My heart seizes in my chest, and I can hardly breathe as I stare at the angel smiling sleepily on my front porch, haloed by the soft glow of my porch lights. Her nearly-white blonde hair half-hangs out of her messy bun, and she’s wearing pajamas—a low cut, pink tank top with mini white hearts and matching loose shorts that barely brush the tops of her luscious upper thighs.
My eyes skim down the length of her bare legs, stopping at the fuzzy pink house slippers she’s wearing. My cock is instantly hard, and I pray to all that is holy that she won’t notice how it’s undoubtedly tenting my sweatpants because, again, I’m a damn creep. My lungs beg for air, and I audibly gasp to fill them, only snapping out of my trance when she shifts on her feet.
Finally, she speaks in the sweetest, softest voice I’ve ever heard, and I wish I could record it so I can play it on a loop whenever I want to. “Is it ok if I come in?”
My eyes snap to her beautiful, light gray eyes, and I gulp, taking a step back on unsteady feet, silently inviting the angel into my home, hoping she’ll never leave.
Chapter 2
Shayla
My mysterious neighbor, James Bartlett, stands a head taller and barefoot, wearing black sweatpants and a well-worn, faded black T-shirt stretched to its limits across his shoulders. He looks white as a sheet, the bloodshot whites around his blue eyes a striking contrast. His black hair is a shaggy mess on top of his head, looking like he’s been running his hands through it over and over again.
And no wonder, with the tiny baby crying as hard as he is. Mom said James has been having a hard time ever since he became his nephew’s guardian. She’s been helping out as much as possible, but with as little sleep as she gets with her own newborn—my surprise little brother, Brady—I offered to come in her place.
I’ve never been this close to James, close enough to see how light and clear his blue eyes are, nor have I been inside his house. Mom said he’s a bit of a loner, and he doesn’t do a whole lot of talking when they cross paths sometimes, but he’s always been friendly in what little interactions she’s had with him since he moved in.
I’ve caught him looking at me a few times before, but we’ve never spoken. Still haven’t since his jaw dropped when he opened his front door and has stayed that way. Though I think I could stare at this mystery man who always seems to be just on his way out as I’m on the way in, the red-faced infant in his arms steals my attention.
“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,” I say as I step inside. I quickly close the door behind me to keep the heat from rushing out into the cool night and reach to take the baby from him. Not only is he red-faced and wailing, but his little fists are balled up tight, and his skin is warm to the touch from crying so hard. My heart breaks for the little man.
I look around the sparsely furnished, tidy home and find a dark gray couch in the living room to the right of the doorway. Without asking, I walk around James and the low, white coffee table to lay the baby on the couch.
“What’s his name?” I have to raise my voice to be heard over the baby’s cries. I unzip his navy blue footie pajamas and check his diaper, noting that it’s dry. When James doesn’t answer, I straighten and turn to face him, cradling the infant in my arms and gently rocking him side to side. “James? You ok?”
That snaps him out of whatever weird stupor he’s in—probably sleep-deprived exhaustion. Relatable. My daughter, Lainey, just finally started sleeping through the night, so I understand all too well how such little sleep can make you feel like a fried zombie.
“Grayson.” His voice cracks, and he closes his eyes and clears his throat. “His name is Grayson.” His voice is so much deeper than I expected, and I bite my bottom lip. Now is not the time to ogle my strange neighbor, gorgeous or not.
“Ok, Grayson, let’s see if we can figure this out.” I rattle off a list of questions, like when’s the last time he had a bottle? How much has he eaten today? Does he take a pacifier? Has his temperature been taken? James answers each question quickly, and I’m concerned about how little formula Grayson has had to eat.
When Grayson clutches the front of my tank top and turns his wet, tear-streaked face into my chest, rooting just like my daughter does, it hits me. “Was he breastfed?”
James scratches his head and creases his black brows. “I don’t know. Does that matter? I didn’t get much information before bringing him home.”
