Be My Hero (Forbidden Men, #3)

"Julian?" I mumbled, rolling over to face her.

"He's already gone back to sleep," she answered. "I'm up with Skylar now."

Shit, she didn't need to get up this many times. "Need me to do anything?"

"Nope. Got it covered." And she did; she'd thrown a blanket over her shoulder, covering all the action.

My squinted eyes suddenly weren't so squinted with sleep anymore. "Are you breastfeeding?"

"Mm-hmm."

I sighed and reclosed my eyes. "That is so hot. Breastfeeding mothers kick ass. If I wasn't this tired, I'd be incredibly turned on right now."

Screw it; I was already growing wood.

She laughed softly. "Go back to bed, Patrick."

I smiled. "Call me that again."

"Patrick." She teased my hair with her fingers.

Damn. "Yep, I'm having a serious wet about this dream tonight."

Then I fell back asleep to her amazing laughter.



EVA



By the beginning of the fourth day of playing Nanny Mercer, I was exhausted, and yet strangely invigorated. I just felt good. Good about myself, about what I was doing for Pick and Julian, about how I was spending my days. Just plain good about everything.

The fatigue was beginning to get to me, though. Today, I was going to sleep whenever the kids did. That's all there was to it. Besides, I'd mostly caught up with all the housework, even though Pick kept insisting I didn't have to do so much. I felt better being in a cleaner place, plus I wanted to help him out since he worked himself like a dog. And I had to admit, I loved all the appreciation I saw in his eyes every time he came home to a hot meal or freshly washed sheets.

Oh, God. I sounded like June Cleaver.

I'd always made fun of those women who didn't work, who stayed home like the obedient little housewife, barefoot and pregnant, and always sweating over a hot stove. But after being that woman for the past three days, I knew I would never make fun of her again.

This kind of life took some serious girl power. It was no cushy job; it was more like slave labor. I was so freaking tired, sometimes my eyelids hurt from keeping them pried open. I don't care how much Pick was paying, no dollar amount would ever compensate. Except, I already felt compensated. I went to bed each night with this awesome feeling, knowing I'd accomplished something. I'd set a plan of how to tackle all my duties, and I reached every goal, every day.

I'd honestly never felt as good about myself as I did now.

It was this emotion—this love I was cultivating for the babies I nurtured as well as the man who kept looking at me as if I could do no wrong—that made it all worth it. Even when Julian woke up earlier than usual, right after I'd been up with Skylar for the past two hours because the girl just wouldn't go back to sleep, I felt quenched.

Popping out of bed before he could wake Skylar again, I snagged him from his crib and turned back to the cozy nest I'd shared with Pick two nights in a row. But Pick wasn't there. I paused and cocked my head until I heard the shower running from the single bathroom down the hall.

Wow, I hadn't even stirred when his alarm went off.

After settling Julian and myself back on the bed, I propped some pillows behind my back so I could sit comfortably, and then I pushed up my nightshirt to unsnap my bra.

"Are you hungry, little guy?" I asked as I cradled him into position and drew his face up to my nipple.

I didn't realize what I'd just done until he began to suck. The strength of his pulls was a lot stronger than Skylar's. It snapped me right out of my foggy, half-asleep daze. With a gasp, I bolted upright, suddenly fully awake.

"Oh, shit." I was breastfeeding Julian.

This had to be wrong. He wasn't mine, and I was only watching him for a couple days.

What Pick would say if he knew?

Julian didn't seem to mind, though. The kid kept drinking while his chubby little fingers rested possessively against the side of my breast.

Instantly, something inside me softened. I stroked his head, letting him have his fill. Wet nursing was no new thing; it should be okay. And Skylar certainly wouldn't go without. The preemie rarely drank much; there was more than enough to go around. And everyone said breast milk was so much better for a child than formula. Plus, if they both ate this way, I wouldn't have to get up so much in the middle of the night, shuffle to the kitchen, warm a bottle, carry it back to bed . . . yada, yada, yada.

When I realized I was rationalizing why I shouldn't stop, I flushed. The God's honest truth was I liked taking care of him this way. I liked the bond, and I loved this baby.

Down the hall, the bathroom door opened. I sucked in a breath. Oh, crappity, crap, crap. Footsteps in the hall urged me to grab a nearby blanket and toss it over my shoulder, completely covering which baby I was feeding. Do, to-do, to-do, went the whistling in my head, nothing going on here.

Pick appeared in the doorway, wearing nothing but a towel. My mouth dried up and I forgot what I was trying to hide from him.