“Good.” He cleared his throat and pulled his phone from his pocket. “Make a list, call him, and have it delivered.” He answered emails, checked stocks, anything to prevent staring at her.
The rest of the drive was silent. The closer they got to the hospital, the thicker the tension became. He wasn’t angry; there was no reason to be angry. He was on edge because of the whole situation. Not because he couldn’t have a normal life. Be a normal man. Have a normal relationship. He understood those things, accepted them. But right now, the weight of shit he shouldered seemed heavier than usual. Unease knotted his stomach.
He was hyperaware of his surroundings as they entered the hospital. The heat and crush of people. The myriad hum of voices and machines. The lingering smell of blood and bleach. He took it all in, every sense on high alert, braced, ready. By the time they climbed onto the elevator, his heart was thundering.
“Are you all right?” Jessa asked. Her eyes radiated concern—true sympathy. The gentle pressure of her hand on his arm was oddly soothing, for him and the beast inside. He wanted to draw her closer, touch her. He didn’t. He stared at her hand and drew in a deep breath. “I think so.”
She squeezed lightly, then seemed to realize she was touching him. She lifted her hand and smiled. “My aunt used to say life only gives us what we can handle.”
“I’m not sure I agree. I’m not handling this, you are.” Her aunt had no idea. His attention wandered to her throat, the slight thrum of her pulse. He closed his eyes, letting her even heartbeat steady him, her scent fill him.
“This?” she asked. “A baby? There’s not much mystery to them. They cry, sleep, and eat.”
He studied her face, admiring her confidence. “Perhaps I have a few things in common with my son.”
She laughed.
The doors opened and the two of them walked to the nurse’s desk. After that, things blurred together. The hospital room. The nurse giving Jessa papers, talking and talking. Words that made no sense. A metal cart rolling into the room. The flutter of a heartbeat, the rapid, shallow breathing of the infant inside. But it was the scent that spoke the truth.
He wasn’t prepared for the tidal wave of emotion that engulfed him. He, Finnegan Dean, was a monster.
Now he was a father.
He had a son.
The first-born werewolf of his reluctant pack.
…
Jessa stared around the large bedroom, the magnitude of the last few hours registering. She was in Finnegan Dean’s house. She was moving into Finnegan Dean’s house. And, no matter how hard she wanted to deny it, something about the man fascinated her. No, “fascinated” wasn’t strong enough.
This is bad.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. After the enormity of the morning, it seemed impossible that it was only three o’clock. Once they’d left the hospital, Mr. Dean had offered to stop to get her things, but she hadn’t wanted to keep Oscar out in the cold any longer than necessary. Her brother Harry was bringing over a bag of her things around five—not that he was happy about it. She’d tried to explain the situation but thought it would be easier to do so face-to-face. Without Mr. Dean within earshot of the conversation.
A soft squeak on the bed made her turn.
Oscar. Oscar Finnegan Dean the Fourth to be precise. A precious baby boy, sound asleep on her bed. This little guy was her responsibility.
A responsibility that gave her a new life. No more Miss Ramirez. No heels. No office politics. For now. Late night feedings and diaper changes were nothing. It was more like a six-week vacation.
A vacation in a swanky hotel.
A vacation with a man who seemed to have a direct line to her nervous system. Everything about him set off a current, white-hot, startling, and throbbing. He’d headed for the office after showing her around, but he’d be back eventually. She needed to figure out how to control her response to him—or cut the connection altogether. This job was just too important.
Her room looked like something out of an architecture and design magazine. Bold finishes. Modern fixtures. Muted colors. Even with a king-size bed, a desk, and a chaise before the large floor-to-ceiling picture windows, her room felt almost empty.
As impressive as the space was, it didn’t radiate warmth. Or home. Or happiness. She glanced at the sleeping baby and smiled. “Not that you’ll notice for a while.” Oscar’s mouth nursing, his little fingers splayed, then clenched as he slept on. He was perfect.
She tucked the blanket around him and padded barefoot across the room. Staring down through the window, she could see the busy streets below, the traffic and pedestrians of downtown San Antonio steady. The rest of the world hadn’t changed—even if hers had.
But she still had work to do.
She settled at her desk, opened the laptop already set up, and pulled out the suggested supply list from the hospital. She searched for Klemp’s site online and started shopping. Before she hit buy, she picked up her new phone and called. Thomas guaranteed delivery within the next few hours.
Once that was done, she sat on the bed by Oscar. He was beautiful. She’d only held him long enough to move him from the bassinette to his car seat, but his slight weight and baby smell had tugged something deep inside of her. He’d made an adorable gurgle, sighed, and settled into an easy sleep. She’d tucked the thick blanket she’d purchased around him and stood back, but Mr. Dean hadn’t offered to carry him.
In fact, Mr. Dean hadn’t offered to touch his son. He’d barely looked at him.