onesie is wet now?” Quin muttered as she bent over the couch and opened the diaper bag. “How does the man even know what a onesie is?” By the time he got back with several towels to pad the table, she’d found the items he requested. She noticed the wet spot on his chest. That explained the need for a clothing change but she was still mystified as to how he knew what the garment was called. She watched as he got to work, fascinated despite her best intentions.
This guy had bad boy written all over him. Now that she could see him in decent lighting, his sheer male magnetism hit her like a tackle from a Dallas Cowboys linebacker. He was undeniably handsome, with thick brown hair that fell around his high cheekbones and sculpted jaw. Five-o’clock shadow added a rugged layer to his face. Wide-set blue eyes held a twinkle that reminded her of a star-sapphire ring she once had. His black Western shirt and leather jeans fit him far too thoroughly for the welfare of the general female population. Herself included.
His fingers were long and dexterous, as would befit a guitarist, and he deftly changed the baby’s diaper and clothing. He wore a leather thong around his neck and Noelle snagged it in one chubby hand. Deacon laughed and cooed at her, like he did this all the time. For all Quin knew, he might.
She tried to sift a bio for him out of her crowded brain. Not that she was a big watcher of entertainment gossip shows. Still, Barrons and Tates were often covered in the local news, but she couldn’t recall hearing that he was married—or ever had been.
“Did you find any bottles in the bag? Or a can of formula or something?”
Lost in her musings, she startled at the sound of his voice. Luckily, he was still concentrating on the baby so he hadn’t noticed she’d been staring at his butt this whole time. “Oh, yes. There are a couple of full bottles. Not sure what’s in them.”
He glanced her way, and that killer smile with a side of dimple guaranteed to dampen groupies’ panties appeared. Quin refused to let it work on her. Much. She curled her fingers against her palms because they itched to push his hair back off his face and then tangle in the thick waves. His gaze focused on her mouth and she couldn’t stop her quick inhalation, nor could she keep her chest from swelling and pushing against the rigid bulk of her bulletproof vest. This man was lethal and she needed to remember that.
He held out his hand and she passed one of the bottles to him. Deacon twisted off the lid, sniffed and then dipped his finger in to taste, which was such a guy thing to do. “Formula. I think. Let’s pop it in the microwave for about fifteen seconds. We don’t want it too hot.” He caught her gaze on him, and the stars in his sapphire eyes blazed. “The formula, that is.”
Quin just managed to avoid rolling her eyes. She wasn’t some teenage fangirl fawning over the magnificent Deacon Tate. She retrieved the bottle from him and dumped it in the sink. “I’ll make fresh.” She snagged a can with a baby on the label and read the instructions. She pretended the whole time that her fingers hadn’t tingled when they touched his skin. That her nose hadn’t gotten a whiff of clean sweat and a scent deeper and more primal when she handed the bottle back to him. He settled on the couch.
Opting for discretion over valor because her body was fomenting mutiny, she retreated across the bus and sat on the matching couch to watch. She still couldn’t get over how proficiently this guy handled the baby.
“You said you don’t have kids?” she finally asked, removing her hat.
His gaze was sharp as he looked up. “Kinda hard to have kids without a wife.”
That didn’t stop a lot of celebrities but she didn’t point that out. “Then how are you so good with the baby?”
He paused to burp the infant then cuddled her back in one arm with the bottle in her mouth. Quin attempted to read the expression on Deacon’s face. She found a sweetness there that was almost as surprising as his competence.
“Only child?”
“Excuse me?”
“Not a hard question, Troop.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Then tell me your first name.”
Quin refused to throw her hands up in a fit of frustration. “Fine. Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s Quincy.”
“Did you hear that, Noelle? Her name is Quincy.”
The baby cooed, and Quin discovered she was grinning rather stupidly. She wiped that expression off her face and leaned forward so she could breathe a little easier in her vest. “And to answer your question, I’m not an only child. I have four older brothers.”
Deacon peeked up at her from under lashes far too long and lush for a man exuding as much testosterone as this one did. “Ah, the baby in the family. I’m the middle and got stuck with baby duty, especially with Dillon. He was a late surprise for Mom and Dad.”
She glanced out the tinted window behind her. “Dillon is in your band?”
“Yup.”
“Was he serious?”
“About what?”
“The...stuff?” She wanted to bite her tongue. She didn’t care if overenthusiastic fans embarrassed themselves by leaving underwear in tribute to the band. Nor did she care if maybe some of the owners of said lingerie ended up in the bedroom or one of the curtained bunks she could see when she glanced toward the back of the bus.
He laughed and set the bottle on the table. Shifting the baby to his shoulder, he patted her back until she burped again. Deacon checked her diaper, settled her back in the crook of his arm and gazed at Quin. “Yeah, he was serious. We get stuff like that thrown on stage sometimes, too. Goes with the gig.”
She couldn’t decide if he was being this nonchalant because he was so egotistical that he figured the thongs and stuff were his due or because he didn’t care. Time was passing and Quin needed to get things wrapped up. “Is she really yours?”
“Who?”
“The baby,” she said pointedly.
He studied her face and she flushed for no reason she understood. He broke their staring match first by peering down at the sleeping infant. That soft expression washed over his features again, and she wondered where the feelings came from. Maybe Noelle really was his. Her chest burned at the thought, and she didn’t quite know how to handle the feeling. To cover it up, she asked again, “Is the baby yours, Mr. Tate?”
Before he answered her question, the sound of booted feet stomping up the steps drew their attention to the front of the bus. Chance Barron’s gaze bounced between her and Deacon before he announced, “She is until you find her mother, Trooper Kincaid, and we clear things up.”
Deke didn’t know whether to high-five his cousin or panic. Was his ego overriding his common sense on the outside chance Noelle was his? Babies were hard. He knew that, but while he didn’t quite understand his attraction to the gruff cop, he was adamant about keeping the baby close until he knew definitively who the father was. Noelle was a cute little thing and deserved something more than becoming a ward of the state.
So
