Page 79 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

And I find myself noticing things I’ddeliberately ignored before. The way his ridiculously long eyelashes curl slightly at the tips. The way that small scar above his eyebrow catches the light when he smiles thatrealsmile, not the charming PR grin.

And the sheer size and warmth of his hands, currently occupied with wiping a stray tear from Mia’s cheek with surprising delicacy.

Okay, stop it.

This is dangerous territory. Admiring the baby daddy’s eyelashes isnotpart of the co-parenting agreement.

It’s definitely not conducive to maintaining professional boundaries.

But the carefully constructed wall I keep around my heart, the one designed to protect me from charming men who inevitably leave, feels somehow porous right now.

Leaky.

Like maybe a few bricks have crumbled without me noticing.

Because this Leo, the one patiently rebuilding a block tower with our daughter while she murmurs nonsense syllables on his lap, the one whose green eyes soften when he looks at her… this Leo doesn’t entirely fit the ‘reckless playboy destined to disappear’ narrative I’ve clung to so tightly.

It’s confusing. It’s terrifying. And it feels… hopeful?

Hopeful? Sabrina, get a grip.

This is Leo Maxwell.

A man whose life operates on a completely different frequency. A man whose baggage, literal and emotional, probably requires its own private jet. A man whose closest friend and business partner is Luca freaking Briggs, asshole extraordinaire.

Hope is a luxury I cannot afford here.

So I force my attention back to the laptop screen, back to the PR strategy, back to the safe, controllable world of metrics and messaging. But my focus is shot. My gaze keeps drifting back to the scene on the rug.

Leo laughs, a genuine, warm sound, as Mia successfully places a blue block on top of a yellow one. He praises her like she just solved cold fusion. And maybe someday, with a father like him, she will.

Stop it. Just stop.

I sigh. My chest feels tight. I'm definitely feeling something that feels dangerously close to attraction. And not just the residual memory of the Vegas heat, either, but attraction tothisLeo.

The father.

The man patiently playing with blocks on the floor.

Well, shit.

This co-parenting thing just got infinitely more complicated.

Controlling the narrative?

Right now, I can barely control my own pulse.

23

Leo

Silence. Not the usual empty, echoing silence of the penthouse after the staff leaves, the kind that usually sends me reaching for a distraction.

This is different.

A softer silence, punctuated by the occasional soft sigh drifting from the baby monitor sitting on the low coffee table between me and Sabrina.

Mia’s asleep. Finally. Took damn near an hour, and about six iterations of “Okay,thisis the last block tower, then we really have to go,” from Sabrina. Each time, I’d ‘accidentally’ knock it over, or Mia would conveniently reach for another block, or I’d suddenly discover a fascinating new stacking technique that requiredjustfive more minutes.

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