Claiming His Babygirl

By Cameron Hart

Cristiano:

She's half my age. She's my old college friend's daughter. She's bratty and beautiful. Sassy and smart. Temptation personified. And totally off-limits.

 

One look and I knew. One dance and she was mine. She needs something from me. Something she doesn't understand. Something I don't even understand, but I want to give it to her. I want to give her everything.

 

I want her to be my babygirl.

 

Arabella:

Cristiano is everything I'm not. He's commanding, experienced, and always in control. He's traveled the world while I'm still at home, taking a gap year after high school.

 

One look and I knew. One dance and I was his. It's not just his body I want, it's his care. His...discipline. Sometimes I feel like I might disappear if I don't make a scene, but Cristiano sees me. He sees me and demands better of me.

 

He says I'm his babygirl. Does that make him my Daddy?

 

Claiming His Babygirl is everything you've come to expect from a Cameron Hart book: Lots of heat, plenty of sweet, and just enough drama to keep things interesting. No cheating, safe, guaranteed HEA!

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cameron Hart
• Release date: Jun 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224445523

Cameron Hart

Hello. I'm Cameron Hart, and I write sweet steamy romances. I’m a USA Today Bestselling author with over forty books available. I write romance with lots of heat, plenty of sweet, and just enough drama to keep things interesting. I graduated from the Iowa Writer’s Workshop in 2012 with a degree in creative writing. When I’m not working on my next book, I can be found reading, crocheting, doing yoga, and chasing around my grumpy cats. **What to expect from a Cameron Hart book: Lots of heat, plenty of sweet, and just enough drama to keep things interesting. No cheating, safe, guaranteed HEA!**

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One look at the stunning waitress carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and I’m a goner. I wasn’t looking for a sweet little thing with auburn hair and more baggage than I can fit on the back of my bike, but there’s no going back now. She’s mine. I’ll prove to her I’m more than capable of handling her past and making her feel safe again.

Chapter 1

Cristiano

Traffic in New York City is as horrible as I remember. Probably worse. It’s been damn near fifteen years since I’ve been back in the States and another four since I’ve been back to this city.

The cabbie swerves into the left lane to speed past a mail truck, cutting off a car and narrowly avoiding another. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, sighing heavily. I’ve traveled the world over and found myself in more than a few precarious situations. Go figure that I’d meet my death in the back of a New York taxi.

It’s comforting, though, in a strange way. Some things never change. Reminds me of the last time I was here. I had just graduated from NYU with a shiny new degree in photography and a head full of dreams. Nineteen years later, I return uninspired and disillusioned.

Nice neighborhood you’re goin’ to, eh? the driver shouts over his shoulder.

I suppose, I grunt. The man should have his damn eyes on the road instead of worrying about the socioeconomic status of the neighborhood he’s driving to.

Where ya from? Don’t sound American.

I’m a nomad, I tell him, my tone indicating the subject is closed. He finally takes the hint and shuts up.

It’s not a lie. I am a nomad. Born and raised in Portugal until I was fifteen, then shipped off to the States to live with my dad after my mom passed away. I got into the photography program at NYU when I was seventeen, graduated at twenty, and set off for my first freelance travel assignment a week later. I’ve been traveling ever since.

Sometimes I’ll set up camp for a year or two tops, but inevitably, I’ll get the itch to explore new places or revisit old favorites. My camera is my career, and as long as I have it with me, I know I can make money selling photo collections or putting my work up in galleries.

Or, at least that’s how it used to be. Lately, I’ve just been...drifting. I’m thirty-nine and feel like I’ve lived all the adventures life has to offer. It’s coming across in my photos, too. They’re as uninspired as I am.

That’s probably why I agreed to fly back to New York for my old college buddy’s wedding. Well, third wedding, but still. Darren Masters. I was shocked as hell to get a call from him last month. We haven’t spoken more than a handful of words since he graduated, two years ahead of me. We were close back in the day, but I hadn’t thought about him in years until our phone call.

He asked me to be the photographer for the wedding. I haven’t shot a wedding in almost a decade, but it’s mostly programmatic shots I could capture in my sleep. I likely would have graciously turned him down had it not been for my apathy toward my career as of late. I’m hoping a visit back to my old stomping grounds where I first got excited about photography will help.

This is it then, yeah? the driver asks, his gruff voice shattering my reverie.

I look out the window for the first time since we almost got in that accident. Holy shit, this isn't a house, it's an estate with a goddamn mansion towering over everything. I'm about to call Darren and tell him he must have given me the wrong address, but then the front gates open and a man who looks vaguely familiar comes striding toward the cab.

Darren has less hair and a bit more of a belly than I remember, but there’s no mistaking his cleft chin and sharp green eyes.

This is it, I confirm, paying the man a ridiculous amount of money for the ride from JFK airport.

He pops the trunk and I grab my hiking backpack, camera bag, and duffel bag. It hits me that aside from a barely furnished apartment in Ferragudo, Portugal, everything I own is right here in my arms. That thought used to make me feel young, reckless, and free. Now? I just feel...lacking. I have no roots, nothing of substance to offer anyone. Other than the two million sitting in my savings account, that is. I have no reason to spend it and no one to spend it on, so it just sits in the bank collecting interest.

Cristiano Santos, Darren greets me, holding out his hand.

Darren fucking Masters, I chuckle, taking his hand and pulling him in for a hug. He squirms away from me just like he always did in college. I’ve always found it entertaining that Americans require so much personal space.

Still giving out hugs no one wants, I see, Darren mutters, though he smirks at me.

Just had to check if you’re still as squeamish as you were all those years ago, old friend.

He laughs and grabs my duffel bag while I slip on my pack and sling my camera bag over my shoulder. We chat a bit about the venue for the wedding as we walk up the perfectly manicured driveway and onto a cobblestone path leading up to the grand double doors.

Looks like you didn’t do too bad for yourself, I muse.

Being a hedge fund manager has its perks.

Nerd.

He looks over at me, his eyes wide with shock. And then he bursts out laughing, clapping me on the shoulder to get a hold of himself.

Better than a vagrant, I wager, he jokes right back.

I chuckle and shake my head. The more things change, the more they stay the same. I suppose that's a cliché for a reason. Darren was always laser focused on what he wanted out of life. He dreamed of climbing the corporate ladder and owning the world. I, on the other hand, think that life sounds absolutely soul-crushing. I'm sure Darren thinks my way of life is equally as appalling. That never bothered us before, though, and I don't imagine it’s bothering us now.

Well, let’s get you inside so you can settle in before dinner, Darren says, opening one of the front doors for me.

I step inside and nearly drop my camera bag on the floor.

There, lounging on the couch in the living room is the most captivating creature I've ever seen. Her midnight black hair falls over her shoulders in messy waves, framing a round face with delicate features. Her skin is creamy, almost translucent. It makes me want to leave my mark all over her.

What the hell?

And then her eyes lock on mine. She has one green eye and one blue eye. I want to photograph her. I haven’t had this urge to capture a moment on film in months. I have to rub the heel of my hand over my heart. There’s an unexplainably tender ache there for her. I sense a deep sadness buried beneath layers of bravado. How the fuck I know that is beyond me, but it’s true. I see it. I feel it. I want to put it to memory with my camera.

The mystery woman blinks her eyes, her long, dark eyelashes fluttering against her porcelain skin. She has freckles dotting her cheeks and nose, and I want to trace each one of them with my fingers. I want to memorize the pattern they make on her sweet face. I want to taste them.

Stop. It.

She breaks eye contact first. I take a breath for the first time since walking inside, pulling air into my lungs. The woman looks over my shoulder, then narrows her eyes. I can see her defenses snapping into place as she glares at Darren and then flits her eyes over to me.

Huffing out a breath, the woman rolls her eyes and gets off the couch, stomping down the hallway. It’s then I notice her body. Her curves. Sweet Jesus God in heaven, those curves.

Full, round breasts that I want to weigh in my hands. Hips I want to slide my hands over and grip as I sink deep inside her. And that ass...

That’s as much of an introduction as you’ll get to my daughter, Darren says in annoyance.

Shit. His daughter? That possibility never even crossed my mind, but who else did I think she was?

It’s alright, I manage to say, swallowing back my lust. How old is she? Please, God, let her be legal. I’m a sick pervert for lusting after her when I don’t even know her age. The possibility of being with her is off the table now that I know who she is, but I need to know how much I should hate myself for my thoughts.

Turned nineteen last month. Thank fuck. I raised her the best I could, but she turned out rotten, that one. Won’t even go to college. Wanted to take a gap year, whatever the hell that means.

She probably just wants to get her feet under her before choosing a career, I reason. Why I’m defending her, I have no idea. The way he talks about her has me on edge. Surely he doesn’t think his own daughter is rotten. Maybe he’s just frustrated with her at the moment.

She said the same thing, Darren scoffs. I don’t understand why she can’t find her place in the world or whatever while also working toward a degree and a future.

I hum and nod my head. I shouldn’t presume to know anything about raising kids or having a family. My dad was my only family, but he hasn’t contacted me since I went on my first assignment in Germany after college. Which is fine by me. I know he only took me in after my mom died because he had to.

Enough about all that, Darren says. His tone is much more warm and friendly now. Let’s get you a drink. What’s your poison these days?

Water for me.

Oh come on, I’ve got a barrel-aged scotch worth a few hundred bucks that has our names on it.

Who could turn down an offer like that?

There he is, Darren says, clapping a hand on my shoulder.

He leads me to a small den and opens up a cabinet full of what I assume is very expensive liquor. I take a moment to observe the opulent room with books liking the walls and a portrait of a war general on a white horse.

Something catches my eye across the room. I turn my head and see the totally off-limits woman strut across the living room in a practically see-through sarong. She shimmies her hips as she passes by, then walks through the sliding door in the kitchen out to the pool just beyond the deck. I can see everything from the open entryway in the den.

Arabella can be a handful, Darren laments, eyeing up his daughter as he sets a glass of amber liquid