Her Dad’s Best Friend

Chapter 72

I feel half awake, listening to the pounding beat as I do a program that takes me up several hills. What

a strange feeling today to wake up in Jeff's bed. It was Danny's fault, of course. Who knew that he

hated sleeping alone? The attachment between Danny and Jeff was strong, which was good and bad. I

just hoped that Jeff found a nanny before the end of the summer who could handle the baby.

To be honest, if I hadn't found out that putting Danny to bed in his dad's bedroom was the key, I have

zero clue if I'd be willing to go back for a second round. Danny was a very cute baby, but only when he

was happy or sleeping.

I decide that I want to screen Danny's permanent nanny. It would take a woman who had experience

and patience to deal with Danny. They also wouldn't know Jeff well enough for him to be amused to

find a woman in his bed, even the nanny.

Treadmill

Jeff

I wipe the sweat off of my forehead with the towel I have draped over the top of the treadmill. Maybe if I

run fast enough, I can outrun the memory of what Elia looked like asleep in my bed. She looks younger

and even more innocent when she's asleep. She might be nineteen, but I was definitely not thinking

about her like other teenagers.

I shouldn't be thinking about her at all. I should be dating women my own age, not my teenage next

door neighbor whose father collects hunting rifles as a hobby. Eric would not hesitate to murder me,

friendship and business partnership be damned. He is overprotective of his only child, the daughter that

he has spoiled every second of every day of her life. Hell, I bet that she is untouched. Her father

wouldn't allow her to date until she was 35, so she hasn't been out with any boys her age.

Her v-card isn't a gift that you'll get, I tell myself. It belongs to some fumbling teenage boy who'll hurt

her in the back of a truck.

The bar on the front of my treadmill snaps from the pressure I put on it. The screws on the ends of the

bar are bent. The thought of some kid hurting Elia makes me see red. I turn off the treadmill. It's clearly

not helping.

I go into my bedroom. Danny is still asleep when I get into the shower. Am I a bad parent for leaving

someone else to take care of my son? I never expected to be raising a kid on my own. I make the

shower quick, just 5 minutes, because I don't want to wake the baby. When I get out, I wrap a towel

around my waist and sit on my bed, watching the slow rise and fall of my child's round stomach. He has

hair like his mother's. I'm dark blond, but she had light brown hair with a few light sunstreaks. There's

nobody to see me get dust out of my eye, thinking of what she'd say, seeing me struggling with the

baby. The two of us were supposed to be a team. We'd done all the pregnancy and parenting classes

together. And the ridiculous irony of it was that all of that preparation was for nothing, because I never

expected to be doing this alone.

I stop myself from my pity party. It won't change anything. I need to go downstairs to prep tonight's

bottles. Danny doesn't sleep through the night. Unless I want to go downstairs for his feedings, I need

to bring bottles up to the small fridge that's in my bedroom. A better father would buy a bottle warmer

and keep it in the bedroom, but it's on my to-do list. I feel like the list is never-ending, since I'm running

a business and have a small baby. Maybe I can ask Elia for help on the baby front.

I unwrap the towel and throw it onto the chair in the corner. I should put it up. My dead wife would've

yelled at me for just throwing it there. But I can't care enough. I stretch out naked on the bed and think

about sleeping.

But it doesn't come for several more hours.

Running to Work

Elia

When I wake up, my hair is a total mess. I need to get to Jeff's house so that he can start an 8 o'clock

meeting. I pretend that a thick hairband is all that I need to tame my hair (it's not) and throw on a dress

before getting next door five minutes until the web conference starts. He's already hooked up in his

office, with Danny in a baby carrier next to him. I crouch down to pick up Danny and sneak out of the

room. I can see that his mike is live.

As I pick up the carrier, Danny's little eyes open. His face scrunches like he's about to cry as I pull him

away from his father. And in another second, a wail begins to rise. I close the door hastily, which makes

it slam. I wince as Danny's volume doubles.

"Shh," I say. "I'm sorry, little one."

Danny is screaming like I've lit him on fire. Tears are streaming down his face, and he's trying to rock

himself out of the baby carrier, which is not particularly helpful. I lug him to the other side of the house

and pull him out of the carrier. He's trying to push me away, but he's not that strong. His lungs certainly

are, though.

"Shh, Danny, it's okay. You're okay."

The only response is screaming loud enough to permanently damage my eardrums. I stand up and

walk in a slow circle around the living room, which helps. In a few minutes, Danny's sobs are quiet. His

face is nuzzling my shoulder in a way that I would find cuter if it hadn't been preceded by extremely

loud screaming.

"You're still sleepy, aren't you?" I rub his tiny little back. I can feel how soft and loose he is right now. I

continue walking in a slow circle. He's just cranky when he wakes up. In another five minutes, his entire

body is limp and he's breathing slowly. I ease him off of my shoulder and very gently place him in the

carrier.

"Oh, Danny," I sigh. I tickle his foot. A smile flits across his face before getting lost. Sometimes the

most valuable things have to be fought for. If Danny weren't a difficult baby, then I wouldn't be called in

to watch this precious little angel snoozing. With Danny safely asleep, I go to the kitchen and mix some

formula into a bottle that'll be ready when he wakes up. I don't know if Jeff fed him yet. It's better to be

safe than sorry. I measure the right amount of formula into a bottle, add warm water, and shake it up. I

test it on my wrist. It's too hot, so I set it aside.

I can hear the soft murmurs that mean that Jeff is still in the conference call. Danny's asleep, a miracle,

so all I have to do is plan the day. Maybe we'll start with some fun books. Before she died, Jeff's wife

stocked a huge bookshelf with baby books, the kind with thick pages that are harder for little ones to

tear. I take two that I haven't read to Danny before and bring them into the living room. I can feel

something in my throat that is making it hard to swallow. I'm tearing up a little bit. If his mom hadn't

died, I wouldn't be planning on reading to him right now. I curl up on the couch and listen to Danny's

steady breathing until I hear a hitch in his breath. When I open my eyes, he's looking right at me. He's

frowning in a way that means that tears are 10 seconds away.

"Hey, little one," I say, pulling him onto the couch with me. I twist so that I'm on the outside and he's

next to the back of the couch. "How are you feeling now?"

He lets out half a wail, like he's testing the waters. His heart doesn't really seem to be into it.

"None of that, now," I say sternly. I tickle his tummy, which brings a smile to his face. He seems torn

between the impulse to giggle and the impulse to cry. Finally, he lets out a belly laugh, a chortle that

makes me laugh, too.

"I love you," I say.

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