It’s weird, really. Never once has he left to go out. I’m accustomed to seeing his photo splashed across every tabloid in the country hanging out at a bar or club, but he hasn’t seemed to miss it. Granted, it’s only been two weeks, but I don’t get the impression he has one foot out the door. At least, not yet.
We’ve had plenty of awkward conversations, and a few that just outright pissed me off. Like last week when he came over with Chinese food and insisted I move in with him. Talk about an explosion of epic proportions. When it didn’t seem to go the way he thought, he offered to buy me a house. Something bigger, newer, and in a gated community. While I listened to his valid reasons for wanting us both safe and taken care of, it was my refusal that won in the end. I don’t want a white knight to swoop in and buy me things. I want a partner, someone to help with those late-night feedings, or to tell me it’s okay to cry at the thought of going back to work. We compromised with Tate promising not to overstep and just react with his wallet, and I’ll make sure to listen to his concerns.
I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know he’s a great dad. Rowan is lucky to have him.
Today is a big day for our little man. His four-week checkup with his pediatrician, which means more shots. I’m terrified already, hating the prospect of seeing him cry. Tate volunteered to go with me, which is good and bad. I’m glad to have the support, but also know outings with someone like Tate can be a little dangerous. He’s recognized easily as the starting quarterback of the local professional team. Plus, his face is on the cover of just about every magazine or tabloid on a monthly basis. No way will we go unnoticed.
At ten until two, his SUV pulls into the driveway. I already have Rowan in his car seat, recently fed and changed. I’ve got his diaper bag packed—probably overpacked, actually—with everything he could need for the next hour or two. I open the front door before he has a chance to enter the code, and he’s all smiles.
He’s also freshly showered and smells amazing. And he’s sporting a ballcap on his head, which I’ve never seen before, but somehow seems to make him look even hotter.
“Hey,” he says, kissing me on the cheek before going over to say hello to his son. His now-familiar aftershave hits my nose and my girly bits react, like usual. I haven’t had sex in closing in on a year, and my lady parts aren’t too happy about that. They’ve taken notice of everything Tate does, every cock of his eyebrow, each arrogant grin he sends my way. I’ve resorted to taking longer showers just to get me through the day.
“Hi,” I reply, my voice coming out a little squeak.
“Ready?” he asks, grabbing the baby carrier and diaper bag.
“I can get that,” I insist, but he just smiles.
“I got it, Sweetness.”
I climb into the passenger seat of his fancy SUV. It has butter-soft leather seats and more gadgets than I’ve ever seen in a vehicle. Tate clicks the carrier into the base, the one he installed a week ago. We’ve only used it once before today, when we decided to go for a ride one evening to get out of the house.
It takes us about twenty-five minutes to get to the doctor’s office. Originally, I had been looking for a doctor a little closer to home, but the recommendations to Healthy Beginnings Pediatrics couldn’t be ignored. Dr. Townsend is amazing, and I’m so glad I chose her.
We enter the cheerful building, and I approach the front counter. “Can I help you?”
“Rowan Harris,” I reply, but realize quickly the receptionist isn’t paying any attention to me. I glance over my shoulder and see why. Tate is behind me, slightly bent over, and carefully slipping Rowan out of the carrier.
“Is that…” she asks, her words so full of excitement and wonder.
I clear my throat, refusing to confirm what she already knows. The receptionist with the name Kami on her nametag blushes as she glances back to her computer screen. “Yes, Rowan Harris,” she says, her eyes quickly darting once more over my shoulder. I mean, I get it. He’s hot but come on. Ogle my baby daddy after you check in my son for his appointment, please.
“Am I set?” I ask, unable to mask my annoyance.
“Oh, uh, please sign here, authorizing us to bill insurance,” Kami says, doing her darndest to no look at Tate again. I sign it quickly. “You’re all set. Have a seat and you’ll be called back in a few moments.”
I head over to where Tate sits. Immediately, I notice two other moms in the room staring at Tate. Sighing, I take a seat beside him.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers, his smiling eyes locked on Rowan’s.
“You’re being recognized. This was a bad idea,” I mumble, realizing we could be in big trouble. No one has a cell phone out—yet—but it’s only a matter of time.
“It’s not a bad idea, Ash. It’ll be okay,” he says, pulling his ballcap down even lower.
Fortunately, we don’t have to wait long. A friendly nurse calls us back, and if she recognizes Tate, she doesn’t say anything. We stop at a baby scale, and she turns to take Rowan from Tate. “Ready to go, little guy?” she asks, carefully placing him on the scale. She removes his onesie outfit before taking his official weight and measuring him from top to bottom. “Okay, Mom, you can grab him and follow me into the exam room.”
We go through a series of questions, the nurse making notes on her tablet, before telling me to hang tight. “Dr. Townsend will be in shortly.”
Tate sits down beside me and glances around nervously. “So, now what?”
“Well, now we wait for the doctor. She’ll come in and do a quick exam to make sure he’s where he needs to be, and then the nurse will come back in for immunizations.”
“Shots.”
I nod, my throat suddenly so dry it’s hard to swallow.
Tate reaches over and takes my hand. He runs his rough thumb over my knuckles. “It’ll be okay, Sweetness. He’s tough like me,” he says, giving me that cocky half-grin that feels like a bolt of lightning between my legs.
There’s a knock on the door right before Dr. Townsend enters the room. “Good afternoon, Ashtyn. How’s Rowan?”
“He’s doing well. His nursing schedule has finally leveled out.”
“Good,” she says, checking over the tablet in her hand. “He’s gaining weight perfectly. How many times is he getting up at night?”
“Three?”
“Actually, the last few nights, it’s only been twice a night,” Tate says, drawing the doctor’s attention.
She gives him a polite smile. “I’m Dr. Townsend, and you are?”
“Tate Steele, Doctor. I’m Rowan’s father.”
She nods and makes notes on her tablet again. I’ve never said Tate’s name in any of the paperwork here, or at the hospital. He’s not listed on the birth certificate, since I thought he wanted nothing to do with Rowan. Now, here he is, making a declaration to our son’s pediatrician. “Well, nice to meet you.”
Dr. Townsend does Rowan’s exam. He’s not too happy to be uncovered, but the moment the exam is complete, Tate scoops him up and holds him against his chest. “Do you have any questions for me before we get to the dreaded part of today’s appointment?”