I nod and stare at the poor nameless child. “I…what am I going to do with a baby? This isn’t me.”
“You can give him up for adoption. Thea Decker can help you find a good family,” he suggests.
“It’s a fucking rhetorical question,” I growl at him. The baby’s lip quivers. I rock him and mumble a lullaby in his ear.
Once the baby is back asleep, I ask, “Do you really want to give up your nephew to some stranger? Do you think I’ll give up my son?”
“I’ll kill you if you do, and then I’ll raise him as my own. I’ll even buy him a suit.”
I chuckle. “Listen, I want to do the right thing. If he’s mine, you know I’ll take care of him, but what if he’s not mine?”
Lang pulls out a small box from the inside of his jacket. “I’m prepared to do a test.”
“Of course you are.”
“But why do you want to know?”
“It’ll be unfair to his biological father if he never learns about him. Knowing Laura, she might’ve just shoved him to me because she knows I would take care of the baby without asking questions.”
“You would. Open your mouth.”
I do as he says and let him run a swab along the side of my cheek. Once he’s done, he shoves it inside a tube and then into a bag.
“What about the baby?”
“Aspen Hawkins did it after she checked the baby. We needed to make sure he was healthy. Laura gave birth to him at home and didn’t take him to the doctor.”
She’s so fucking irresponsible. I guess that’s what I found attractive about her. “Was there any news about her pregnancy?”
“Nope. I already had my people check through social media. She’s been quiet for the past six months.”
I run a hand through my hair as I pace along the house. “This is so fucked up.”
“You might want to modify your language. Unless you want his first word to be fuck. His room is almost ready. The books should arrive later today.”
“Books?”
“I bought you at least five books on how to raise a child. One about newborns, and I sent you a link to a podcast.”
“How about a nanny?”
He raises a judgmental eyebrow and crosses his arms. “Do you want your child to be raised by a nanny?”
If this baby is mine, he’s not going to become Fisher 2.0 and have a fucked-up childhood like mine. “Fuck, I hate you.”
“Why?”
“You know me too well.”
“Twenty-two years of dealing with your nonsense.” He eyes the baby. “You can’t avoid him.”
“He might not be mine.”
“It’s sad that the only reason you don’t want him to be yours is because you’ll have to love him. That’s the only thing that scares you, isn’t it? I can send you on the most dangerous mission, and you won’t give a fuck. This, having to care about someone, is more frightening to you. You need therapy, dude.”
“Get me those results ASAP.”
He nods. “You’ll have them soon.”
“I still need someone to tell me how to take care of the baby.”
“Well, start researching,” he says, walking toward the door.
“You’re staying, right?”
“Nope. I’d pay big money to see you deal with…that, but I have work to do.”
“Everyone is out of town,” I say, almost panicking.
“So I heard.”
“Are you sure this isn’t a prank?”
He takes a picture. “I wish I had thought of it. Make sure to keep him alive for eighteen years. Also, pick out a name.”
“If I name him Alasdair, will you stay?”
“Don’t fuck the kid with one of my names,” he orders.
“Don’t leave me,” I beg.
“Miss me.” He winks and closes the door.
“Okay, we can do this. How hard can it be?”
Chapter Nineteen
Nathalie
I swear, one day, I’ll be able to sleep through the night. Obviously not today. I was thankful there wasn’t any music playing tonight. But surprise, surprise. Fisher had to text me because why would he let me have some peace?
I stare at his text.
9-1-1
Is he dying? I swear if he did something stupid, like getting shot, stabbed—again—or…what happened now?
Ignore him, I order myself, placing the pillow on top of my head. Go to sleep.
But what if he hurt himself again?
Ugh, I hate my sense of responsibility. It’s stupid and annoying, just like Fisher Hannigan. Begrudgingly, I put on a pair of leggings and my sweatshirt. I debate on bringing my medical bag along. I decide to keep it in my apartment. If he’s bleeding, he’ll have to come to my office or have his fancy helicopter fly him to the ER. I could just push him in the lake, and we can all forget about him.
Reluctantly, I drag my sleepy ass to his house.
When I approach the house, there’s crying. I don’t recall hearing a baby while I stayed here, nor a pregnant woman. Then again, this town doesn’t believe in medicine, or they just go to Seattle when they require medical attention.
The crying continues. That baby has a well-developed set of lungs. I’m not sure where the noise is coming from, but someone needs to check on that kid.
I groan. What did Fisher do? Probably someone in town had an emergency, and he’s expecting me to…I stop assuming and knock on the door.
Fisher opens it. He looks worse than he did when he was wounded. He has puke on his t-shirt and a tiny baby that might not be more than a week old. What happened this time?
“So, you stole a child, huh? Just so you know, I refuse to become an accessory to whatever you did.”
I’m done with this man and probably with the town. I turn around to leave. Before taking the first step, he begs, “I need your help, please.”
Is he for real? This is the last straw. I’m not going to…I sigh. It’s a baby. I can’t just leave the poor creature at the mercy of the most immature man in the history of the world.
Looking over my shoulder, I say, “I swear, coming to Luna Harbor was the worst idea I’ve had in my entire life. Every night I ask myself, ‘How did I end up here?’”
“Because I need you?” His tender blue eyes stare at the baby and then at me, begging.
I pivot and cross my arms. If he has a good explanation, I might stay. “What are you involved in?”
“In parenthood?” He grins, but the smile disappears as the baby continues crying. He lifts the kid slightly and asks, “Can you help me?”
He’s so distraught he can’t crack a joke.
Defeated by his pleading face, I ask, “What do you need me to do?”
Fisher, almost crying, says, “Make him stop.”
Of course, he thinks I can do it because… “What makes you think I can handle a baby? Is it because I’m a woman?”
“No. You’re a doctor. You’ve handled babies. Haven’t you? If he’s sick, you’ll figure it out.”
I shake my head. “I’m not a pediatrician. My parents had me when my brothers were in their twenties, meaning I wasn’t around younger children—or babies.”