I never needed to kiss anyone.
With her, I have an urge.
An urge to crush her body against mine.
To claim her mouth, before I claim her body.
To give her my soul along with my heart.
The urge is hard to control, but I have to be strong. I feel like if I kiss her, I might never want to let her go. I don’t like to depend on people—or to depend on love. My circle is small. My five best friends are the only family I need and love. Letting anyone else in will be stupid. I’m used to people coming and going like the tide. They never stay once they get to know the real me.
Instead of fixating on what I can’t have, I leave the bed and check on the baby.
He’s starting to stir. His eyes open when I pick him up. “Hey, little dude, did you sleep well?”
He looks at me attentively.
“Listen, I wasn’t at my best last night—neither were you. We both said things we didn’t mean. Can we call it a truce?”
I know the audiobook I listened to yesterday said that babies can’t focus, but I swear this kid is studying me.
“I’m going to take your silence as a yes. What if I change your diaper, and we head downstairs for breakfast? If you’re good today, I’ll prepare you some pancakes when you turn one.”
I see a hint of a smile. “So, you like negotiating, huh? Well, baby boy Hannigan, be prepared. I’m a tough negotiator. And you know what you need the most? A name. We’ll wait until Nathalie is up to make any decisions. We want you to have a name you’ll love for the rest of your life. What do you think?”
Changing his diaper isn’t as tricky as it was yesterday. After a few systematic steps, the dirty diaper is in that genie thing Lang bought, the tiny human has clean clothing, and we’re ready to start our day. As I’m about to head downstairs, Nathalie comes out of the master suite. She looks adorable with her messy hair, rumpled sweatshirt, and bare feet. Maybe tonight I’ll convince her to wear one of my t-shirts and nothing else.
I halt my imagination when the baby coos.
“I bet he’s hungry and about to demand some food.” Nathalie points at the baby.
“Morning, sunshine,” I greet her, walking to where she stands and kissing her forehead.
She stretches both arms while yawning. “Morning. How long did we sleep?”
“A little more than two hours.”
“This is worse than my residency,” she says between yawns. “I heard you two negotiating. You shouldn’t be bribing him with pancakes.”
“Do you want my pancakes all to yourself, Doc?” I say with a provocative tone.
“It’s too early to be hitting on me.” She threatens me with her stabby finger. “And put on a shirt.”
“What if I do and he starts crying?”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s too early to be dealing with you. Hand me the baby. I’ll entertain him while you get the bottle ready.”
I do as she says and rush toward the main floor. It doesn’t take long to prepare his formula. After handing it to Nathalie to feed the baby, I wash the dishes and prepare some breakfast for us. Though I’d like to show her that I make the best pancakes in the world, I don’t. It’s faster to scramble some eggs and put bacon in the microwave.
She’s sitting at the dining table, patting the baby’s back when I bring our plates.
“It’s not as good as what I prepare for you at the shop, but it’s edible.”
She cradles the baby with her left hand while reaching for the fork. Taking a spoonful of eggs, she moans. “They’re still good.”
Fuck. Did she just moan? I should warn her that if she makes sex noises, I will push her against any surface and fuck her—hard.
I snap out of the trance and ask her, “What are your plans for today?”
“Napping, pooping, and eating,” Nathalie answers with a baby-like voice.
I chuckle. “I meant you, not the little dude.”
“Oh. I’m heading home to take a shower and change. Afterward, I’ll see if we have any patients at the clinic. If I don’t, I’ll come back to help you with the little mister-who-needs-a-name.”
“We can always call him that or MWNAN for short. That’s pronounced meownan. He’ll be able to communicate with felines when he’s older.”
She chuckles. “Well, then call him Leo.”
“No. I don’t want any animal name for the poor kid. It’s hard to grow up as a fish.” I wink at her, drumming the table. “Ba-dum-tss.”
“You’re ridiculous.” She laughs, wiping her mouth with the paper napkin that she also uses to clean the corner of the baby’s mouth. “I think you should be ready to go to bed. We’ll figure out your name soon.”
I point toward the living room. “There’s a book of names on top of the coffee table if you want to go through it.”
“We’ll do it when I come back. In the meantime, you two need to behave. I don’t want to find a crying baby because the infant is lacking human contact and love.”
I stare at her mouth open. “You wound me, woman. Did you just call me a crying baby?”
She smirks. “Probably.”
Nat kisses the top of the baby’s head and hands him to me.
“What, no kiss for me?” I call as she leaves.
“Nope.” She waves and shuts the door behind her.
“Well, it’s you and me for the next few hours, buddy. What do you want to do?”
There’s a horrid sound coming from his bottom that I’m starting to hate followed by a rancid smell. “You couldn’t do that while she was here. Thank you, little dude. I’ll remember this when you’re fifteen and asking for your allowance.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Fisher
“You survived,” Nathalie says when she enters the house.
“Barely,” I sound like a man coming back from battle.
“You’re dramatic. I haven’t been away for that long. Have I?”
“It’s been…” I check my watch. “Two hours too long.”
“You should’ve taken a nap instead of tidying up the place,” she says, picking up one of the blankets I just washed. “What’s with the big yellowish stain?”
“That little thing poops a lot,” I complain. “Yesterday he…let’s say most of his clothes and blankets got stained. I asked Uncle Lang to send him more clothes. I didn’t nap because he just fell asleep. He hates to lay down.”
Maybe this is why Laura quit. He doesn’t like to sleep in his bed, he cries all the time, and he makes a lot of messes.
Nathalie frowns. “So, he has diarrhea?”
“I don’t know.”
She pulls out her phone. “He’s colicky. He has trouble sleeping. He has diarrhea and a lot of gas.” After tapping her phone and reading something, she says, “It’s probably the formula. What if he’s lactose intolerant? I didn’t see any rashes, but what if…”
“What are you talking about?” My heart almost stops. Have we been poisoning my child? “Am I giving him the wrong food? Should we take him to the hospital?”