Up in Smoke (Hotshots 4)

It had been years, possibly decades, since he’d last held a baby, and he tried to create a mental checklist. Head support. Little blanket for warmth but not close to her face. What else? With a jump, he had a very clear list to work through to ensure a good outcome, but here he had only very foggy memories. He didn’t dare risk putting her back in her little carrier. She didn’t seem to like that place, not that Brandt could blame her.

“I wouldn’t want to be strapped into a plastic bucket either.” He laughed softly at himself for talking to a baby.

On the couch, Shane snorted like he’d heard the joke, then shifted around, stretching his long body out, head on the throw pillow against the arm of the couch. Brandt had the strangest wish for a quilt, something to cover him with. What the heck? He wasn’t exactly the caretaker type. He’d provided a safe place for buddies to crash countless times, and never once had he thought about ways to make things cozier for them.

“Wake me in ten,” Shane huffed into the pillow.

Brandt was doing no such thing. As long as the baby stayed sleeping, Brandt could sit here, let Shane rest. The painting would keep. Eventually, he’d need to worry about food, but that seemed far less pressing than getting Shane some rest. Asleep, he looked far younger. More vulnerable too. Brandt had to look away before his sympathies got the better of him. Rest, then maybe Brandt could feed him before...

Before what? Could Brandt really turn him out? Let him sort out what to do next on his own? He wasn’t sure there was any other option. There was no way this was Brandt’s kid. He might love sex, but he’d always been more cautious than most of his friends, getting tested on the regular, never skipping proper condom use. Shane might be right that they weren’t one hundred percent foolproof, but he’d made it to thirty with no issues.

Until now. A soft voice pricked at the edge of his consciousness. Hell. Could he live with himself if they didn’t at least do a paternity test? And then there was the little matter of the birth certificate. He hadn’t signed anything, but could he be legally liable for this kid? Shifting the baby, he looked again at the birth certificate. Yup. That was his name. And his birthday, which Shelby had known because they’d been flirting, that way strangers did in bars, sharing random tidbits. She had been all into astrology with some app on her phone and had found his Valentine’s birth date hilarious and cute, calling him cupid like she was the first one to use that joke.

Fuck. Maybe he was going to have to get this cleared up, get his name off the birth certificate at least. He moved to fish his phone out of his pocket, but the action jostled the baby, who squeaked, an adorable baby mouse noise. Shane had her in a little pink-and-white cotton sleeper with a zipper, and when she stretched, her legs kicked out, little kitties on her feet bopping Brandt’s forearm. His chest did a weird electrical surge past a soft place he’d almost forgotten he had.

“Shush, shush,” he soothed, rocking a little in place, hoping she’d drift back off. Which she seemed inclined to do, but as she resettled herself in the crook of his arm, her head turned, revealing a large reddish-brown birthmark on her neck, right below the hairline on the left side.

“No way,” he breathed out. He knew that mark. With his free hand, he rubbed his own neck. He kept his hair on the long side mainly out of laziness, but he’d also been teased enough for the mark as a kid that keeping it covered was a nice bonus.

Hereditary birthmarks, he typed on his phone. Was that even a thing? Huh. Apparently so. Most weren’t, but some were, and whatever the case, it was damn spooky how much the baby’s spot looked like the one he’d presumably had since birth too. It fucking sucked that there was no one he could ask about his either, but it was there in what few kid pictures he had.

“Hey there, beautiful.” He looked at her again, trying to see any resemblance beyond the birthmark to the couple of pictures he had of his younger self. Hard to say whether that heart-shaped bow to her lips was the same as that upper lip divot that was hell to shave for him. Ditto trying to figure out if she had the same slope to her nose or curve to her ears.

Trying to hold her and his phone at the same time was a major challenge, especially now that she was squirmier. Even as he tried a variety of different holds, his eyes kept drifting back to her neck. The resemblance was eerie enough that he found himself doing some research on paternity testing too. Expensive, but he had some savings. It took days though for results, even rushed.