Doesn’t want any of it.
By now, Liam’s practically purple from crying so hard. I’m tired and panicked, and my throat has started to hurt from the tightness there. Grabbing my phone, I wonder if I should call Beau. Or maybe my mom? But Liam hasn’t met them yet, and I don’t want to introduce him to a stranger when he’s mid-meltdown.
My thumb goes still when I scroll to Amelia’s number. What if she quits? What if her phone is on silent? What if she has whatever magic sauce this kid needs right now?
Fuck it. I don’t know what else to do, so I press down my thumb and bring the phone to my ear.
All the while praying her phone isn’t on silent.
Praying she doesn’t quit on me for calling her at two in the morning on her second day on the job.
Chapter Twelve
Amelia
Rhett’s house is weirdly silent when I walk through the front door.
“Hello?” I call softly.
“In here,” comes an equally soft reply.
I head for the sound of Rhett’s voice, pulse kicking up a notch as I pass the kitchen. It’s a complete disaster. There’s food everywhere; a pair of sippy cups are on the floor; the necks of brown beer bottles peek over the lip of the sink.
I make a beeline for the master bedroom, not bothering to take off my vest or shoes.
Rhett is on the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and polka-dot socks. Can’t help it—his chest and arms are so egregiously naked and huge that my gaze locks on his body and stays there.
You son of a bitch, I think to myself.
You beautiful, ridiculous son of a bitch, giving me a hot little tingle when I’m half-asleep and determined to keep my feelings about you, my employer, above board.
Summoning the entirety of my willpower, I tear my eyes from the striations of muscle in Rhett’s right shoulder and look at Liam. He’s curled up beside his daddy, his sweet little face bright red and swollen. But his eyes are closed, and Rhett is gently stroking his features, making a quiet wooshing noise as he swoops his index finger over the curve of Liam’s cheek.
I bring my hand to my chest when my heart dips. A futile attempt to catch it.
“Y’all are alive,” I whisper.
Rhett turns his head to look at me. His eyes glisten, and the skin around them is puffy. “He just calmed down. I’m so sorry to call you, but I didn’t know what else to do. He was hysterical.”
“I heard him on the phone.” I drop my bag and head for the bed, settling my hip on the edge of the mattress. Must not look at Rhett’s nipples. The boss’s nipples are a hard no. “But you did it. You got him to go back to sleep.”
“Amelia, he’s been up since before midnight.”
I make a face. “Ooopf. That hurts.”
“I’m just glad he finally stopped crying. He kept asking for his mama.” Rhett’s Adam’s apple bobs. “I hate feeling so helpless, you know?”
As someone who lost her mother—who watched cancer rob every smile, every ounce of energy—I absolutely do know that feeling.
Poor little Liam. He’ll never even know his mom.
I change the subject and nod at his hand. “What’s that you’re doing there?”
“This?” He lifts his index finger, hovering it over Liam’s nose. “My mom called it the skier. See how he whooshes down the slopes? I remember her doing it with me when I couldn’t fall asleep.”
My heart dips again. Tingle gets hotter. This time, I’m the one who swallows hard. “That’s sweet. And apparently a winner.”
“At this point, I would’ve sawed off a limb to get him to stop.” Rhett blows out a breath. We watch Liam’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall. “Beau tried to prepare me for this—for the exhaustion. The wakings and stuff. But lemme tell you, I was so not prepared.”
Shaking my head, I say, “I can only imagine how much it sucks.”
He scoffs. “You don’t have to imagine. You’re here. You got up in the middle of the night and drove across town to be here. Amelia, you know the suck as well as I do.”
I ponder this for a moment, feeling a pinch of pride. “Okay, yeah. Sure. I’ll accept that dubious honor.”
“Dubious honor,” Rhett repeats, rolling his eyes playfully. “You’re such a teacher.”
“And you’re such a dad, with your skier and your socks.”
“Hey.” He wiggles his toes. “I happen to like my socks.”
“I see the scruff has made a comeback too.” I nod at his five o’clock shadow.
He runs a hand over it. “I’ll shave again in the morning.”
“Don’t.”
His face creases into a grin. “So you do like the beard.”
“I thought it wasn’t a beard.”
“I’ll keep it.”
“Good.”
I attempt to keep my focus on the lime green polka-dot on his left big toe. Are we flirting? Or am I just delirious?