“Harry, you are changing her diaper.”
“Hello?” I say into the phone I haven’t even dialed a number on yet. “Sure, I can hold.”
I give Winter a helpless look and say, “They’ve got me on hold.”
“You lying sack of shit.” She shakes her head with disgust.
“Fine.” I put my phone in my pants pocket and take Avery, holding her away from my body. “Wait, why are her pants brown?”
“Looks like a blowout.”
I cringe. “Where am I supposed to put her?”
Winter looks around. “Didn’t you order a gold-plated changing table or two?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“Go lay her on your bed.”
Shaking my head, I say, “Hell no. I’m not putting someone who shit their pants on my bed.”
“She’s your daughter.”
“Shit is shit, Winter.”
“I’ll get a towel to put on your bed then. Will that work?”
“Get three towels. They’re in the closet in my bathroom.”
I catch a whiff of the shitty diaper on my way back to the bedroom and practically gag. It smells toxic. Avery is giving me a wide-eyed what’s-the-rush look, oblivious to the stench.
Winter meets me in my bedroom and I tell her to unfold and layer the three fluffy gray bath towels on top of each other.
“It’s a poopy diaper, Harry, not a nuclear spill.”
I hold my breath as I unsnap Avery’s outfit, revealing runny, diarrhea-like poop that really does make me gag.
“Fuck this,” I say with a grimace. “Can’t I just hose her off?”
“Sac up. Here.” Winter holds out a wipe, and I take it.
Things get much worse when I unfasten the diaper. There’s shit everywhere.
“I’ll give you five hundred bucks to clean this up,” I offer, looking over at Winter.
“This is all you, hands-on dad.”
Holding my breath, I clean Avery up, going through about twenty wipes in the process. Ten wipes, my ass. Winter holds open a bag for the diaper and used wipes and I throw them in there. My stomach turns as I add Avery’s shit-soaked clothes to the bag.
“You’re throwing her outfit away?” Winter asks, her brow furrowed with disapproval.
“My laundry doesn’t go out until next week. No way I’m smelling this until then.”
“You don’t even do your own laundry?”
I shake my head, not in the mood for her attitude. “Will you put her in a clean diaper and clothes so I can disinfect myself and order dinner?”
“I guess. Jesus, you’re so dramatic.” She laughs as she picks up a naked Avery from my bed, grinning at her. “Does your tummy feel better now, baby girl?”
“My tummy feels like shit,” I grumble. “I’m not sure I’ll even be able to eat.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Winter offers. “I’ll eat dinner with you if you let me get up with Avery tonight.”
“Done.”
I’m not sure if she realizes I wanted both of the things she just offered me. And as I watch her cooing at Avery and snuggling her, I want something more, too.
I want to kiss Winter into complete silence. The thought of melting her icy exterior and leaving her breathless with desire tempts me more than food or sleep does.
No way she’ll go for it, though. She’s the only woman I’ve ever known who wants nothing to do with me. And I’m not sure why, but I find that sexy as hell.
Chapter Eight
Winter
The next morning, as I watch the stream of coffee drizzle from Harry’s fancy coffee maker, I will it to flow faster.
It was a long night—for me, anyway. Avery was fussy and hungry. I got a two-hour block of sleep and a one-hour snooze in the recliner, but that’s it. There was a period of time a couple hours before sunrise when I could’ve slept, but my mind wouldn’t stop spinning.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Mallory. I still clearly remember her bounding into the salon one morning, happier than I’d ever seen her. She’d had her first date with Harry the night before, and she was gushing about how hot and amazing he was.
She’d woken up in his apartment that morning, and she told me the views were like nothing she’d ever seen. And now, here I am—in his apartment. Caring for Mallory’s baby.
It’s supposed to be her. She’s supposed to be nurturing Avery and shaking her head at the bags beneath her eyes.
“Ah, nice.” Harry walks into the massive gourmet kitchen and grabs the coffee pot, pouring the coffee that I’ve been waiting on into a mug and taking a sip. “You figured out the coffee maker.”
If I was closer to a knife, I’d probably grab it and stab him. The nerve of that asshole, sauntering into the kitchen with nothing but a white bath towel wrapped around his waist and then stealing the first cup of coffee.
“I’m not your housekeeper, asshole,” I say crossly. “That coffee was for me.”
“Oh.” He looks down at his mug, then holds it out to me. “You still want it?”