Daddy Undercover (Crescent Cove 9)

“I’ll have an ice-cold beer”—a definite possibility.

“Hey, Bee, I’ll take some of the sausage and peppers”—equally likely.

But anything related to a child, especially an infant, had not been on the table.

Or in the boat.

I stood in my living room, staring down at the ruddy-faced baby who was crying so hard her body was in constant motion. That was why I’d stuck her in the boat I’d had on the wall. I’d pulled the boat down first, since I didn’t think suspending her would help with her wailing. She’d quieted for a moment when I removed her from the basket she’d arrived in, but as soon as I placed her on the seat, she started screaming again.

Then I saw the note.

I hadn’t wanted to read it. When I opened my door to the chilly darkness, I hadn’t been expecting the basket on my doormat. My neighbors on this side of the lake weren’t all that close, but surely there was an explanation for a baby crying.

There was, just one I never considered.

“Jared,” Gina snapped into my ear.

I’d almost forgotten I was still on the phone. Terror-based inertia could do that to a man.

“Gina.” I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“You’re scaring me. And where are you? Why is that baby crying?”

“No one is in danger,” I said in my calmest sheriff’s voice.

The only thing at risk is my sanity.

“Okay, then why do you need me so badly? My shift lasts another few hours, and the dinner rush is always crazy. If your issue can wait, I will—”

“I can’t get into it on the phone, Bee. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.” I gazed at the now flailing baby. To try to soothe her, I rocked the boat back and forth with my foot. She fussed just a bit less. “Just get here as soon as you can. Please.”

“All right. Let me talk to Mitch. I’ll see if someone can cover for me.”

“Thanks.” I gripped the phone. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”

But she would soon. Because there was no way in hell I could solve this situation alone.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. You’re home?” I could practically hear the frown in her voice. “With a baby?”

“Yes. Thanks again.” I clicked off before she could ask more questions.

She always asked questions. There were seasoned journalists, and then there were the Ramos women, who could ferret out the truth faster than any TV correspondent. But tonight, I wouldn’t be hiding anything.

I nudged the boat with my socked foot again. I really needed that beer now, but I had to be one-hundred percent lucid to deal with a baby.

God help me.

The kid kept crying so I wiped my sweaty palms on my uniform pants—I hadn’t even had a chance to change after work—and dug through the basket that had contained the baby. My fingers brushed the folded note again, and I bypassed it to dig through the folds of the nearly threadbare blanket. I let out a relieved breath when I found a small bottle, half full. I lifted it and checked the level again while my gut tightened. Less than half.

What kind of mother had this baby been sacked with anyway?

One like your own.

“Here, here.” My voice sounded scratchy and not at all like my own as I crouched beside the boat. “Look what I have. Your blanket and your bottle.” I held it up while the kid sobbed. “Baba?” I ventured, trying to recall things women said to infants in the café.

She seemed unimpressed, or else did not speak my language.