It’s not a big deal.
The door to the garage opens, and Brad comes in, smiling, carrying a baby carrier.
I do a double take, and then frown.
“I knew it.”
“What?” He sets the carrier on the table and begins pulling blankets off of it, unearthing an adorable, dark-haired baby girl.
“I told Grace that I was sure that you had a secret baby somewhere.”
He just laughs and shakes his head as he pulls the baby into his arms and turns to face me. His eyes are soft, almost dewy, as he looks down at the little one. “She isn’t mine.”
“That’s a relief. And she isn’t mine because I definitely haven’t had a baby. So whose is she?”
“My detective’s little girl. Her name is Megan.” He smiles at her and she reaches for Brad’s nose.
“She’s cute.” I cross my arms over my chest, keeping a safe distance between me and them. “Why is she with you?”
“Her daddy wanted to take his wife out for dinner, but the babysitter cancelled, so I volunteered to take her.”
“It’s like I don’t even know you,” I reply and laugh. “This might be the very last thing I would expect.”
“She loves me,” he says in defense. “Look.”
At that moment, Megan stretches her arms out to me, whimpering.
“Or, she’s trying to escape.”
“You can take her,” he suggests, and I freeze.
“That’s okay.”
“She’s asking for you.”
I walk to the oven and open it, retrieving the enchiladas. “I’m finishing dinner,” I reply, not making eye contact. “And I’m not good with babies.”
“Why?”
“Why am I not good with babies?” I turn and stare at him. Megan smiles, a toothless smile and then sticks her fist in her mouth.
“Yeah. I mean look at her.”
“She’s beautiful.”
Brad’s phone rings in his pocket, and when he checks the caller ID, he frowns and holds the baby out to me. “Please take her, I have to take this call.”
He plants Megan in my arms and walks into his office, shuts the door, and I’m left with a baby.
“How old are you, Megan?” I ask, holding her stiffly. She’s watching my face, and then her own face crumples and she starts to fuss. “Oh no. Don’t do that.” I hold her closer to me and sway back and forth, hoping I’m doing this right. “You don’t have to cry. See? It’s okay.”
I’m swaying and patting her back, and Megan lays her little head on my shoulder, quiet now.
Thank goodness.
With the baby on my arm, I do my best to cover the enchiladas with foil and set them back in the oven on warm. They’ll keep for a while.
Five minutes later, Brad comes out of the office, looking preoccupied.
“Sorry about that,” he says and stops short when he sees me. “Well, look at you.”
“I admit, she’s pretty cute.” I’m still swaying her back and forth, and she’s tucked her little face in my neck. “Is she sleeping?”
“No, she’s just hanging out.” He grins and walks to us, pats Megan on the back, and then kisses me softly. “You look beautiful.”
“Barefoot in the kitchen with a baby on my hip?”
“No, just beautiful,” he says, then snorts out a laugh. “But that’s quite the description.”
“I am barefoot,” I point out.
“But not pregnant, so there’s that.”
“Never,” I reply, shaking my head emphatically. Megan lifts her head and looks me square in the eyes. “But you are a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”
She smiles widely.
“One day, you’ll get some teeth. And then, look out, because everything is delicious.”
She giggles.
“That’s right. All of the food is delicious.”
“Speaking of food,” Brad says, pulling a bottle out of a bag. He pours some formula in it, mixes it with water, and then passes it to me. “She’s probably hungry.”
“You feed her.”
He just smiles and shakes his head no. I roll my eyes, take the bottle, and settle into his rocking recliner.
“I don’t know if I’m doing this right?”
“Haven’t you ever been around kids?” he asks as he watches me settle her against me and offer her the bottle, which she greedily takes, holding my hand and watching me with sleepy brown eyes.
“Not really.” He passes me a rag so I can wipe up the drip on her chin. “I didn’t have siblings, and I didn’t babysit. I’ve never really felt like I’m a maternal person.”
She starts to cough, choking a bit, and I immediately put the bottle down, and pull her forward, helping her airway to clear. I wipe her chin again, then settle her in to eat some more.
“Yeah, not maternal at all,” he says. He’s smiling when I look up at him. “I wouldn’t have known how to do that.”
“I’m a doctor,” I remind him. “And she wasn’t choking badly.”
I run my fingers over her soft, fine hair and her eyes flutter closed. “She’s so soft. How old is she?”
“About five months,” he replies quietly, petting Sadie.