Chapter One #3
We drive in silence for a few minutes, and I notice her posture has softened slightly.
She’s not sitting so rigidly anymore, and her hands have come out from under her thighs.
The heat is finally doing its job, warm air filling the car between us.
I catch her glancing around the interior again—the navigation screen, the heated seat controls, the stitching on the steering wheel.
She doesn’t comment, but I can see her cataloging the details.
Probably thinks I’m some rich guy on a white-knight ego trip.
She’s not entirely wrong.
When we get closer to her neighborhood, I spot a superstore that’s all lit up on the corner, one of those twenty-four-hour places. I pull into the parking lot and park the car.
Ryleigh’s gaze swings to mine, and I can sense the question on her parted lips.
I recall a piece of advice a coach gave me once about how people would come out of the woodwork asking for money once I signed my first big contract.
He recommended that instead of giving out cash, I should give them what they need—you know, like paying an electric bill versus handing someone a hundred bucks.
“Why are you stopping here? My place is still a few blocks away.” She gives me a curious look.
“Let’s get the stuff you need.” Plus, if she’s lying about the baby, now would be the time to come clean.
She swallows, and for a second, I think she’s going to argue. I can practically see the refusal forming behind her eyes—jaw tightening, chin lifting just slightly. But then she looks at the store, looks back at me, and something in her shoulders gives.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
The store is aggressively bright after the dimness of the car—fluorescent lights humming overhead, tile floor sticky in spots.
It’s mostly empty at this hour—a bored cashier scrolling through her phone, a stock boy pushing a pallet down an aisle, and the two of us: an overgrown linebacker and a tiny woman in a jacket meant for October.
I grab a cart, and we wander toward the baby section. Ryleigh leads, walking with purpose even though I can tell she’s not entirely sure where she’s going. She finds the diaper aisle first and stops, scanning the shelves with her arms crossed.
“There are like forty different kinds,” she mutters, reaching for a pack and flipping it over to check the price.
“What size is she in?”
“I have no idea.” She chews her lip. “She’s . . . pretty small.”
I reach past her and grab a pack of size ones. “These should work.”
Ryleigh takes them from me, checks the price, and sets them back on the shelf. She reaches for a smaller pack on the bottom shelf instead—store brand, maybe sixteen diapers. “These are fine.”
I know how quickly babies go through diapers. That pack will last two days, three if she’s lucky. I open my mouth to say something, then clamp it shut. I should let her do this her way.
She places the small pack in the cart and moves down the aisle without looking back, and I follow, pushing the cart behind her.
The way she navigates the store—chin up, no hesitation, reaching for the cheapest option of everything—tells me she’s done this kind of math a thousand times.
The math of need versus what she can actually afford. She’s practiced at it. Efficient.
It also tells me she’s been doing it alone for a long time.
Next, we find baby formula, and Ryleigh selects a yellow tub of the stuff, then freezes when she sees the price.
“Are you kidding me?” She holds the tub up and looks at me like I’m personally responsible. “Thirty-seven dollars?”
“Babies are expensive.”
“Yeah, no kidding. I could eat for a week on thirty-seven dollars.” She sets it in the cart with a sigh that seems to come from somewhere deep, then stares at the shelf for another second.
I can see her doing the calculations—how long one tub will last, how many she’d need, what else she’d have to give up to buy a second one.
Babies go through formula even faster than diapers, and she needs at least two or three of those tubs.
She turns away from the shelf with just the one.
I stay quiet. It’s killing me, but I stay quiet.
“What else do you need?” I ask, turning to face her.
Under the bright lights, I can see how truly beautiful she is for the first time.
Her hair is the color of deep honey. It looked brown outside, but here in the light, shades of gold run through the soft waves.
Her skin is like porcelain, soft and creamy, and her eyes are the most striking shade of blue, fringed in thick black lashes.
Stunning. The kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you—that gets prettier the longer you look.
As if she can sense me staring, she chews on her lower lip and shakes her head. “I’m really not sure. I don’t know the first thing about babies. She cries a lot, and I…”
“How old is she?”
“Two months.”
I push the cart to the next aisle and find what I’m looking for. “Does she use one of these?” I ask, selecting a pacifier.
“I’m not sure. My ex-roommate left me with almost nothing. It’s worth a shot.”
I toss a couple of them into the cart and then grab a Boppy pillow. “What about one of these?”
Ryleigh’s delicately arched eyebrows lift. “What the hell is it?”
I laugh again, amused by her honesty. “It’s a special pillow. She can do tummy time on it. Sometimes the crying is due to gas bubbles. This could help.”
She takes the pillow from me and turns it over in her hands, studying it like it’s an artifact from another planet. “Tummy time,” she repeats, deadpan. “You’re telling me babies have scheduled tummy time? Like it’s a workout.”
“I mean, they’re basically just tiny humans who can’t do anything yet. Tummy time is their version of the gym.”
She stares at me for a long beat, and then the corner of her mouth twitches. Not a full smile, but close. I’ll take it. “How do you know so much about babies?” Her eyes widen and lock onto mine.
I shrug, pushing the cart toward the checkout.
“I have a couple of nieces and nephews. I babysit them sometimes.” Whether I want to or not.
I smile, thinking about my sisters shoving one or more babies into my arms at every family gathering.
Tracey’s youngest still grabs fistfuls of my hair whenever I hold her.
Last Thanksgiving, my niece spit up directly into my mouth. That’s a memory I’ll carry to my grave.
“Oh,” Ryleigh says, shaking her head. “So you’re, like… a professional uncle.”
“Something like that.”
We work together unloading the contents of the cart onto the conveyor belt. When the cart is empty, I pull out my gold card and hand it to the cashier.
Ryleigh stiffens. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I’ve got this, no worries.”
“Seriously, I can—” She reaches for her purse, and I can already tell the gesture is mostly symbolic. Whatever tip money she made tonight probably wouldn’t cover half of what’s on the belt.
“Ryleigh.” I say her name calmly, and she stops mid-reach. “You can pay me back if you want. But it’s really not necessary.”
She looks at me, and I can see the wheels spinning.
She wants to trust me, wants to think I’m being chivalrous and gallant, but she’s wary because she’s likely never had a white knight ride in and save her.
I see the underlying distrust, and for some reason, I want to prove to her that tonight, her white knight is real.
Besides, I’m not letting her spend whatever tip money she made tonight on this.
I’m sure she needs it for other things, like fixing her car or feeding herself, not for taking care of a baby unexpectedly dropped off on her doorstep.
I still need to get to the bottom of that story, but I sense that now’s not the time.
The cashier is watching our exchange with narrowed eyes, glancing between the two of us like we’re her entertainment for the night. Ryleigh must notice too because she exhales through her nose and gives me a tight nod.
“Fine. But I’m paying you back.”
“Sure.” I won’t hold my breath, and something tells me she knows it.
The cashier rings up the items, and I accept the bags after sliding my credit card back into my wallet.
The cold hits us like a wall when we step back outside. Ryleigh hunches her shoulders and walks fast toward the car, that thin jacket doing nothing. I hit the unlock button from a few feet away so she can get inside faster.
Once I have the bags loaded into the back seat, we set off again.
The car is warm, and in the quiet, I’m aware of her again—angled slightly toward the window, her breath fogging the glass.
Her knee bounces, and I don’t think it’s about me.
I think she’s thinking about what comes next: going home to a baby she didn’t ask for, in an apartment she can barely afford, in a neighborhood that would make me uneasy—and I’m twice her size.
She hasn’t asked me a single thing about what I do for a living.
She hasn’t asked about the car or the gold card or why a guy like me is walking around this part of the city alone at midnight.
Any other woman would have Googled me by now, or at least tried to figure out if I’m someone important.
Ryleigh’s just sitting there, watching the rain-slicked streets pass by, lost in whatever worries are crowding her brain.
It throws me off more than it should.
A few minutes later, we’ve arrived, and when I park on the street and step out of the car, I get angry.
Really angry.
And my anger only intensifies with every step toward Ryleigh’s apartment.