Chapter 12 Hunter
HUNTER
Zoey looks how I felt for the first month of Amira’s life. I remember being in a panic over every small cry, wondering what I did wrong. Babies are a guessing game until you figure out how to read their minds or anticipate the problem before it has a chance to rear its ugly head.
I pat her butt, and the diaper is clean. One thing down and a dozen more to go.
“I just changed her.” Zoey stares down at Harlow with sorrow in her eyes. “I tried everything. I fed her, changed her, sang to her.”
“Can you sing?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
Zoey tilts her head and stares at me. “Are you trying to be funny right now? Did I break her?”
“No, babies cry. It happens.”
“It happens? Why the hell does it happen?”
I chuckle. Even though it’s not funny to her, it’s funny to me because I was her years ago. “When all else fails,” I say, flipping the baby in my arms so her hands and legs dangle and her belly is flat against my forearm, and I cradle her face in the palm of my hand. Within ten seconds, she quiets.
“What in the sorcery is that?”
“She has a stomachache. Amira used to get them all the time when she was a baby.”
“You’re a natural,” Zoey says, her voice all breathy like she just finished a marathon.
“No, sweetheart. I’m just a dad with experience.”
“I don’t know why I told Lulu I’d watch Harlow. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Babies aren’t easy,” I tell her, touching her shoulder. “I was in your shoes once.”
She peers up at me with big eyes swimming with unshed tears. “I’ve never been so frazzled in my entire life.”
“Why don’t you come in and relax a minute?”
“No. No. I’d better stay at my place in case Lulu shows up without texting first. You want to come over? I have your leftovers and a bottle of wine that’s calling our names.”
I could say no and go into my empty apartment like an idiot, or I could accept and spend what’s left of the night talking to a pretty woman over a few drinks. The extra perk—the baby. I’m a sucker for them, and if things hadn’t fallen apart between Natalie and me, I would’ve wanted more.
“Your place,” I tell her, moving to hand her Harlow back.
Zoey holds up a hand, stopping my motion. “No. She’s comfortable. Hell, she’s almost asleep.”
“It’s a lot of work, crying that much,” I tell her, watching her face light up as she stares at her niece and touches her tiny, pudgy cheeks.
“I hear that,” she says, and something pulls at my heart. She strokes the baby’s cheek, getting close to her face. “Been there, princess. Tears are exhausting.”
And there’s something about her tenderness that has my heart beating a little bit faster.
As soon as Zoey turns around to walk back into her apartment, she freezes, and I nearly walk into her back. “What’s wrong?”
“Did you send me flowers?” Her voice is so soft, I almost don’t make out the last word.
“No, I didn’t.” I don’t bother asking why I would. We barely know each other.
“No one has ever sent me flowers.”
“Probably from someone in your family,” I tell her, gently bouncing the baby in my arms.
“Maybe my mom,” she says before she moves again.
Zoey bends down, grabbing the flowers off the floor with one hand and reaching for the card with the other, and all the color drains from her face as her eyes skim over the words.