Page 22 of Dr. Single Dad

She doesn’t wait for an answer, just slides her hand under Guinevere and lifts her up. Every muscle in my body tenses as I wait for the expression of pain Guinevere wears every time my hand leaves her tummy, but surprisingly, she stays fast asleep.

“Sit back,” she says. “Unbutton your shirt.”

For a second, I wonder if things are taking an unexpected turn. Then I realize she’s unsnapping Guinevere’s sleepsuit. Skin on skin. Obviously I’ve heard of it. I’ve read all the books. It just feels so…unnatural. Once I’m dressed, I’m dressed. Why would I want to get undressed?

Eira maneuvers Guinevere around and places her on my chest, her head nestled under my chin. The baby hasn’t made a sound.

“There. She’ll be able to hear your heartbeat like that.” She glances around for something. “It’s chilly in here. We should get a room thermometer.” She takes a blanket and places it over us both.

“What do I do now?” I say.How long do I stay here?I don’t say, but I really hope she’ll offer up the information. I’m just sitting here, not doing anything at all. I should be in the office by now.

“Just be with your daughter,” she says.

My daughter.

The daughter I never thought I’d have.

I’m not a monster. I don’t want Guinevere growing up knowing I didn’t want her, but I’m not what anyone would call a natural father.

“Should I read her a book?”

Eira shrugs. “Maybe later. She just wants to feel your heat. Breathe in your scent. She needs to learn that you won’t abandon her. She’s lost one parent and a nanny. She uses her sweet voice to make sure she doesn’t lose anyone else.”

Her words hit me in the chest like a rock to the rib cage. Fuck. This poor, helpless baby has already been abandoned by a parent. Just a week old and I already need to be saving for therapy. I take a breath and let my body relax, smoothing my hand over Guinevere’s back.

“Guinevere’s a beautiful name. Are you an Arthurian enthusiast?”

I let out a half-laugh. “Back in the day.”

Silence stretches between us, and I shift in my seat. I don’t normally mind silences, but I feel an expectation—from myself—to fill the gap. Eira doesn’t seem to notice the lack of conversation. She’s looking around the room, taking everything in.

“I suppose if you weren’t expecting her, you didn’t have time to prepare,” she says.

“I’m not the sort of guy who would have painted Winnie-the-Pooh murals on the walls even if I had known she was coming.”

Eira laughs almost silently, and I feel it travel down my spine.

“No, you don’t strike me as that type of guy.”

What does that mean?

What type of guy do I strike her as? And why am I even wondering that?

“We could do with some things. Like the room thermometer. And clothes. And muslins. Bottles. A baby bath seat. Some first-aid stuff.”

“I can give you my credit card. You can order what you want.”

She doesn’t react. “And why don’t you have the crib in your room?”

“Because the cot is in this room. This is the nursery.”

“She should sleep with you. For the first six months at least. It’s recommended, but given the circumstances, it will be good for both of you. When we go shopping, we can pick up a crib for your room as well. Do you have time today?” she asks, turning and unscrewing bottles and premade milk and decanting one to the other. Guinevere isn’t awake. I hope Eira isn’t one of those nannies who wakes sleeping babies to feed them. Can’t we just let her sleep?

“Like I said, I’ll give you my credit card. You can get everything we need. You can even paint a Winnie-the-Pooh mural in here if you like.”

She gives me a tight smile, like I’m not amusing or charming at all. “We shall go shopping together,” she says, resolutely. “When are you free? What about lunchtime today?”

Her tone is firm, which is quite at odds with my first impression of her as someone who thinks children should be boundaryless and run riot all over the place. I wonder if she’ll be as firm with Guinevere.

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