Page 37 of Dr. Single Dad

“I don’t think there’s anything left in your flat to bring, even if we had room in the car.”

He nods earnestly. “Yes, you’re probably right. And I can go out and get anything we forgot once we get there.”

I’m a conservative packer when it comes to taking a newborn away, but there’s nothing of Guinevere’s left in the flat. We have literally brought everything with us. I’m not sure how it’s all fitted into the car. Then I look up and see the car, which is more like a bus.

“That’s a big car,” I remark.

“Yeah, I bought it yesterday,” he replies. “I had a Golf that looked like this guy’s lunch. I didn’t see how we were going to fit everything in.”

“So you…bought a bigger car,” I say slowly. I never thought Dax was poor—employing me, the flat in one of the nicest partsof town, the way he’s always dressed in casual but undoubtedly expensive clothes—but dropping six figures on a car as an impulse buy?

“Bigger and safer. I figure most cars that drive into us are going to come off worse for wear.”

I nod. There’s no denying that. This vehicle is the size of a small house.

“Plus I got to drive it away. So…that’s the story with the car.” He sounds like he’s uncomfortable offering so much information. It’s kind of adorable, and I feel oddly pleased that he feels comfortable enough to share stuff with me. Dax isn’t an over-sharer by any stretch. Even if it’s about his new car. He also usually speaks less. Maybe he’s stressed about the journey.

“Wanna lift her in?”

He nods vigorously and unfastens Guinevere from the pram. Before lifting her, he unzips her pramsuit, just before I was going to suggest it. “I saw some awful videos online about kids in coats—how dangerous it is to keep them on and then put them in the car seat.”

“Absolutely,” I say, slightly proud that the science is Dax’s gateway drug into loving and caring for his daughter. “They need to be strapped tightly and securely.”

“I also went out and bought this new car seat. It means she can be flat lying down, which is better on long car journeys. And it’s adjustable.”

“That’s great,” I say as Dax lifts the sleeping Guinevere from the pram into her new car seat, in the brand-new car-slash-bus.

Dax’s love for his daughter is growing by the day. Warmth gathers in my chest.

He clips her in and turns to take the blanket I’m already holding out to him. “Right,” he says, laying it over her. “She didn’t wake up.”

“Milk coma,” I say. “If we get going now, we’ll get a couple of hours driving in, I reckon.”

He flips off the carrycot and slides it into the boot, the wheelbase going in next to it. I can’t believe there’s room.

I have my bag, along with a big bag of supplies for Guinevere that I didn’t want disappearing in the boot.

“Okay,” he says. “I think we’re ready.” He opens the passenger door for me, which is…a surprise. I don’t think any man has ever done that.

“Actually, I’m going to sit next to Guinevere,” I say, and shrug. “It’s not that I think she’s in any danger,” I reassure him. “But being right next to her, if anythingwereto happen, I can get to her in a second. If nothing else, I can stroke her gorgeous rosy cheek and hold her tiny hand and make sure she knows she’s not alone.”

Not to mention the secondary advantage of putting a little space between me and Dax. The backseat gives me room to breathe, despite being in close quarters with Dax for so long.

“Oh,” he says, straightening. “Yes. Of course.”

Once we’re inside, he waits for me to have my seat belt fastened and then pulls away. It’s still early, and there’s less traffic on the Euston Road than I’ve ever seen before.

“Do you go up to see your parents a lot?” I ask.

“Define ‘a lot’,” he says.

“I don’t have a definition in mind,” I reply. “It’s not a trick question. You don’t get scored at the end of it.”

He clears his throat. “No, right. I suppose so.” He seems a little stressed and it’s ten out of ten adorable. “Usually one of my brothers is with them at the weekend.”

“How many brothers do you have?”

“Five,” he answers. “Four and my cousin Vincent.”

---