Page 4 of Daddy's Unexpected Gift

Greta eased her arm full of files onto the desk, sorted through them, and pulled a few more out, setting them aside. “That should be everything you need. I’ll leave you to it. The green folder has your travel expenses and mileage forms.”

“Thank you.” I was pretty sure I didn’t mean it. After all, she had just shoved me into the deep end of the pool without asking whether I knew how to swim. In this particular case, I did not. I didn’t know what needed to be done during a home inspection. Was I only doing an inspection?

I sat down and put the tote bag I held over my shoulder on the desk in front of me. I looked at the file folders. Nothing was labeled. Everything was a different color. Opening the desk drawers, I located a Sharpie marker and sticky notes. I didn’t know what the policy was for writing on the folders, so I labeled the sticky notes and plastered those to the fronts of the appropriate folders.

I separated the files into two stacks, one to make copies of and the other to read. I didn’t even know what to do with half of the forms. I cracked open the folder with PROCEDURES scribbled across the yellow sticky on its front. Hopefully, after reading through this, I would know a little more about what to do.

I tried to review protocol, but my mind kept returning to Georgie. If she had a clear transfer of custody, why were we even involved? I set aside the blue folder and picked up the one with Georgie’s photo inside it.

Her file read like a romantic tragedy, poor little rich girl lost in a bureaucratic system. Just as Greta said, we were involved because there seemed to be a biological father involved with the custody. He needed to be located, and from what I read, it looked like they didn’t have his identity, but someone did.

Poor little girl.

I flipped the page and read the name of her uncle who had custody. Sterling Alexander. I gulped. No, that couldn’t be right, not the Sterling Alexander who leveraged his family’s fortune into an even bigger fortune through online streaming technology?

It was him. So, not poor at all.

3

STERLING

“When is the nanny supposed to arrive?” I pressed my fingers to my temples. A headache pounded through my brain. The baby had spent the morning wailing.

She woke up crying, and she didn’t stop.

Between Wayne and me, we managed to get her changed and into clean clothes. That didn’t stop the crying. He held her on his lap as I tried to spoon applesauce into her mouth, and that also did not stop her crying. Nothing soothed the child.

By the time she passed out, I think we were all exhausted.

“I don’t believe she’s a nanny,” Wayne said as he held out a bottle of headache reliever pills and a glass of water.

I tossed back double the recommended amount and then drained the glass.

“Then why are they sending someone out? I thought she said they were sending someone from the agency to help out. Sounds like a nanny to me,” I muttered.

“Would you care for?—”

“A Bloody Mary,” I instantly requested. “Extra Tabasco.”

“Is alcohol wise this early?”

“Consider it brunch. Fry up some bacon and stick a couple of slices in the drink. I don’t think I can face super greens this morning.” I stopped and turned to watch him. The man was unflappable. How was it that he didn’t need a stiff drink after the morning we'd endured?

I stood in the living room and stared down at the sleeping kid. I guess calling her a kid was being generous. She still had the round face of a baby and didn’t seem to be able to even walk yet.

She sprawled out on the floor, her pudgy little arms above her head. She slept where she'd collapsed. I didn’t want her to fall, so setting her on the floor seemed like the best idea. She just sat there and wailed until she fell over from exhaustion.

“Me too, kid.” Part of me sympathized with her. Best to just give up and sleep and try again later.

The smell of frying bacon wafted in from the kitchen. I followed the smell just in time to watch Wayne put the final touches on my drink.

“Oh, you’re here. You drink,” he said, handing it to me. “Is it wise to leave Miss Georgie alone?”

“She’s asleep, and we’re only a few yards away. It’s not as if we have left the apartment with her sleeping on the floor.”

I took my drink and sauntered back into the living room. He had a point, and the floor seemed so undignified. But I didn’t want to risk waking her if I tried to move her. And where would I put her? She spent the night in a laundry basket next to my bed.

I squatted down and peered into her little face. She looked exactly like Argene had when she was born. They could be twins, or clones. I hadn’t known what to do with Argene at that point, either. And it certainly wasn’t as if our mother would have encouraged me to interact with a baby girl.

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