Page 37 of Daddy's Unexpected Gift

She shook her head and held her hand out. “That’s exactly the kind of thing I warned you about. Getting too close. Unlock your phone, please.” She wiggled her fingers until I placed my phone in her hand.

My heart lodged in my throat as she began navigating the screen on my phone. Oh, God, what if she saw the pictures of us at the zoo? We were all in yellow, all looking like a family. My stomach dropped, and panic sweat beaded along my spine.

With deft swipes and pokes, she deleted Sterling Alexander from my contacts. “Does he have your number?” She handed the phone back.

I shook my head, still not sure if I could breathe properly enough to answer. I didn’t know if he had it. I couldn’t remember. He knew where I lived. He had given me his number in case I needed it while out, but I hadn’t called or texted him. “I don’t think so.”

“Don’t go copying out of the file. That’s a breach of confidentiality. And a very serious violation, as far as we are concerned. You understand what I’m saying?” She looked up at me again, her eyes narrowed.

Why couldn’t she just say the words and not expect me to fill in the unspoken blank? “My job is on the line if I use my access to their personal information to contact them now that I’m no longer their case worker.”

“Dr. Gareth was right, you are a smart young woman who catches on quickly. Report and file by noon.” She patted the pile again.

I had been dismissed.

Greta had taken office gossip and extrapolated that I was getting too close to the client. How often did that happen in this job? Was I simply following in a well-worn path of first-time social workers getting too involved because we wanted to care, and so we cared too much?

I was numb when I sat at my desk. I flipped open the file. Sterling’s number was right there. I tried to memorize it, but I knew by the time I was done with my report— more a catalog of events, actions, and subsequent tasks for the client to complete— I would have forgotten the string of numbers.

19

STERLING

This morning, I thought getting dressed for the day before the new case worker arrived would be a good idea. I’m not sure when or why, but I had stopped bothering getting dressed for the day until after Georgie had her breakfast. Maybe it was because, for her, at least, skin was easier to wash than clothes. If she got messy and sticky, a quick rinse in the shower was easy enough.

And for me, I didn’t want to repeat the effort. So, I took none. I also think I managed to earn some sympathy points with Cecelia if she showed up and I was still in lounge wear. I looked like the hard put upon, struggling bachelor that I was, thrust unceremoniously into fatherhood.

Surprise, it’s not your kid, but here you go, you now have a baby. Make it work. Cecelia was supposed to be the one helping me make it work. Instead, I now had to face down the stern woman who replaced her.

Cecelia may have made me nuts, but she was delightful and fun. This woman had the warmth of a container ship. Yeah, the whole ship.

Wayne showed her into the kitchen upon her arrival. Her name was Peggy Stanholt, and she was nothing if not prompt.

“You’re not ready for me?” she asked with an imperious tone.

“Breakfast is taking a bit longer than usual. Georgie is having some difficulties this morning.”

This morning was a prime example as to why breakfast was best served while the baby was in just a diaper. After it was clear she would prefer to wear her yogurt instead of eating it, I switched her to oatmeal in case this was her way of letting me know she didn’t want yogurt.

She took handfuls of the warm mush and then began yanking on her clothes. Oatmeal was ground into her collar and down her dress front, both inside and out. There was oatmeal in her hair. I was only aware of the oatmeal that I spooned directly into her mouth making it inside. And half of that, she pushed out with her tongue.

She wasn’t upset. At least there was that. No, Georgie thought this was great fun. She kicked and giggled and used her baby talk words, whatever they meant.

I had oatmeal smeared down one of my thighs, and my shirt looked like a Jackson Pollock painting if he had created using oatmeal and strawberry yogurt. The pants were Dolce & Gabbana linen. I knew nothing about food stains on designer clothes. I just hoped they weren’t ruined.

“You should have had her fed and been ready with your questions by now,” Peggy repeated her complaint.

“I understand. However, as you are well aware, dealing with any of this is new for me. I’m learning that Georgie does not function on a timetable.”

She harrumphed.

“Wayne,” I started. “Why don’t you show Peggy?—”

“Ms. Stanholt,” she corrected.

“Ms. Stanholt to the living room,” I continued. “I am aware you are a busy woman, Ms. Stanholt, and that you have other appointments today. However, I simply cannot leave the baby in this condition while you review the status of our case. I will make this quick.”

“Why can’t he do it?” She pointed at Wayne.

---