Page 10 of Matteo

Every member of staff in the clinic earns twenty-five percent more than the average annual salary for the Dallas-Fort Worth area. They also have sixty days of PTO per year that I want them to use, plus their medical insurance is excellent and paid for by me. I want people happy to come to work and benefits are as important as salary.

She hesitates when I tell her I need her to start Monday full-time. I’m not leaving Amy on her own. Just when I think she’s about to turn me down, she accepts. I’ll call Cleo and have her work Sasha in to cover for me.

Hanging up, I look down at the baby in my arms. “It’s easy to be home when there’s something worth being here for.”

I get her settled into the crib, wincing when I see there aren’t any sheets on the mattress. I’ll make it up once I get Amy into the guest bedroom. At least those sheets were changed a week ago. A former colleague from Baltimore was in town for a job interview at a hospital here in Dallas.

Layla frowns when I tell her that I’ll be right back. I’m grateful there are no tears as I walk away. She’s a really good baby.

In the guest room, I pull back the covers so I can easily put Amy in bed.

Getting her out of the car isn’t as easy as getting her in. There’s no way around it—I need to wake her up.

“Amy, we’re here.”

Nothing.

Remembering how she wakes and sharpens each time I mention Layla, I try again. “Amy, I have Layla upstairs.”

Works like a charm. Warmth floods me. I might not know nearly enough about her, but I know she’s a good mom. She hadn’t wanted to depend on anyone else. Until I reminded her it wasn’t just about her—Layla’s needs superseded her pride.

She blinks up at me and pushes herself up from the seat. Looking around the car, she sighs. “Layla? Where’s Layla?”

“Layla is upstairs waiting impatiently for her bottle. Once I have you in bed, I’ll see to her.” I promise.

Sighing, she nods. Her feet go down to the concrete of the garage. She pushes up and out of the car. I’m right beside her and catch her as her legs go out from under her.

It happens all over again. Everything in me is rioting for more—to hold her tight, to taste her sweet mouth. Chocolate eyes are big and afraid. The fear is a fist to my chest. I never want to see it again. To cover the chaos inside me, I say the first thing I would to any other patient. Because she is, and this is all so wrong to feel when she’s ill.

“You really waited until the last minute.” I sigh as I lift her and close the car door with my hip.

“I was sure it would get better on its own.” She croaks out as she allows her head to fall onto my chest.

I shake my head. “You could have wound up with rheumatic fever or harmed your kidneys.”

She flinches at my admonishment. Big pools of melting chocolate are on me. “I’m sorry.” It’s nothing more than a whisper.

The words pierce deep into my chest. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. It’s the doctor in me worried about the damage you could have done to yourself. All that matters is you got the treatment you need and you’ll be better soon.”

Her eyes slide closed. “Thank you.”

I’m thankful her eyes are closed so she can’t see what it does to me when she allows her head to fall against my chest. It’s wrong, so fucking wrong, to want her this badly as I’m taking her into my home.

It doesn’t help when she snuggles into me. I can’t take my eyes off her. With her in my arms, it isn’t simply emotion I’m feeling—it’s a sense of peace I don’t believe I’ve ever felt. Amy is in my arms where she belongs.

I can do this. I can take care of her without losing control of my base instincts. I will treat her like the patient she is until she’s healthy enough for me to move beyond a doctor-patient relationship. And no matter what she decides, I will respect it.

In her bedroom, I lower her down on the bed. The moment she’s out of my arms, they feel empty—I feel empty. Inhaling deep, I force air into starving lungs. Babbling interspersed with vocalizing that’s coming closer and closer to crying warns me to move, or Layla is going to start howling.

I take off Amy’s shoes. An urge to throw them away wells up inside me. She’s not going to wear anything like them again. The same goes for her clothes—cotton, linen, and silk are what she deserves. No more holes or clothes that don’t fit her. Layla too, she’ll never wear something stained and second-hand ever again.

Leaving the door ajar a few inches, I go across the hall to the baby’s bedroom. When she sees me, she gives a little cry of happiness. “You’ve been such a good baby girl, Layla. Thank you. Let’s get you your baba.”

Her little cry of recognition, followed by her reaching for me, hits me square in the chest. Cuddling her close, I’m overwhelmed by the way she clutches at me and babbles happily.

It takes a few minutes to make the bottle one-handed. Once she has the bottle in her mouth, she sucks greedily. I sit with her on the long leather sofa. I’m worried about how quickly she’s drinking it.

Every time I try to pull the bottle out to burp her, she gets pissed. Considering how long it took for me to get her the bottle, and she didn’t scream for it, I can’t bring myself to take it away.

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