Page 3 of Nanny for the Bikers

We don’t have much of a choice.

2

CLAY

“Pull up the security footage, now!” I bark at Teller, my voice taut with urgency, as we all make it back inside the townhouse, each circling around the monitors we have set up in the office.I never thought we’d be using the surveillance monitors to look for the woman who just left a baby at our door.“We need to figure out what the hell just happened.”

Teller’s brow furrows, but he springs into action without question, his fingers flying across the keyboard. I pace behind him, my mind reeling. How could this happen? Who would abandon a helpless baby on our doorstep?

What kind of monster leaves their child?

The baby’s cries pierce the air, and Kip bounces her awkwardly, his eyes wide with panic. “Should I... feed her or something?” he asks, his voice cracking.

I run a hand through my hair, trying to think. I have no idea what a baby needs to stop crying, let alone if we even have milk.“Just keep her calm for a minute,” I mutter. I turn back to Teller. “Anything?”

“Got it,” he says, his voice low and focused. “Rewinding now.”

We huddle around the screen, holding our breath as the footage plays in reverse. A hooded figure appears, placing the baby and all of her belongings down gently on our welcome mat. Teller pauses the video and zooms in.

My stomach drops as recognition dawns. Those eyes, that hair peeking out... I know that face. Teller meets my gaze, his expression grim. “Sydney,” he says simply. “I hate to say it, but I think I remember her.”

“What the hell?” I breathe, my head spinning. We were always so careful…

Teller sighs heavily. “She might have tampered with the condoms.” His words hang in the air, the weight of the implications crushing me.

I sink onto the couch, my legs suddenly weak. “What do we do now?” I whisper, staring at the crying infant in Kip’s arms.

Teller places a hand on my shoulder, his touch steadying me. “We get a paternity test, make sure one of us really is the father. First thing tomorrow,” he says calmly. “But for tonight, she needs to stay with us. She doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Kip’s soft cooing pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. I glance over to see him gently bouncing the baby, his brow furrowed in concentration. The crying has stopped, replaced by small hiccups and sniffles.

“Hey, I think she likes me,” Kip says, a tentative smile on his face. He looks up at us, his eyes wide. “Now what?”

Teller strides over, peering at the baby. “She probably needs a bottle. Maybe there is some formula in the bag.” He rummages through the duffel bag left with her, pulling out a container of powder and a few clean bottles.

“Okay, but how do I make it?” Kip asks, a hint of panic creeping into his voice.

Teller’s lips twitch, fighting a smile. “Measure the powder, add water, and shake.” He hands Kip the bottle and formula. “Just make sure you warm it up a bit first. Not too hot, though.”

Kip nods, looking a bit overwhelmed. He shifts the baby to one arm and takes the bottle and formula gingerly. “Right. Warm. Not hot. Got it.”

I go with Kip in the kitchen, helping him mix the formula and water. The microwave hums as Kip heats the bottle, bouncing the baby gently in his arms. It’s weird to see him like this, a playboy turned potentially baby daddy in a matter of hours.

I take a deep breath, trying to center myself amidst the whirlwind of emotions. Teller’s gaze meets mine, and I can see the same mix of uncertainty reflected in his eyes.

“We’ll figure out the truth,” he says softly, as if reading my thoughts.

I nod. “You’re right. First things first, we need to make sure she’s comfortable for the night.”

I look around the living room, trying to envision where we can set up a temporary sleeping area for the baby.

Teller’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “I think I have a plan for a makeshift crib. We can use that old playpen from when my sister’s kids visited last summer.”

I blink, surprised and grateful for his quick thinking. “That’s perfect. I forgot we even had that.”

It doesn’t take long to find the playpen, thankfully. And, together, we move it into the living room, lining it with soft blankets and pillows.

No sooner than we do, a pungent odor wafts up from the baby, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust. “Uh oh, looks like someone needs a diaper change.”

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