Page 56 of Rumor Has It

Once I was the hell away from Nashville, staying away rooted itself in my bones. Forget the six or eight hours traveling and putting on a composed front for the DJ. I needed twenty-four hours without a reminder that someday being raised by an idiot like me is the reason this little girl is going to have her psychotherapist on speed dial.

As if her blaming me for her mother’s death wasn’t enough.

“Give the baby to me, man. Her diaper’s probably wet.” Back from the driveway, Monty snags the baby around the waist.

She angrily kicks her feet in the air until the big lunk cradles her. Her cries turn to gasps and the shaking subsides.

I stare in amazement.

“What? I spent the whole time we were in Texas with my sister’s kids. You think I can’t change a diaper?” He pats her bum twice, baby talking to her as they disappear back up the stairs to her nursery. “Ah yeah. That’s it ,huh,Aria. You n’ me. We’re gonna get a new dipey and maybe I’ll snag a brewski while you have your bottle and then we’ll watch the ball drop on the TV. Whaddya say, girlie?”

“Monty’s better suited to care for her than you are.” Vespa crosses her arms.

“I doubt my security guard wants to moonlight as a nanny. Maybe you could explain why the hell you couldn’t find a replacement?” My anger and sorrow rises.

“Child care is hard to come by on New. Years. Eve.” Vespa punctuates the words with haughty derision. “More people than Isaiah Roomer want to have a good time without their kids around. And it isn’t my fault the baby’s nurse fell and broke her elbow this afternoon. Would it kill you to be grateful that she wasn’t holding Aria when she slipped?”

I level my assistant with a stare. Vespa’s toe tapping, waiting for my response, becomes lighter and lighter until her foot stills.

She’s correct that Monty’s better with Aria than I am. But I don’t appreciate the dig. And I don’t appreciate her implying I’d want anyone’s child hurt. Not when I’ve done everything in my power to keep this child safe. She’s helped me keep this child’s existence a secret, and she’s aware my intentions were good.

“You can’t tell me that none of your connections could come through in a bind, Vespa.”

I had less than ten minutes to pack before Monty picked me up. Which means Vespa set everything in motion before calling me. No wonder she refused to take no for an answer.

Can you blame her? The blonde you intended to spend the night with wasn’t a six-month-old either.

“What difference does it make? You’re here now and…” Her arms flop to her sides.

I tilt my chin. “And?”

Unwilling to look at me, Vespa strides toward the wet bar. “The gig was up. Vacation. Your extended romp in the hay. Whatever you want to call it. You would have been back a few hours from now. Tour prep is supposed to be your focus. Not women… Or babies. Starting tomorrow, we have work to do.” She grabs a full bottle of bourbon and a tumbler. “So, if you’ll excuse me, this unopened bottle of Macallen is going to waste. It’s been calling my name. And after the afternoon I’ve had, I intend to drink the whole damn thing and pass out.”

“Vespa! Who is supposed to take care of the baby?”

She turns on her way up the stairs, touching her nose: the universal “not it” sign. “Aren’t you the one who insisted I take the holidays off? Happy fucking New Year.”

After she’s gone, I stand there with my thumb and the knuckle of my forefinger pressed into my eye sockets. I’m tired and hungry and I miss Cassidy already. What kind of man misses a woman he’s just met?

What kind of asshole parent leaves a baby alone at Christmas? I’ve been trying to figure that out since I extended my trip.

The scent of popcorn reaches my nose and I follow it to the kitchen as the microwave beeps.

Monty and I got stuck in traffic on the way to the airstrip. Then the flight hit turbulence and the flight attendant had to buckle up. Because of that, neither of us has eaten. I’m not sure what Monty’s plans were for New Year’s Eve, but mine included a four course dinner. I skipped lunch and now my stomach is eating itself. I don’t want food from the microwave, though. I want for Cassidy to show me how to cook and then for us to sit down at the table and eat together.

I bring the steaming bag into the den where Monty is relaxing on the couch. He has the baby cradled in one arm and a beer in the other. The widescreen TV plays on low volume. Times Square revelers are bundled up, braving the cold.

I sit and shake the bag at him. “Dinner is served.”

“Thanks, man. Here, hold her.” He sets his beer on the coffee table and pushes the baby at me.

“She’s sleeping. I’ll hold the popcorn for you.”

“Take the damn kid,” he grumbles.

“I thought there was no swearing in front of her.”

“She’s sleeping. And you have to get used to Aria at some point. It’s been half a year. This kid’s not going anywhere.”

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