Page 27 of Paternal Instincts
By the time Quaid landed in the kitchen, I’d plated him a stack of oatmeal banana walnut waffles and put them on the table with his disgusting sugar-free syrup. For mine, I substituted flour instead of oatmeal and chocolate chips instead of nuts, drowning them in pure maple bliss. To this day, Quaid had yet to lecture me on the minor modifications I made to my meal. So, we ate better food, I got my chocolate chips and liquid sugar kick, and he no longer fought me on eating breakfast.
Mostly.
“That’s a lot of food.” He examined the mountain of five fluffy waffles I’d piled on his plate.
“You have a busy day ahead. You need to fuel that big, beautiful brain.” I handed him a steaming mug of coffee. “Eat what you can. I don’t expect miracles.”
He sat and dug in, mind far away, no doubt mentally compiling lists of everything he needed to do. Now and again, he checked incoming messages on his phone, scowling as he typed responses. Jordyn likely. Possibly Edwards.
“The search team has been out since sunup,” he said after one particular message landed. He glanced at the window, where an angle of morning light slanted across the counter.
“Anything yet?”
“No. The constables finished canvassing yesterday evening, but not a single neighbor recalls seeing Crow on Tuesday night, nor did they report any unusual behavior from the Davises.”
“What did Edwards say?”
He chuckled, a reaction I wasn’t expecting. “His actual words when I told him I took a spontaneous case instead of going on parental leave were, ‘Of course you did because even with a baby halfway out of the birthing canal, you can’t fucking stop. Jesus Christ, Valor, why am I not surprised?’”
I laughed. “Well, at least he didn’t tell you no.”
“He tried but gave up fast.” Quaid checked the time. “Shit. Can you call Bryn and see how she’s doing? I’ve been praying for the contractions to start, and now I want the baby to hold off for a few more days. I’m not ready.”
“I’ll call her.” Our surrogate was staying with her brother, who lived locally, saving us from having to make a three-hour drive to Bryn’s hometown when she went into labor. “What time should I expect the footage from the Soccerplex?”
He stabbed three more pieces of waffle, stuffing them into his mouth before pushing his plate away. It was shortly past seven, and his urgency to leave was showing. Swallowing, he drained his coffee and said, “I’ll call the guy when I’m on the road, press him, and hopefully, it will be ready before nine. Costa’s helping you?”
“He said he would. We’re meeting at his place. Tia had a hair appointment she didn’t want to miss, and he was supposed to be off work this weekend, so he needs to watch the girls.”
Quaid pushed away from the table, fixing his tie and smoothing his shirtfront.
I collected dishes and loaded the dishwasher. He’d polished off three of the five waffles, which I considered a win. Quaid didn’t have a huge appetite on a good day, so I didn’t nag him about the remaining two. Three was a success. Three was a world better than the fights we used to have over food when it took an iron will to convince him to eat half a piece of dry toast.
“I’ve got to run. I’ll call you. It will be chaotic once the family finds out Crow is missing.”
I followed him to the front door and handed him the car keys once he’d slipped his shoes on. He patted his body, checking that he had everything. Holstered weapon, credentials, wallet, keys, and phone.
“You’ve already messed up your hair.” I tamed the defiant pieces and took his face between my palms, kissing him soundly. His clean-shaven jaw was silky smooth and enticing. I lingered, and he didn’t pull away until…
“Shit,” he said against my mouth.
“What?”
“I was going to rewash all the baby clothes today. I got that special detergent I read about. The baby one. It’s gentler than the one weuse. Reduces the risk of irritating their sensitive skin. Dammit.” He checked the time on his watch, a gift from his father at Christmas.
“It’ll get done. I’ll start it when I’m home later.”
“The stuff in our hospital bag needs to be rewashed as well. And the blankets in the crib and the ones in the wicker basket beside the crib. And the bedding. Shit, and all the diapers. They’re on a shelf below the change table.”
I internally groaned at the mention of diapers. After reading an article in a new age parenting magazine, Quaid decided disposable diapers were bad for the environment and bought a stack of cloth diapers instead. Considering the man had zero experience with newborn shit explosions, I’d been unable to persuade him to change his mind. I gave his radical decision one week before he realized his mistake and resorted to using disposables like the rest of the sane population.
He spun to the door, then spun back. “Oh, and Amelia. Can you call Amelia? She’s planning the meet-the-baby shower thing and wanted to review the menu details and games or something. She wants to do it at your mother’s house. Please suggest a restaurant. We don’t need anything complicated. That way, no one has to worry about cooking. Plus, I don’t want silly games. A short meet and greet with friends and family is enough once the baby is here.”
“At a restaurant?” It wasn’t often Quaid suggested dining out.
“Yes.”
“You know my mother won’t like that.”
