The Diaper Diaries. Abby Gaines
it,” he said with flat finality.
Bethany pressed her lips together and conducted the rest of her checks on the baby in silence. She put a finger in his mouth, ran it over his gums. Next, she pulled a brightly colored rattle from her bag, held it above and in front of the baby. His eyes focused on the toy, and when she moved it to her left and then her right, his gaze followed. When she put the rattle down on the table, the little boy turned his head to see it. His hand reached out, found only air, and he gave a squirm of frustration.
Bethany picked up the toy, held it to the tips of his fingers. He curled his fingers around it, held it for a moment, then dropped it. “Hmm, I’d say he’s hit three months.”
“How do you know that?”
She’d forgotten momentarily that she wasn’t talking to Tyler after he’d accused her of being a gossip. Nonetheless, she magnanimously decided to share her conclusions with him. “He’s able to follow an object with his eyes and grasp it, but he’s not rolling over, though he’s in good health, with plenty of fat, plus good muscle development. And there’s no sign of teething.”
There was a knock, then Olivia stuck her head around the door. “I have diapers. And something called baby wipes.”
“Perfect timing.” Bethany pulled the tapes on the diaper the baby wore. “Bring them in.”
She tugged the wet diaper out from under the baby. She gave his private parts a quick check, then Olivia handed her a fresh diaper and a wipe. The secretary left the room double quick.
“On all the obvious measures he’s fine, a healthy little guy,” Bethany said as she fastened the clean diaper. She glanced at Tyler. “I still think it’s best if I call social services and have them pick him up.” She began to dress the baby again.
Tyler shook his head. “I can’t throw him into the welfare system when his mom asked me to take him. Who knows what might happen to him.”
“I know.” She gathered the baby in her arms. “Social services will send someone to get him. They might be satisfied with my medical assessment, or they might take him to another doctor. While they try to find his mom, they’ll place him with a foster parent who knows how to look after a baby,” she said with heavy emphasis. “Someone who’ll care about him.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then his gaze flicked down to the baby in her arms. “Thanks very much for your professional advice, Dr. Hart. Be sure and send Olivia your bill.”
Just like that he was dismissing her. He even had the nerve to offer her that meaningless smile, the one he’d given when he’d dismissed her pitch.
He would do the same at their meeting next week. It wouldn’t make any difference if she was coherent, babbling or speaking Swahili.
Bethany’s future flashed before her eyes, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. She’d have to pull out of the research team at Emory; she’d been a late addition to the team, accepted on the basis of her funding from the foundation. Every cent was allocated, they couldn’t carry freeloaders. She would have to start traipsing around the charitable foundations, submitting applications, presenting her case. And every time, she’d be up against dozens of other worthy projects.
This could mean the end of the goal she’d worked toward since she was thirteen years old.
She could find a way to deal with the recriminations from her parents—she just wouldn’t answer her phone for a year—but knowing she’d failed to do the one thing that would make any sense of Melanie’s death…that would haunt her.
Now Tyler stood before her, frowning with faint confusion, as if he couldn’t understand why she was still in his office, still holding “his” baby. He didn’t give a damn about the children she hoped to save. Did he care about anyone, other than himself?
Bethany’s mouth set in a determined line. “I’m not leaving until I’m certain you’ve made acceptable arrangements for this baby.”
“For Pete’s sake.” His hands came together in a throttling motion that she hoped was involuntary. “I told you, I’ll find a sitter. I’ll have Olivia call you later and let you know how I get on.”
“Does that work the same as, ‘Call Olivia and have her slot you into my diary’?”
A smile tugged at Tyler’s mouth. Surprise, surprise, he wasn’t taking her seriously again.
“Do you know how to choose a sitter?” she demanded. He probably planned to ask one of his girlfriends. Goodness knew what sights the poor baby might be subjected to. “You need someone qualified. And I mean capable of more than sashaying down a catwalk.”
He laughed out loud. “Modeling is a very demanding profession,” he chided. “I’ve been told many times.”
“I’m trying to say—”
“I am saying, this is none of your business,” he interrupted. “I assure you, though I don’t have to, and I really don’t know why I’m bothering, that I’ll hire a qualified, professional sitter, the best that money can buy.”
Everything came back to money.
He had it, she needed it.
Which seemed so monumentally unfair, Bethany wanted to cry.
“We’re done here.” Tyler took a step toward the door. “I’ll be happy to update you about the baby at our meeting next week. If you’ll hand him over to me…”
“No,” Bethany said. Because an idea was glimmering in the recesses of her mind, and she just needed a minute to tease it into the open.
“You don’t want an update?” He added hopefully, “Or you don’t want to meet next week?” It obviously didn’t occur to him she wasn’t about to hand over the baby.
It was coming closer, her idea, coalescing into a plan. A plan to get money out of him, without her having to beg, or rob him at gunpoint, both of which had occurred to her in the course of this encounter.
“I want,” she said casually, confidently and—best of all—coherently, “you to hire me as your babysitter.”
The allure of Bethany’s feisty brand of cute was wearing off fast, Tyler decided. And the way she was holding on to the baby as if he was a bargaining chip was decidedly alarming. “No way.”
“I’ve worked with social services in the emergency room,” she said. “They know me, they trust me. When I tell them you’re not a fit guardian for this baby, they’ll be around here faster than you can proposition a supermodel.”
“I doubt that’s possible,” Tyler said coolly. “But, humor me here, why exactly would you want to tell social services that?”
“Because it’s true.” Her tone said, Duh, and he could see she believed it. “I’m not going to let you risk this child’s well-being because you want, for whatever reason, to keep him—” She stopped. “I bet you see this baby as some kind of chick magnet.”
“I’m a chick magnet. And I don’t need you telling lies to social services.” Just the thought of her carrying out that threat made Tyler go cold. He imagined the resulting furor when the news hit the headlines. He might as well go out and have Don’t choose me to run a family think tank tattooed on his forehead right now.
“If this is about the handbag incident,” he said, “I swear I was nowhere near that nightclub, and I haven’t seen either of those women in a long time.”
“What handbag incident?” She shifted the baby to her other shoulder.
Great, why didn’t he make things worse? “Just kidding. Look, how about I let you choose a sitter—one who meets whatever standard you want to set.” He reached for the baby. “Here, he looks heavy, why don’t you pass him over.”
She