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I grin, relief flooding me when pain seeps from her body. “Oh, you like that, huh?” Reaching out, I brush the tip of her button nose with my finger. “Boop.”

Rosie erupts into a full-on belly laugh that bursts out of her.

Wes goes still, like he might be watching actual magic happen before his eyes.

I glance up at him.

He’s still staring.

Voice gruff, he blurts, “When can you start?”

I’m unsure if he even meant to say it, or if he’s so exhausted he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

His gaze drops to Rosie, who’s still laughing and clinging to me like I’m a new toy.

“I need someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who gives a damn. And you…” His dark eyes flick to mine. “Yeah. You’ll do.”

Four

Wes

Rosie’s perched in her highchair, cheeks smeared with berry pulp, and babbling like she’s got a whole damn speech to give. I cradle my coffee mug at the kitchen island, trying to wake up enough to catch every garbled syllable.

“Morning to you, too, princess,” I say, voice still rough with sleep.

Her only reply is more enthusiastic babble with one hand waving in the air like she’s certain she can make a point if she tries hard enough.

I let out a low laugh and take another sip. “You got alot to say today, huh?”

She offers up more nonsense in return, her bright eyes fixed on me, and it never fails to punch a hole in my chest. Sometimes it stings, how pure and trusting she is, even though she has every right not to be.

There are still no actual words from her this morning. I read somewhere that talking to babies like they’re adults helps them develop speech, so that’s what I do. I speak to her constantly—about work, about house projects I need to finish, and about how I’m in way over my head trying to be her parent, but I’m giving it everything I’ve got.

She just babbles and shoves berries into her mouth.

“Maybe that’s why you don’t talk yet.” I wipe a berry chunk off her chin with my thumb. “Your mouth’s always stuffed with food.”

That gets a giggle.

My chest twists with both guilt and worry. It’s hard to pin down which one these days. The doctor said she’s fine, that all kids hit milestones at their own pace, but every time she calls me by a drawn-out string of babbles instead of, I don’t know, words, I get this knot in my stomach. Like I’m failing her somehow.

She’s fourteen months old. There should be something resembling a word, right?

I settle in, leaning against the counter. “Got a new nanny starting today. Lena. Ring any bells?”

Rosie bounces her feet, a big grin on her face as if to say,Sure, Uncle Wes, I remember that lady.It’s more babbling, but I like to think she understands more than I realize.

I went through an agency to find the nanny. They posted the job listing and vetted the applications. Lena’s was the first to hit my inbox. I had a couple of others lined up, and figured I’d get through them bythe end of the week. Then she showed up and smiled like the job interview didn’t faze her at all.

I don’t know what I was expecting when I opened the door. I just wasn’t expecting…her.

She was all bright brown eyes and soft smiles.

But she’s got a degree. References. Kids love her, apparently. I just wasn’t prepared for how fucking beautiful she is.