Page 5

Chapter Four

brYSON

I 'd organized the kitchen countertop into stations: formula preparation to the left, bottle sterilization center, and feeding accessories arranged by size to the right. But now, with Chloe's piercing wails echoing off the tile backsplash, my careful system was crumbling faster than the powdered formula I'd just spilled across the granite.

My hands trembled as I screwed the top on the bottle and fumbled with the bottle warmer I’d ordered online yesterday for overnight delivery—a contraption that suddenly seemed designed by sadists rather than for the convenience for caretakers, as advertised. The warmer ticked mockingly as Chloe's cries reached a new pitch.

“Come on, come on,” I muttered, jabbing at buttons with increasing desperation. The swing in the corner of the kitchen rocked furiously, as if the machine itself was panicking along with me. Chloe's tiny face had turned an alarming shade of crimson, her little fists punching the air in protest.

The formula canister slipped from my sweaty grip as I went to put it away, scattering white powder across my meticulously clean floor. I stared at the mess, momentarily paralyzed. The neat freak in me wanted to grab the vacuum, but the increasingly frantic cries from the swing kept me locked in place, torn between my need for order and the more immediate crisis at hand.

“For God's sake, Bryson, it's just a little mess,” I scolded myself, though the sight of it made my skin crawl. I bent down to scoop up what I could with my hands, wincing as the powder stuck to my damp palms. Chloe's crying had transformed into something primal now, a sound that seemed to bypass my ears and strike directly at some ancient caretaking instinct I apparently lacked.

“Please, sweetheart,” I pleaded, glancing over my shoulder at the red-faced infant. “Just a few more minutes. I'm trying.”

The bottle warmer beeped, but when I grabbed the bottle to test it on my wrist, the liquid felt cold. I'd done something wrong again. Water pooled in my eyes as frustration mounted. That's when I heard the front door open, followed by a familiar voice calling my name. Relief washed over me so intensely that my knees nearly buckled.

“In the kitchen!” I called out, my voice cracking with stress. “Hurry!”

Tucker appeared in the doorway, his coal-black hair windswept and his blue eyes immediately taking in the scene before him. He wore the same rumpled t-shirt from this morning, and his jaw carried that perpetual dark scruff that somehow made him look put-together even when disheveled.

“What the hell happened? I only stepped outside for a few minutes.”

“Yeah, well, I’m glad you’re back,” I exclaimed, gesturing wildly between the crying baby and the formula disaster. “She won't stop crying and this bottle is taking an eternity to warm up. I don't know what to do.”

Tucker's response was to shrug off his jacket, revealing tattooed forearms that made my stomach flip despite the ensuing chaos. He crossed the kitchen in three long strides, bypassing me entirely, and headed straight for the swing. “Hey there, little monster,” he cooed in a voice I'd never heard him use with anyone but Chloe. “What's all this fuss about, huh?”

With practiced ease, he unbuckled her and lifted her against his chest, one large hand supporting her head while the other patted her back in a gentle rhythm. Almost immediately, her crying softened to hiccupping sobs.

I stood frozen, the half-prepared bottle dangling uselessly from my fingers. “How do you do that?” I asked, not bothering to hide the mix of awe and envy in my voice.

He shrugged, continuing his slow bouncing motion. “Babies can smell fear, Bry. You're radiating panic like it's your cologne.”

“I'm not panicking,” I insisted, even as I noticed formula powder coating the front of my carefully ironed shirt. “I'm just... methodically concerned.”

That earned me a laugh, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes in a way that simultaneously irritated and charmed me. “Man, even your freakouts come with an instruction manual.”

I felt my cheeks heat as I plopped the bottle back in the warmer and turned to get the broom and dustpan. “So, how’s the funeral arrangements going?” I asked, as I began sweeping the floor.

“Fine. I have a few questions for you about what you think Brooke would prefer, but I’ve got everything else figured out.” He had shifted Chloe to his shoulder now, where she nestled contentedly, her previous distress apparently forgotten. “But clearly I missed all the excitement here.”

“Yes, well,” I cleared my throat, “taking care of this little girl is turning out to be more complicated than anticipated. I just wish I was better at this.” I dumped the mess in the garbage then turned to face him. “The parenting books all say that babies need to be on a schedule, so I came up with one: breakfast at six followed by story time and of course, tummy time. Nap from eight to nine, then a bottle, cuddles, and playtime until it was time for?—”

A loud snort from Tucker interrupted me. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

My eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means babies don't follow rigid schedules, Bry. Sure, you can get them used to a routine, but the timing will still fluctuate based on their mood,” he replied calmly.

“Oh, suddenly you’re an expert on babies?” I muttered once I’d turned my back on him, testing the bottle temperature again. Perfect this time.

“What was that?”

“I said her bottle is ready,” I lied, reaching my hands out to take her from him.

“Uh, you might want to hold that thought,” he said, wrinkling his nose. He lifted Chloe’s rear end up to his nose and took a whiff, shuddering in response. “Jesus, kid! How can anything so cute produce a smell that bad?”

I couldn't help but smirk as Tucker's face contorted in disgust. “Well, Mr. Expert, looks like it's your turn to shine. Diaper duty awaits.”

His eyes widened in panic. “Wait, what? No, I—I was just about to hop on another call. Very important. Can't miss it.”

“Nice try,” I said, crossing my arms. “But I distinctly remember someone telling me that babies don't follow rigid schedules. So, I'm sure whoever you were going to call won't mind waiting while you tend to our little bundle of joy.”

With a dramatic sigh, Tucker carried Chloe to the changing station I'd set up in the living room. I followed, bottle in hand, eager to witness how the self-proclaimed baby whisperer would handle this particular challenge.

“There we go, Chlo-bear,” he cooed, laying her down gently on the changing pad, his confident demeanor faltering slightly as he surveyed the array of supplies I'd meticulously arranged. “Okay, how hard can this be?” he muttered, more to himself than to me.

I leaned against the doorframe, trying not to look too smug. “Remember, wipes, cream, new diaper. In that order.”

He shot me a look. “I got this, Bry. No backseat diaper changing.”

I held up my hands in mock surrender and watched as he fumbled with the tabs on the diaper. His nose wrinkled as he peeled it back, revealing the mess within. “Holy shi— I mean, cow,” he corrected himself quickly. “What is in that formula?”

I bit back a laugh as his confident facade crumbled. He reached for the wipes with one hand while attempting to hold her legs up with the other, resulting in a precarious balancing act that was doomed from the start.

“Uh, little help here?” he pleaded, his eyes wide with panic.

I stepped forward, unable to resist. “I thought you 'got this'?” I teased, but I grabbed a handful of wipes and passed them over.

He took them gratefully, then proceeded to use about half the package on Chloe's tiny bottom. “Better safe than sorry, right?” he muttered, his forehead creased in concentration.

I watched in fascinated horror as he fumbled with the tube of diaper cream, squeezing far too much onto his fingers. “Tucker, that's way too—” But it was too late. He slathered the excess cream onto her bottom with the enthusiasm of a toddler finger-painting. I winced as I watched him struggle to wrangle her squirming legs while simultaneously trying to keep the white goop contained.

“You're using enough cream to frost a cake,” I said, unable to hold back any longer.

He glanced up at me, a smear of white across his forehead where he'd obviously run a hand through his hair. “Is there such a thing as too much? I mean, we want to prevent diaper rash, right?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, torn between exasperation and amusement. “Yes, but at this rate, she'll slide right out of her onesie.”

His brow furrowed as he surveyed his handiwork. “Huh. Maybe you have a point.” He reached for another wipe, attempting to clean up some of the excess cream, but only managed to smear it further.

I couldn't help but chuckle as I watched him, the mighty world traveler, reduced to a fumbling mess by a tiny infant. “Okay, I think I've got it under control now,” he announced, reaching for a fresh diaper with a look of determination. I bit my lip to keep from laughing as he held it up, squinting at it as if it were some alien artifact. “Wait, which side goes where?”

“The tabs go in the back,” I offered, unable to resist.

“Right, right. I knew that,” he muttered, flipping the diaper around. He lifted Chloe's legs with one hand, sliding the diaper underneath with the other. It was almost graceful, until he let go and her legs flopped back down, causing the diaper to shift askew. His brow furrowed as he tried to straighten it, but she chose that moment to start kicking her legs with renewed vigor.

“Whoa there, little bit,” he chuckled nervously, trying to wrangle her squirming form. “Let's not make this harder than it needs to be.”

I couldn't help but snicker as I watched him struggle. “Having some trouble there?”

Tucker shot me a glare, his perfect jawline clenched in frustration. “I've climbed Kilimanjaro. I've navigated the Amazon. This should not be beyond my capabilities.”

“And yet,” I gestured to the disaster before us, “here we are.”

He huffed, blowing a strand of his coal-black hair out of his eyes. “Alright, smartass,” he grumbled, “if you're such an expert, why don't you show me how it's done?”

I hesitated for a moment, suddenly aware that my own diaper-changing skills were largely theoretical. But I couldn't back down now, not after giving him such a hard time. “Fine,” I said, stepping forward and lowering myself to the floor. “Watch and learn.”

Gently nudging him aside, I tried to ignore the warmth that radiated from his body as we brushed against each other. Focus, Bryson, I chided myself. You've got a point to prove.

I surveyed the scene before me: Chloe, still kicking and squirming, lay on a changing pad that looked like a war zone. Wipes were strewn about, the tube of diaper cream lay discarded, its contents oozing onto the carpet, and the new diaper hung precariously off one of her legs.

“Okay, sweet girl,” I cooed, trying to channel Tucker's earlier calm. “Let's get you sorted out.”

I reached for a fresh wipe, determined to clean up the excess cream he had so liberally applied. As I leaned in, Chloe's tiny foot connected with my hand, sending the wipe flying across the room. It landed with a wet splat on the TV screen.

Tucker snorted beside me. “Smooth move, diaper master.”

I shot him a glare then turned back to Chloe, determined to prove I could handle this. “Alright, let's try this again,” I murmured, reaching for another wipe. This time, I managed to dodge her flailing limbs and began to clean up the mess he had made.

“See? It's not so hard,” I said, more to myself than to Tucker. But as soon as the words left my mouth, she decided to up the ante. With a mischievous gurgle, she let loose a stream that with the angle of her legs caused it to spray through the air like a miniature fountain.

“Oh my God!” Tucker yelped, jumping back to avoid the spray. I wasn't so lucky. I stood there, frozen in shock, as warm liquid soaked through my carefully ironed shirt.

His laughter filled the room. “Well, I guess she showed you, huh?”

I gritted my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me lose my cool. “It's fine. This is fine. We can handle this,” I said, my voice strained but steady. “Let's try this one more time.”

His laughter died down as he watched me strip off my soiled shirt. I could feel his eyes on me, but I focused on the task at hand. “Pass me those wipes, would you?” I asked, not looking at him.

I reached my hand out, but when he made no attempt to move, I turned my head in his direction. “You okay?” I asked.

Bright blue eyes darted from my bare chest to my questioning gaze. He swallowed hard, an almost guilty expression on his face. “Yeah, sorry. What did you say?”

“I asked you to hand me the wipes,” I repeated. I had no idea what was going through his mind, but I had more pressing matters to deal with, namely, wrangling this tiny human into clothes before anything else came out of her.

Tucker suddenly sprang into action. “Here, let’s tag team this,” he said, handing me the wipes and shuffling up by her head. He grasped her tiny ankles in each of his hands and carefully lifted her bottom off the changing pad.

I nodded gratefully, rushing to wipe both her and the changing pad. He continued holding her legs up as I slid a new diaper under her. Chloe, apparently quite pleased with herself, cooed and giggled, her little legs kicking in the air.

“You think you're pretty clever, don't you?” I couldn't help but smile at her, despite the mess. Her eyes—so like her father's—sparkled with mischief.

He grinned. “That's my girl.”

“You’re a troublemaker like your uncle, aren’t you?” I teased, flashing him a wink. I reached for a fresh onesie. “Alright, let's get you dressed before you decide to christen anything else in this room.”

I maneuvered the onesie over Chloe's head while Tucker kept her legs steady. Her tiny arms flailed as we tried to guide them through the sleeves, making me feel like I was wrestling an octopus rather than dressing an infant.

“Okay, on three,” I said, meeting his eyes. “One, two?—”

“Three!” We chorused together, each of us grabbing a limb and swiftly guiding it into its designated hole. I quickly snapped the material between her legs and leaned back with a satisfied sigh.

Chloe giggled, apparently enjoying our clumsy efforts. Her laughter was infectious, and I found myself chuckling along with her, the stress of the earlier disaster melting away.

“Now for the rest,” Tucker grinned, nodding toward the tiny yellow pants and shirt combo with little duckies across the chest. “You ready for this?”

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. “As I'll ever be.”

Chloe squirmed and giggled, making the task far more challenging than it had any right to be. But somehow, through a combination of teamwork and sheer determination, we managed to get her fully dressed.

“We did it!” He exclaimed, his face lighting up with a grin that could rival the sun. He held up his hand for a high five, which I returned with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm than necessary, our palms connecting with a satisfying smack.

“Yeah, we did,” I agreed, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. I looked down at Chloe, now contentedly sucking on her fist, blissfully unaware of the chaos she'd caused. “You know, for a moment there, I thought we were going to need hazmat suits and a power washer.”

He laughed, the sound rich and warm. “I think we managed just fine without them. Though I wouldn't say no to a shower right about now.”

I glanced down at my bare chest, suddenly aware that I was still shirtless. “Yeah, I should probably have one too.”

His eyes lingered on me for a moment, before he quickly looked away, clearing his throat. “Right, well, I'll take care of feeding the future gold medalist here if you want to go first.”

I nodded, grateful for the offer. I quickly cleaned up the mess we’d made while he settled into a chair with Chloe and began feeding her. Grabbing a burp cloth, I slid it under her chin to catch dribbles then I headed towards the hallway. When I reached the doorway, I turned back to him.

Something warm settled in my chest when I saw him curled around his niece, a look of pure adoration on his face as he spoke softly to her. He abruptly looked up and caught me watching him. “You okay?”

“Just thinking. It was good to hear her laughing again,” I answered.

“Yeah, it was. I guess we didn’t totally mess things up, huh?” My eyes were drawn to his mouth as his lips pulled up into a sexy smirk.

I suddenly stiffened, giving myself a mental shake. This was Tucker Murphy, for God’s sake. The least organized, most aggravating person in the world, not to mention the man I was trapped in a strange custody situation with. I had no business noticing his lips—no matter how kissable they may appear.

“I’m gonna… um… yeah, go shower,” I said, hiking a thumb over my shoulder as if he didn’t know where the bathroom was. Tucker gave me a strange look and I turned and fled the room before I could embarrass myself further.

As I raced up the stairs, I heard him say, “Your Uncle Bry-Bry can be an odd fellow sometimes, Chloe.” Sadly, he wasn’t wrong.

Our brief victory over the diaper change had been short-lived and the rest of the afternoon had followed suit with one catastrophe after another until we were ready to pull our hair out. The doorbell chimed, startling both of us. Tucker and I exchanged puzzled glances before I went to answer it, grateful for the interruption from our mounting frustrations.

On the porch stood a plump, middle-aged woman with kind eyes and graying hair tucked beneath a blue kerchief. She beamed at me, thrusting forward a covered casserole dish. “Hello there! I'm Margie from down the street. Thought you boys might need a home-cooked meal.”

Before I could respond, she bustled past me into the house, her floral dress swishing as she moved. “Now, where's that sweet little one?” she cooed, spotting Chloe in Tucker's arms.

Tucker shot me a bewildered look over Margie's head as she fussed over the baby. I shrugged helplessly, still holding the casserole dish in my hands, unsure what to do next. Before I could decide, the doorbell chimed again.

This time, a tall, lanky man with short, cropped hair stood on the porch, holding a large bowl of what looked like potato salad. “Howdy, neighbors!” he called out cheerfully. “Name's Frank. Heard you folks might need some grub.”

I stepped aside, dumbfounded, as Frank strode in, nodding approvingly at the casserole in my hands. “Ah, I see Margie beat me to it. That woman's faster than a jackrabbit when there's cookin' to be done.”

As if on cue, a steady stream of visitors began arriving, each bearing some form of culinary offering. A woman named Mrs. Patel brought seven-layer salad, the Johnsons from across town arrived with a towering chocolate cake, and Genevieve, the church secretary, brought two more casseroles. Soon our kitchen counter was overflowing with an eclectic mix of dishes.

“I—we can't thank you all enough,” I stammered, overwhelmed by the outpouring of kindness from these virtual strangers. Tucker stood beside me, equally awestruck, Chloe nestled contentedly in his arms.

Frank shrugged his shoulders. “It’s just what we do around here.”

“If one of us needs help, we all pitch in,” Genevieve explained.

Mrs. Patel patted my arm affectionately. “Welcome to Lakeside Ridge, honey.”

“We’ll get out of your hair now. I’m sure you’ll be getting more visitors over the next few days, but you boys be sure and let us know if you need anything at all. And I mean that. We all cared a great deal for Zach and Brooke and we’re happy to help in any way we can,” Margie insisted, eyeing us closely.

Tucker’s voice was rough with emotion. “I know they cared a lot about all of you and this town. Thank you again.”

As the last of our unexpected visitors filed out, we stood in stunned silence, surveying the mountain of food that now occupied every available surface in the kitchen. The scent of home-cooked meals mingled with the lingering aroma of baby powder and formula, creating an oddly comforting atmosphere.

“Well,” Tucker said, breaking the silence, “I guess we won't have to worry about cooking for a while.”

I nodded, still processing the whirlwind of neighborly generosity we'd just experienced. “I can't believe they did all this for us. We're practically strangers.”

He shifted Chloe to his other arm, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “Looks like small-town hospitality isn't just a myth after all. Who knew?”

I couldn't help but smile, feeling a warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with the steaming casseroles. “I guess not. It's... nice. Different from what I'm used to, but nice.”

He nodded, his expression softening. “Yeah, it is. Kind of makes you feel like you're part of something, doesn't it?”

I hadn't thought about it that way, but he was right. There was a sense of belonging, of community, that I'd never really experienced before. It was both comforting and slightly overwhelming.

“So,” he said, breaking into my thoughts, “what should we tackle first? The seven-layer salad or the chocolate cake?”

I shot him a look. “Tucker, it's barely noon. We can't have cake for lunch.”

He grinned, that mischievous glint back in his eyes. “Says who? We're adults. We can have cake whenever we want.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help the smile tugging at my lips. “Fine, but we're having something healthy first. How about we start with Mrs. Patel's salad.”

“Ugh, you're such a buzzkill,” Tucker groaned, but he was smiling too. “Alright, salad it is. But I call dibs on the biggest piece of cake afterward.”