Page 7

7

ANDI

“Your Ideal Customer Profile, or ICP, is the pool of accounts within your total market,” I say to my computer monitor.

The faces of my clients in our virtual meeting look back at me.

“But it’s a huge population, so we want to narrow things down.”

I pause at the noise I’m hearing from the condo next door.

It sounds like a baby crying.

Can’t be.

“First we look at foundational segments,” I continue.

“Like good, better, and best fit customers. Then we can go even further to next-level segments.”

“Is that… a baby crying?” Maria asks.

Oh my God.

Can they hear it, too?

I glance at the wall between my place and Ford’s.

My office is right next to his living room.

I’ve never heard noises from there before, but apparently the walls are paper thin.

“I didn’t know you have a baby,” James says.

“I don’t,” I quickly say.

“I’m not sure what that noise is. It seems to be coming from next door. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Maria says, but she’s frowning and her tone indicates it’s not really fine.

“Let’s move on,” I say, hoping that if I keep talking they won’t hear the other noise.

“So, all these segments help us better understand your audience, so we can confidently target and personalize their content.”

Another wail sounds from the other side of the wall.

Dear lord, it does sound like a baby, and it sounds like the baby is in pain.

It’s very hard to ignore that.

What is going on?

We finish up our meeting with a plan in place for categorizing my client’s customers and they seem on board with it.

A soon as I’ve ended the meeting, I push my chair back from the desk, stand, and hike out of my apartment and down the hall to rap on Ford’s door.

I hear the baby crying.

The door is yanked open and Ford stands in front of me, an infant on his shoulder.

His hair, usually artfully tousled, stands up in all directions, his clothes are rumpled, and he seems to be sweating profusely.

His presentation is extremely disturbing, given that he’s always so meticulous about his appearance.

“What is going on in here?” I demand.

“I was trying to have an online meeting and my clients heard the baby crying!” I stare at the child.

“Whose baby is that? And why do you have it?”

Ford closes his eyes briefly.

“She’s my baby.”

My eyes pop open wide.

I stare at him.

My brain scrambles, trying to make sense of this.

Is he adopting a baby?

Why would he do that?

Did he really say that?

I must have misunderstood.

Meanwhile, the baby is screaming her little head off.

I shake my head.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“She’s my baby,” he repeats, louder, over the howling.

I blink and take in the stress etched on his face, the tightness of his jaw, the lines at the corners of his eyes.

“I don’t understand.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure I do either.” He growls out a sigh, patting the child awkwardly on the back.

“Come in.”

I eye the baby as if she might attack me.

“That’s okay. I just need you to keep her quiet.”

“I’m trying! Jesus! You think I like listening to this sound?”

I suck my bottom lip between my teeth.

Oh, yeah.

He’s stressed.

I know nothing about babies.

To be honest, I’m a little afraid of them.

Tiny humans whose existence depends on you.

Who cry for hours for no reason.

Or maybe there is a reason—it’s because they’re dying, and you don’t know what to do about it.

Terrifying!

“Come on, Matilda, stop crying, please .”

Matilda.

I swallow.

“I have no advice to offer, but I have another meeting in half an hour and I need for my clients to not hear screaming. They’ll think someone is torturing her.”

I turn and march back to my apartment.

In my office, I sink into the chair in front of the computer.

Why do I feel guilty?

That’s not my baby.

But…

poor Ford.

He looked stressed.

And I just left him there.

How can it be his baby?

Okay, yes, I know how babies are made.

Ford has never had a serious girlfriend, but he’s been with a lot of women.

Yikes.

Did he know about the baby?

I guess it’s possible and he never mentioned it to me?

No, it’s not possible.

I would have seen the baby.

Heard the baby before now.

Why did the baby just show up?

This is so bizarre.

I can’t stop thinking about it and I’m still distracted when it’s time for my next meeting.

I don’t hear the baby anymore, which is a good thing, so I manage to compartmentalize and focus on business.

Until we’re wrapping up and the wailing starts up again.

I see the startled looks on the faces of my clients.

“Sorry,” I say with a tight smile.

“That’s my neighbor.”

“Wow, that’s loud,” Oliver says.

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, yes!” I nod reassuringly, although I’m not at all certain.

“Fine, fine! So we’ll meet again next week, same time… does that work for everyone?”

We all confirm and after I end the meeting I enter it into my calendar, trying to tune out the baby cries.

It’s not so easy, though.

Anxiety tightens my shoulders and my stomach.

Is the baby okay?

I mean, Matilda.

Is Ford okay?

He did not look okay.

I have no more meetings, but still a ton of work to do.

In my determination to succeed, I may have taken on more clients than I can handle by myself, but I don’t mind working long hours.

I love my work.

Right now, though, I abandon my work and stride to Ford’s place.

When I knock, he answers quickly, still holding the baby but on the other shoulder.

“I’m sorry!” he bursts out.

“I’m trying my best! I took her into my bedroom so you couldn’t hear her, but I had to come out here to get a diaper.”

“That’s probably what she needs.” I step into his condo.

“A clean diaper.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” he mutters, turning to walk into his living room.

“I tried that a while ago and it didn’t seem to help.”

I follow him.

There’s a stain on his shoulder and all down the back of his shirt.

I think it’s baby vomit.

“Oh. Is she hungry?” That’s the extent of my baby knowledge.

Feed them or change their diaper.

“No.” He forks his fingers into his thick hair.

“I fed her.”

I eye Matilda, her cries amplifying the fear inside me.

“How did this happen?”

Ford lifts an eyebrow.

“I know, I know.” I wave a hand and perch on the edge of a chair.

“But who is the mother? And how did you just end up with this tiny human now? Were you keeping her secret?”

“Long story.” He paces, shifting the baby to cradle her in his arms and bounce her a little.

“I’m still in shock.”

“No doubt.”

“Willa and I had a one-night stand. About a year ago.”

I’m doing math in my head.

“Matilda is about three months old?”

“You got it. Well, actually almost four months. But the math is mathing.”

“Ohhhh, boy.” I pause.

“Are you sure you’re the father?”

“Yeah. We’re getting testing done, but when you see her eyes you’ll know.”

I purse my lips and nod slowly.

“And where is… Willa now?”

“She had to go home to Fargo to take care of her parents. They were in a bad car accident and they’re both hurt.”

“And she couldn’t take the baby with her?”

Ford makes a face.

“She says she needs time to focus on her parents. They’re both in the hospital.”

Do I buy that?

I don’t know.

“So she dumps the kid on you.”

He winces.

“Basically, yeah.”

“Wow.” I pull in a breath and exhale slowly.

Then I cover my ears with my hands.

“That noise is making me crazy.”

“You and me both.”

I pull my phone out of my bra.

“Hold on.” I google how to stop a crying baby and study the results.

“How about a warm bath?”

“I’d love one.”

I give him a slanted, chiding look.

“For the baby, Ford.”

“Yeah, I guess I could try that.” He looks as fearful as I feel.

I read some of the other suggestions.

He’s already walking her, patting her back, and making soothing noises.

“Oh! Does she have a pacifier?”

“Yeah, but Willa said she doesn’t like it.”

“Did you try?”

“No.”

“Where is it?” I stand.

He points to a bunch of baby paraphernalia on the floor in the corner.

“Whoa. That’s a lot of stuff.” I approach it cautiously.

“I know. This place is a disaster. Jesus.” He hates clutter and mess.

“The pacifier’s in the diaper bag.”

I open the pink bag and dig around in it.

I produce a clear plastic case with two pacifiers in it.

I pick out one and go over to Ford.

Matilda’s little face is red and scrunched up.

Not a good look.

I hesitantly poke the pacifier at her but she doesn’t see it.

So I touch it to her lips.

She turns her head away.

Ford takes it from me and continues to try to get it into her mouth but when he does she spits it out.

Over and over.

“See?” he says, sounding defeated.

“Damn.”

“Watch your language.”

I burst out laughing.

Then I meet his eyes and see he’s serious.

“She’s three months old,” I remind him gently.

“Right, right.”

“Okay, back to the bath. Does she have a little tub or something?”

“No, she has a bath seat that you put in the big tub.” He walks over to the pile of stuff in the corner that could rival the inventory of Babies“R”Us and nudges it with his toe.

“There’s a bag of bath stuff here.”

I locate the bag and carry it and the seat to Ford’s bathroom.

I’ve been to Ford’s condo lots of times, but now I realize this bathroom doesn’t have a tub.

“My room,” he says.

“I have a tub in the en suite bathroom.”

“Okay.”

We walk through Ford’s bedroom, which I have never seen.

It’s gorgeous—a massive king-size bed with a gray upholstered headboard fills the center of the room, with modern marble cubes as nightstands.

Big glass globes provide light, and dark floor-to-ceiling curtains are open to let in late-afternoon sunlight.

His bed looks luxurious.

Comfortable.

For some reason, though, looking at his bed disturbs me.

I look away.

In the bathroom, he rocks Matilda while I run warm water and rummage around for a small cloth, some baby wash and shampoo—the girl’s got a head of thick, dark hair—as well as lotion and a cute hooded towel.

By the time everything’s arranged and there’s enough water in the tub, Matilda’s cries have eased off somewhat.

Her eyes are puffy and drooping closed.

“I think she tired herself out,” I say quietly.

“Should we still do this?”

“I have no fucking clue.”

“Language.” I catch his eye and reluctant amusement tugs his lips.

“I guess we need to get her clothes off her.” She’s wearing a little cotton dress in a pink and green floral pattern with a matching pair of…

shorts?

…

under it.

“Right. I’ll take her to the bed.” He carries her back into the room and carefully lays Matilda down on the puffy duvet.

He pulls the dress up to her chin and she starts fussing again.

Gingerly, he tries to ease her arms out of the sleeves.

“I’m afraid I’ll break her,” he mumbles.

“Don’t break her.” I watch anxiously.

“Babies are fragile.”

“I know.” Eventually he has her out of the dress.

Her chubby arms and legs are constantly kicking and waving.

I almost laugh.

“Did you put this on her?” I ask him.

“No. This is how Willa brought her.”

“Hmmm. Do you think she’s crying because she misses her mom?”

He looks up at me, open-mouthed.

“Jesus. Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Well, there’s not much we can do about that.”

“You could hold her. Maybe she needs a woman.”

“No, no.” I shake my head violently, backing away with my hands raised.

“I can’t hold a baby. I don’t know how.”

He gives me a look as if I just deserted him in the high Arctic and peels the shorts down her legs.

Now the little girl is just in her diaper.

“I’m afraid to take this off,” he says.

“She might pee or poop.”

“I think we have to risk it.”

He takes off the diaper and picks her up with awkward care.

I have to say, the sight of his big man hands holding a tiny naked baby gives me a twinge in my previously unnoticed ovaries.

He carries her back to the bathroom and stands and looks down at the water.

“Well, put her in the tub.”

“She could drown in there.”

I nod seriously.

“Valid concern. How do people do this?”

“Christ. Willa went over a bunch of stuff with me.” He scrubs a hand over his face.

“But when it comes to actually doing it, I’m lost.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much help. I know nothing about babies.” I give him a glum smile.

“Trevor and I both agreed we didn’t want kids.” Which makes the fact that his new girlfriend is pregnant that much more depressing.

“I don’t want kids either,” Ford mutters, looking down at Matilda’s face.

“But I apparently have no choice in this matter.”

I feel for him.

I really do.

This is a life-changing surprise.

“Okay. I’ll just get in with her.” He lays her on the bathmat and pulls his T-shirt over his head.

Gulp.

“Whoa. What are you doing?”

“Getting in the tub.” He undoes his belt and zipper and shoves his jeans down.

He steps out of them, leaving him in a snug pair of black boxer briefs.

He hooks his thumbs into the waist band.

“Jesus!” I wave my hands.

“Stop!”

He shrugs, as if being naked in front of me is no big deal.

“Fine.” And he picks up the baby and steps into the tub, still wearing his underwear.

Sweet Jesus.

I’ve seen his bare chest before but this…

this is magnificent.

His body is hard and fit, with perfectly proportioned shoulders and hips.

My eyes linger on the grooves of his abs then lower to his powerful legs.

I swallow.

“Is it warm enough?”

“I think so.” He sits in the shallow water and places Matilda in the baby seat facing him.

“We should have scrubbed the tub first,” I add fretfully.

“There could be germs in there.”

“Not in my house,” Ford retorts.

“Right.” He has a meticulous cleaning routine.

I tease him sometimes about how he could afford to hire a cleaning lady, but he’s tried that and apparently they can’t meet his standards.

Matilda is snuffling and hiccupping but not screaming.

She puts one fist in her mouth and looks up at me.

Oh, yeah.

Those are Ford’s eyes.

It kind of knocks me sideways, seeing that miniature replica of him, with the pale green irises ringed in darker green, thick eyelashes, and mop of dark hair.

I hand Ford the little cloth and bottle of baby soap.

Chomping on her fist, she does seem distracted as he gently moves the soapy cloth over her skin.

Ford squeezes the cloth over her hair and I give him the shampoo bottle to lather up her locks.

His massaging fingers calm Matilda even more, and we exchange hopeful glances.

While he’s doing that, I dig out a little comb for her hair, some lotion, and a clean onesie.

I also find a pink sack sort of thing that I think she might sleep in.

While I wait for him to finish, I look around his bathroom.

It’s lovely, too, sleek and clean with a huge glassed-in shower, gray and white tile, and a square modern vanity.

My gaze lingers on the shower and the bottles lined up on a shelf inside.

That’s an extraordinary amount of hair-care products.

Ford stands, water running down all his sleek muscles, the wet cotton of his underwear plastered to a fat bulge at his groin.

I blink rapidly and vacate the bathroom so he can dry himself off.

He emerges with a big towel around his waist and Matilda in his arms, now swaddled in the hooded towel.

“She’s not screaming,” I whisper.

“I know.” Once again he lays her on the bed and carefully dries her off everywhere.

She’s still kicking and flailing, but her eyes are bright and open, watching his every move.

It takes a while, but eventually she’s dressed again with only a few squawks as Ford maneuvers her little limbs into the clothing.

He straps the pink sack around her with Velcro and her eyes are drooping.

“I think she’s going to sleep,” he murmurs.

“Yeah. Where does she sleep?”

He points to the apparatus beside the bed and carries her over to it to gently lay her down.

I’m holding my breath as he straightens, waiting for screams, but other than a couple of huffs and grunts, Matilda stays silent.

I tiptoe out of the room.

Ford follows moments later, now wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and a T-shirt.

Who knew he even owned a pair of gray sweatpants?

I have to admit to a weakness for such attire; Trevor may have betrayed me, but he was also a pro athlete with a great body, and when he wore gray sweatpants I was a total floozy for him.

I’m sure this reaction to Ford in the same clothing is just Pavlovian.

I take my time looking away as he fiddles with a device on the coffee table, then collapses onto the couch.

“Holy shit.”

I sit, too.

“Yeah. Holy shit.”

He rolls his head on the back of the couch and looks at me with anguish filling his green eyes.

“Andi. What the hell am I going to do?”