Laura Altom - Daddy Daycare

Travis growled.

“Oh, come,” she said. “It’ll be fun. Please?”

Lord help him, but in his already weakened emotional condition, Travis was unable to resist her charm. “I’ll only be alone thirty minutes?”

“Tops.” She shot him a toothy grin. Coincidentally the same one she used to wield when flirting him out of the last few M&M’s back when they’d been an item.

Knowing full well he wanted his sleep as much as he’d wanted that candy, he must have been temporarily insane to blurt, “Give me a little more instruction and I’ll do it.”

FRIDAY AT 4:48 a.m., Travis tried putting a pillow over his head to block what felt like the third eight-point-oh earthquake of the morning. Why had he agreed to work at the daycare for even thirty minutes? And while he was asking questions, why hadn’t Marlene mentioned her house being five feet from a railroad track?

Gee, probably because she knew he’d have told her to nix the deal—which, Marlene being Marlene, upon hearing his objections, would’ve only made her that much more determined to go through with a real-estate transaction only a train buff or a masochist would love.

Knowing he had to be up soon anyway, he grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand, putting in a call to this right-hand man to explain that his trip would take longer than expected. With a grunt he rolled out of the surprisingly comfortable black wrought-iron canopy bed. Though a little lacy for his taste, Travis would’ve given Gary a high five for allowing his sister to have her girlie way with the majority of the room that’d been finished in a sumptuous blend of old and new.

Antique dressers and side tables held both modern and vintage picture frames. The majority of smiling shots were of Marlene and Gary hamming it up. Newer ones included Libby. Quite a few were dog shots. Cocoa wearing a pumpkin suit for Halloween. Gringo begging. All three lounging on the front porch, tongues lolling on a sunny day.

Dark walnut floors covered in Oriental carpets laid at crazy angles shouldn’t have made sense but did. The walls were covered in four varied patterns—stripes and florals and dots and checks—of pale green paper, but even this somehow worked in the atticlike room with its five dormer windows and angled ceilings.

In the bathroom, decked out in more dark walnut with an antique white porcelain claw-foot tub, it looked as if Gary had had his way with the high-tech stand-alone shower with its assortment of buttons and nozzles.

Under streaming spray Travis braced his hands against the green-brown-and-black mosaic wall, letting the water ease kinks in his neck. Being early to work was no problem, but in his office he was king. He knew what to expect.

At his sister’s daycare he didn’t have a clue what—or even who—might crop up. Yesterday afternoon, while Kit had still been there, he’d asked her about the kids he’d be watching, but she’d been so animated in her descriptions that all he’d focused on was her. Her and the painful memory of how and why he’d ever let what they’d shared slip away. It wasn’t a topic he cared to dwell upon, leading him to rush her and Levi on their way so he could get those mangy mutts back out in the shed and himself into comfortable clothes—meaning boxers and nothing else.

The only way he’d gotten the apparently spoiled dogs outside was by flinging bologna onto the back porch as bait, then shooing them outside and shutting the door. Technically he wasn’t sure whether they’d made it to the shed or not. But they were dogs. What was the worst that could happen if they spent a summer night outside?

His mind’s eye flashed on those dog pics.

Then guilt settled in. The night was over now. No sense in rushing downstairs to let them in. But assuming they didn’t chew anything, maybe they could come inside on probationary terms.

Travis reluctantly finished lathering and rinsing, then dressed in navy slacks, starched white shirt and red tie. In deference to his casual setting, he skipped the suit jacket. Always one step ahead of him, his receptionist had phoned his housekeeper and asked her to pack Travis a week’s clothing, then meet him at the airport.

Libby had woken only once during the night, and after a quick feeding and diaper change she’d fallen right off to sleep.

In her nursery he flicked on the crystal lamp topping the dresser, then crept to her ultragirlie crib. She looked so content amongst the fuzzy pink blanket and pink gingham sheets and crib bumper that he hated waking her. He’d been surprised to see the bumper and blanket, as they’d been gifts from him. Picked from a catalogue and shipped with a brief note, maybe they hadn’t held as much sentimental value as, say, a gift Marlene had received at her shower, but he was glad all the same that she’d at least liked them enough to have put them to use.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he crooned, scooping up his niece only to tuck her against his chest. How come he didn’t smell this great in the morning? The scent of her pink lotion and the no-tears shampoo he’d used for her bath the previous night was still strong.

She gurgled, then fell right back asleep against him.

For a split second, unsure what to do, he vacillated between calling his secretary or, even better, Kit. But in the end he knew he’d have to start figuring out how to be a parent sooner rather than later. Besides, what if he’d called the emergency number Kit had left and Levi answered? The guy was nice and all. But Kit was one of those women who was hot but in a squeaky-clean, Mother Goose sort of way. Travis didn’t much approve of her being in bed with any man—let alone a hardware store owner. Even if the guy was her fiancé.

Okay, then, he thought, gingerly heading down the stairs. Who would he approve of Kit being in bed with?

Offhand, no one.

He didn’t have a clue why, but part of him felt proprietary where she was concerned, as if he’d had dibs on her under that mulberry tree all those years ago, and again at the swimming hole and even on her own bed the time her folks had gone to Little Rock for their anniversary weekend. Bottom line, if he couldn’t have her, then no one else should.

Ridiculous, but there you have it. As if any of the rest of his current life made the slightest sense.

In the kitchen he switched on the light, then eyed his sleeping charge. What was the protocol on morning feedings? Did he wake Libby to feed her? Or once he scoped out the daycare, would he find a spare crib for her to crash in? Even if there was a crib, would there be a blanket?—an appropriately soft and fuzzy one?

Shaking his head, he tromped back up the stairs for the pink one from Libby’s crib, then tucked it around her chubby bare legs and arms.

Back downstairs, it occurred to him that sometime during the day she’d probably need a diaper change. And what if it got cold? Sure it was June, but you never knew.

Back upstairs, he shoved a few diapers and the wipes in an oversize pink canvas tote dotted with dancing hippos. In case of sudden frost, he grabbed a mini coat and sweater from the cedar-lined closet. From the dresser he snagged three pairs of white socks. All of his finds in the bag, he repositioned Libby to his left shoulder, slung the bag over his right, then took off again for the kitchen.

Okay, back to the food issue. Now or later?

Taking a peek at Libby under the blanket—save for a small airhole, he’d put it over her head, since all those blowing air conditioners had made the house chilly—he didn’t think she looked all that hungry, so he just grabbed a few bologna slices for himself.

After adding three cans of formula, a can opener and a handful of bottle liners to the diaper bag, he was almost out the door when he figured the actual bottles might also be a good idea.