“Sleeping. Which is what you should be doing too. We fly out tomorrow morning.”
“I need you to come over.”
My lips twist, peeling into a wide smile I can only hope to conceal in my tone. “You’re shameless. And no. The answer is no. I’m in bed. I’m staying here. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.”
“Odessa.” My name in his mouth is heavier this time, causing my heart to hammer. “I mean it. Come over. Now.”
“The desperation isn’t doing you any favors. Goodnight, okay?”
A weird noise comes from his end. It sounds like a squawking bird, high pitched and shrill at first until it grows louder and closer. And then I realize it’s a baby.
***
The penthouse elevator doors part, and there stands Beckham, a wailing newborn cradled in his arms. I’d forgotten how small babies are when they’re brand new. I haven’t held a newborn since my oldest sister had her last, and it’s been years.
“I can’t get her to take a bottle.” Beckham’s hair is combed every which way, his eyes squinty and his posture exhausted. A small bottle rests in the palm of his hand. Navy sweats are cinched low around his hips, and a white t-shirt reveals a hint of the ‘v’ that leads to familiar territory. I’ve seen him dressed up. I’ve seen him naked. But seeing him so casual with a baby in his arm almost feels like an illusion.
“May I?” I scoop the crying baby from his arms. He hands me the bottle which is tepid at best. “This is cold, Beckham. Let’s get her a fresh one. Do you have any frozen breast milk?
“She’s on formula.”
“Where’s Eva?” I ask.
“Obviously not here.”
I carry the unsettled baby into the kitchen, Beckham following. An open canister of Similac rests next to a diaper bag. Pulling out a fresh bottle, I heat some sterile water and mix two ounces with a scoop of powder.
Testing it on my inner wrist, I run the nipple across her mouth until she opens up. She latches on immediately, as if she was starving.
“Why will she let you give her a bottle and not me?” He watches like I’m performing some kind of magic.
“Babies are fickle,” I say. “She’s still figuring out the world around her. Sometimes they like to be held a certain way or they want their milk a certain temperature. You’ll get to know her eventually. Crying is the only way they can communicate right now.”
I carry her into the living room, lowering us into a cushy leather chair. I prop my legs on a nearby ottoman and settle in with the dark haired beauty.
“She looks like you.” I gently pull the bottle from her lips and hoist her over my shoulder, patting her back until she gives me the tiniest burp.
Beckham takes the seat across from me, not looking away for one second. Either he’s amazed by this interaction or he’s overprotective of his daughter.
“You’re good with her,” he says.
She sucks down the final ounce, and I place her over my shoulder once more. “I have six nieces and nephews. Lots of practice.”
He looks down for a second, his elbows resting on his knees. “You want kids, Odessa?”
“Someday,” I say. “Not in a rush or anything. My family’s as close as we are big. I’m the only Russo out of five not married with kids. The pressure is intense. I’m sure it’ll happen exactly when it’s supposed to. I’m not worried.”
“Try being one of fifty-six.” His hand hooks the back of his neck and he leans back.
I’m sure he’s exaggerating.
“So you have experience with babies then? Being from a big family?”
His terse lips harden. “Men didn’t do that in my family. She’s the first baby I’ve ever held.”
“What’s her name?” I watch her eyelids flutter and feel her relax in my arms as she settles in the white blanket that envelops her.
“Baby.” His eyes are still closed. “That’s her name. Baby.”
“You need some sleep, Beckham. You’re not making any sense tonight.” I stand up slow, not wanting to wake her. “Where’s her crib?”
The only indication that a baby lives in his penthouse is the stuffed diaper bag sitting on the counter next to the can of formula.
“There’s a bassinette in my room.” He points toward the hall.
I whisk her down the hallway, check her diaper, and deposit her in her bassinette like she’s made of glass and china. When I return to the living room, Beckham is passed out. Yanking a faux-fur throw from behind the sofa, I cover him up.
I suppose he’s right. We’re sort of friends now.
Attempting to be quiet in a penthouse with wood floors and eleven foot ceilings is almost impossible.