Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
NINE
Dax
My head hurts. It’s the lack of sleep. I’m also probably dehydrated, but I don’t want to leave the nursery because for some reason, Guinevere likes my hand on her tummy. Every time I remove it, she wakes up, her face scrunches up and she starts crying.
It’s been like this since four. I glance up at the clock. It’s just before six. Another hour before Eira starts and I can get on with my day. Another hour until I can readjust my brain and start thinking about important things: the research I’m doing and how we’re going to fund the next stage. I haven’t even started work and I feel groggy.
The door creaks open and Eira puts her head around. She’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, her hair still piled on her head. Does she sleep like that? Does it ever get brushed?
“Good morning,” she whispers. “Have you been up long?” She has two mugs in her hand and she hands one to me. “Black coffee, right?”
How did she know that?
“I’m just having a little honey and ginger.” She says it in a singsong voice as she peers at Guinevere. Her face splits into a smile and her bright smile is…disarming. It sends a jolt through my gut. “She likes to feel Daddy.”
She says it like it’s totally normal. “Every time I try to move away, she cries.”
“Aww, she wants to know her human is nearby. She wants to feel safe. That’s all.”
I sigh. Of course that’s why.
“Have you done much skin to skin?” she says, placing her cup onto a bookshelf beside her and moving toward the cot.
She doesn’t wait for an answer, just slides her hand under Guinevere and lifts her up. Every muscle in my body tenses as I wait for the expression of pain Guinevere wears every time my hand leaves her tummy, but surprisingly, she stays fast asleep.
“Sit back,” she says. “Unbutton your shirt.”
For a second, I wonder if things are taking an unexpected turn. Then I realize she’s unsnapping Guinevere’s sleepsuit. Skin on skin. Obviously I’ve heard of it. I’ve read all the books. It just feels so…unnatural. Once I’m dressed, I’m dressed. Why would I want to get undressed?
Eira maneuvers Guinevere around and places her on my chest, her head nestled under my chin. The baby hasn’t made a sound.
“There. She’ll be able to hear your heartbeat like that.” She glances around for something. “It’s chilly in here. We should get a room thermometer.” She takes a blanket and places it over us both.
“What do I do now?” I say. How long do I stay here? I don’t say, but I really hope she’ll offer up the information. I’m just sitting here, not doing anything at all. I should be in the office by now.
“Just be with your daughter,” she says.
My daughter.
The daughter I never thought I’d have.
I’m not a monster. I don’t want Guinevere growing up knowing I didn’t want her, but I’m not what anyone would call a natural father.
“Should I read her a book?”
Eira shrugs. “Maybe later. She just wants to feel your heat. Breathe in your scent. She needs to learn that you won’t abandon her. She’s lost one parent and a nanny. She uses her sweet voice to make sure she doesn’t lose anyone else.”
Her words hit me in the chest like a rock to the rib cage. Fuck. This poor, helpless baby has already been abandoned by a parent. Just a week old and I already need to be saving for therapy. I take a breath and let my body relax, smoothing my hand over Guinevere’s back.
“Guinevere’s a beautiful name. Are you an Arthurian enthusiast?”
I let out a half-laugh. “Back in the day.”
Silence stretches between us, and I shift in my seat. I don’t normally mind silences, but I feel an expectation—from myself—to fill the gap. Eira doesn’t seem to notice the lack of conversation. She’s looking around the room, taking everything in.
“I suppose if you weren’t expecting her, you didn’t have time to prepare,” she says.
“I’m not the sort of guy who would have painted Winnie-the-Pooh murals on the walls even if I had known she was coming.”
Eira laughs almost silently, and I feel it travel down my spine.
“No, you don’t strike me as that type of guy.”
What does that mean?
What type of guy do I strike her as? And why am I even wondering that?
“We could do with some things. Like the room thermometer. And clothes. And muslins. Bottles. A baby bath seat. Some first-aid stuff.”
“I can give you my credit card. You can order what you want.”
She doesn’t react. “And why don’t you have the crib in your room?”
“Because the cot is in this room. This is the nursery.”
“She should sleep with you. For the first six months at least. It’s recommended, but given the circumstances, it will be good for both of you. When we go shopping, we can pick up a crib for your room as well. Do you have time today?” she asks, turning and unscrewing bottles and premade milk and decanting one to the other. Guinevere isn’t awake. I hope Eira isn’t one of those nannies who wakes sleeping babies to feed them. Can’t we just let her sleep?