Baby for the Tycoon. Emily McKay
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negative emotions was to voice them aloud. Get them out into the open rather than letting them simmer. Still, admitting such a feeling was unpleasant, so she softened her words with a diffident shrug. “She seems to fight me constantly. Makes me wonder if—” Wendy blew out a breath. “I don’t know, if she knows something I don’t. If she knows I don’t have what it takes to be a good mother.”
When she looked back at Jonathon, his smile was still there, but the humor in his eyes had dimmed to understanding.
“The thing about dealing with babies—” he gently pulled the bottle nipple from Peyton’s mouth, then maneuvered her so her belly rested against his shoulder “—it’s about five percent instinct and ninety-five percent experience. Plus, they’re very intuitive—that’s all they’ve got. So if you’re nervous, she’ll pick up on it and she’ll be nervous too.”
Jonathon gave Peyton’s back several thumps. After about the tenth, she burped without even opening her eyes.
“How’d you do that? I can never get her to burp.”
“Like I said. It’s experience. If she’s been a difficult baby so far, it’s not because she has you pegged as a bad parent. You just don’t know all the tricks yet. Besides, she’s been through a lot in her short life.”
Was it really that simple? Time would heal all wounds? Watching Peyton sleep on Jonathon’s shoulder, Wendy certainly hoped so. But she couldn’t help worrying if there was more to it than that. That there were deficiencies no amount of experience could compensate for. After all, she’d never be Peyton’s real mother.
Almost as if he could read her mind, Jonathon added, “Give her some time. Give yourself some time too.” Then Jonathon let out a bark of laughter. “Jeez, I sound like Dr.
Phil.”
She laughed along with him, despite the lump of sorrow burrowing into her chest. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone at work.”
“Thanks.”
A moment of silence stretched between them. She should leave. Take advantage of Peyton’s sleep to go shower or something. Yet she found her feet rooted to the ground as she watched him rocking the tiny infant.
“Why aren’t you a father?” she asked, almost before she realized she meant to say it.
He arched an eyebrow.
Heat crept into her cheeks. “I mean, clearly you’re great with kids. It seems like a no-brainer that you should have some of your own.”
“I get frustrated enough trying to get Matt to clean up his third of the office.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. I’ve never had any desire to be a father.” His tone was harsh, leaving no room for doubt. The touchy-feely portion of their discussion was over. “She should be asleep for a couple of hours at least. You should take advantage of it and get some breakfast.”
“Thanks. I will.”
She left the room without looking back, but with his words still echoing in her mind. He’d never wanted to be a father. Yet he’d just signed up for a two-year gig. She’d assumed when he asked her to marry him that he wouldn’t be playing an active role in raising Peyton. But less than twenty-four hours in and he’d cared for Peyton more than she had.
He was going to an awful lot of trouble to keep her around. She could only hope she was half as good an assistant as he thought she was. Because she was certainly going to need to earn her keep.
Since he’d insisted repeatedly that he didn’t need her, she wandered down to the kitchen for breakfast. She’d never even stepped into his house before last night. It wasn’t quite what she’d expected. Like Matt, a few years before, Jonathon had bought one of the ridiculously expensive craftsman houses in Old Palo Alto. Though the homes were aging and modest, the neighborhood was one of the more expensive in the country. The interior of Jonathon’s house had been renovated to its early-20th-century glory with meticulous detail. The furniture was a collection of authentic Mission antiques and clean-lined Japanese pieces that complemented them. She found the kitchen surprisingly well stocked. Not in the mood to cook anything, she rummaged through his pantry until she found a box of Pop-Tarts. She eyed them warily for a second—because Jonathon so did not seem like the Frosted Strawberry Pop-Tart type—then snagged a package and headed back upstairs.
She took a leisurely shower, nibbling on the pastry as she dressed. Jonathon had never been one of those men who didn’t know how to ask for help. If he’d needed her before now, he would have woken her up. She’d gotten enough phone calls at six o’clock in the morning over the years to know that. Whatever he was doing with Peyton, he didn’t need her immediately. Confident that Peyton must still be asleep, she took the time to linger over her grooming in a way she hadn’t in the past couple of weeks. She did things like brush her hair. Floss her teeth. And put on ChapStick.
The rest had done wonders for her. Not only had she finally gotten a decent night’s sleep, but obviously Jonathon had handled Peyton with perfect competence. Just as he’d said he would. That one small thing renewed her faith in this whole endeavor.
They had a week before they left for Texas. Which was more than enough time for them to settle into enough of a routine to fool her parents and family about their relationship. Jonathon obviously knew enough about babies that he’d be able to help her over the rough spots she was sure to encounter.
They’d spend a quick weekend in Texas convincing her family that they were Peyton’s perfect guardians. Then they’d head back to Palo Alto and their lives would return to normal. Or as normal as they could be since she and Jonathon were now married and living together. All in all, life seemed damn good.
Once she’d verified that Peyton wasn’t asleep in the nursery, she headed downstairs. She was about halfway down the stairs when she heard voices. Trepidation tripped along her nerves as she paused, head tilted to better hear the conversation coming from the kitchen.
Heart pounding, she made her way there. It could be Ford or Matt. Or a neighbor. Or… Then she heard it. Just outside the swinging door leading into the kitchen. A deep Texas twang.
“We would have come earlier if you’d given us more warning that y’all were fixin’ to get married.”
She squeezed her eyes closed, fighting back a burst of panic as she blew out a long breath. Then she shoved open the door and walked into the kitchen. To face her family.
Having lived his entire life in the northern half of California, Jonathon had weathered his share of earthquakes. He’d long ago gotten over whatever fear he might have had of them. But there were plenty of other act-of-God weather systems that scared the crap out of him. Tornadoes. Hurricanes. Tsunamis.
Anything that would swoop in and level an entire coastal plain deserved a healthy dose of respectful fear.
Clearly, Wendy’s family fell into that category.
About ten minutes after Wendy had disappeared to take a shower, her family had arrived on his doorstep in a tidal wave of hearty handshakes, welcoming slaps and tearful hugs. It was a bit overwhelming, given that he’d never met any of them and would have had no idea who they were if he hadn’t recognized her uncle, Big Hank, from the news clips he’d seen of the senator. And before Jonathon knew it, Wendy’s parents, Tim and Marion, had swept into the house, followed by Big Hank, carefully lending an arm to the infamous Mema.
Jonathon had barely recovered from the stinging clap on the arm from Big Hank, when he faced down Mema. After Wendy’s description, he’d half expected an old battleship of a woman. Instead, Mema was thin and stooped, fragile in appearance despite the strength of will that seemed to radiate from her.
A hush fell over the other members of the family as she shook his hand and appraised