There hadn’t been an alternative. And since I’d been here less than a week, I wasn’t ready to call this a mistake. Not yet.
Don’t give up.
“One more day, right? We’ll make it one more day, then rest this weekend.”
Tomorrow—or today—I’d be splurging on a triple-shot latte before going to the hotel. Caffeine would get me through my Friday. And this weekend, we’d recharge.
I only had to survive one more day.
My first four days at The Eloise Inn had flown by.
Monday, I’d spent doing paperwork and orientation. Tuesday, I’d jumped into cleaning. After three days of scrubbing, dusting, vacuuming and making beds, every muscle in my body ached. Muscles I hadn’t even known existed were screaming.
But it had been a good week. Granted, the bar for good days wasn’t all that high, but we’d made it to Thursday—or Friday—and that was a win.
Drake had been an angel at daycare. Every evening when I’d picked him up, I’d braced for news of an expulsion. But Drake seemed to save these fits for the night. For the dark hours when the only person around to hear him cry was me.
Drying the last of my tears, I stepped away from the window and resumed pacing. His crying didn’t seem as loud when I was moving.
“Shh.” I bounced him softly, cradling him in one arm as my other hand rubbed his belly. Maybe it was gas. I’d tried the drops before I’d put him in his crib at eight. Should I give him more?
Motherhood, I’d learned in the past two months, was nothing more than a ritual of second-guessing yourself.
I yawned, dragging in a long breath. The energy to cry was waning. I’d let my son carry that torch for the rest of the night.
“Want to try your binky again?” I asked, walking to the kitchen counter where I’d left it earlier. I’d tried it around two
thirty. He’d spit it out.
“Here, baby.” I ran the plastic across his mouth, hoping he’d take it. He sucked on it for a second, and for that second, the loft was so quiet I could actually hear my own thoughts.
Then the binky went sailing to the floor and if babies could talk, he would have told me to shove that plastic nipple imposter up my ass.
His cries had this staccato rhythm with a hitch each time he needed to breathe.
“Oh, baby.” My eyes flooded. Apparently, my tears hadn’t vanished after all. “What am I doing wrong?”
A pounding shook the door, cutting through Drake’s noise.
I yelped. Shit. The light from outside was brighter. I’d been so focused on the baby I hadn’t noticed when Knox’s bedroom light had turned on. I swiped at my face, doing my best to dry it with just one hand, then I rushed to the door, seeing Knox through the small, square window in its face.
Oh, he did not look happy.
I flipped the deadbolt and whipped the door open. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I opened the windows for some air because it was stuffy and didn’t even think you might hear him.”
Knox’s dark hair was disheveled. The sleeves of his gray T-shirt had been cut off, revealing his sculpted arms. In the moonlight, the black ink of tattoos blended almost invisibly with his tanned skin. The sweatpants he wore hung low on his narrow waist, draping to his bare feet.
He’d crossed the gravel driveway without shoes.
I gulped. Either he had really tough feet or he was really pissed. Given the tension in his jaw, probably the latter.
“Sorry.” I glanced down at Drake, willing him to stop.
Please stop. Five minutes. Then you can scream until dawn.
Just stop for five minutes.
“Is he sick?” Knox fisted his hands on his hips.
“He has colic.”
Knox’s broad chest rose as he drew in a long breath. He ran a hand over his stubbled jaw before crossing his arms over his chest. God, he had a lot of muscles. The scowl on his face only added to his appeal.
Old Memphis always wanted to come out and play dirty when Knox was around. She wanted to tug at the long strands of hair that curled at his nape.
Please stop. That one was for me, not Drake. There’d be time to fantasize about Knox later, like when Drake was eighteen and headed off to college. I’d lock this mental image away for a time when my kid wasn’t screaming and I hadn’t been crying. When I’d slept for more than two hours in a row.
“Does he always cry?” Knox asked.
“Yes.” The truth was as depressing as it would have been to lie. “I’ll shut my windows.”
Knox dropped his gaze to my son and the expression of pain that crossed his face made me want to climb in my car and drive far, far away.