Page 18 of Sterling Heat

“Hey, Trinity.” Being that I need to talk to her to see the baby, I hold up my wrist like I’m wearing a superheroes amulet. “I’m here to see Adara.”

Her brows pinch. “Who?”

“The baby girl born to Enya Calloway.” Given my track record so far today with women’s names, first Sedona and now Trinity, I’m one for three.

“Oh.” Trinity’s forehead furrows. “We didn’t know she had a da—” Her demeanor shifts. Her hip hitches to one side and she places her fist on it. “Well, it took you long enough to get here.”

The censure in her tone is because she thinks I’m the father. The absentee man who should be accountable for these two flames. Who the hell gets a woman like Enya pregnant and doesn’t step up to support her? Who doesn’t want to be present for that sweet baby girl?

Not that I think babies are sweet. I don’t know anything about babies.

Still, I’m standing in a room with a cluster of machinery and the sudden quiet cry of a tiny being.

“Let’s get you over to your little girl,” Trinity directs. She points to one of the clear plastic rectangles filled with a bundle of blankets.

“How is she doing?” I ask as I follow Trinity.

“She’s feeding through a tube and her oxygen levels are still being monitored, but all her vitals are looking better. She still needs more tests, but in a few weeks, she should be good to go home.”

As I draw closer to the newborn crib, the smallest human being in only a diaper and an array of cords all over her lays within.

“Why isn’t she dressed?” I snap, glaring at Trinity.

“She’s under a heat lamp.” Trinity waves a hand beneath a machine that arches over Adara. “She’s toasty underneath here.”

I stare down at Adara. Candlelight. Tiny fire. She certainly glows pink and bright, and I can’t seem to take my eyes off her.

“I want to Facetime Enya. I mean, her mom so she can see her.”

“Poor woman. Heard she had this little one in your bakery. And to think she was at risk herself with pre-eclampsia.”

“Pre-what?” My head shoots up, watching Trinity work, moving cords, and pressing buttons.

“Pre-eclampsia.” She glances at me, scowling like I should already know this . . . as the father of the baby. “Some women get it when they’re pregnant, especially women over thirty-five. It’s dangerous. She should have already been in a hospital to be monitored. She could have seized out.”

“Seized out?” I question.

“Had a seizure while going into labor.”

Trinity doesn’t need to further spell it out. If a seizure had happened, I wouldn’t have known how to save Enya. She could have died in my bakery.

The thought suddenly makes me ill and I swipe a hand around my lips. My mouth has too much saliva in it. Bile tickles my throat.

I could have lost her. Before I ever even knew Enya, I could have lost her.

Without a father, what would become of this baby if something had happened to her mother? My heart races with the thought, especially since I hadn’t had a mother and my father fell apart with her loss. I know what became of me.

“Okay, take your shirt off.”

“Excuse me?” I blink, pulled from my tragic thoughts. This is hardly the time or the place for flirtation. Not that I’d flirt with a Haven, but—

“Your shirt. Skin to skin bonding is good for the baby. So, take off your shirt, Dad.”

“Oh, I’m—” I cut myself off before blowing my cover.

Trinity points at an ugly turquoise recliner before reaching into the bassinet. “I’ll bring her over to you.”

Enya might not be happy about this, but I don’t know what else to do. Swiftly, I slip off my jacket and tug off my tee. The coolness of the room hits me hard, making my skin pebble. Still, I fold onto the pleather-covered seat. My hands sweat. My brow does as well. I reach for my phone and set it on the thick wooden armrest.