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“I do not.”

“—and I refuse to entertain your delusions. Have the nanny bring Evie to me. Now.” I stab the red button harder than strictly necessary to end the call. Harder than my phone deserves. But the nerve on that woman.

The fucking nerve.

The easy path would be to send the nanny to my apartment with Evie and continue my workday just like any other, but this is not that day. Worry and frustration have never mixed well with productivity for me. So, I gather the files from my desktop and place them, along with my laptop, into my messenger bag and close down my office for the rest of the day.

By the time I lock the front door of my building, the sleek rose-gold SUV I bought for Amie pulls up to the curb with the nanny behind the wheel. When I pop the door open, my daughter smiles with everything she has from her car seat in back.

“Chantal, thank you for bringing her to me so quickly. I appreciate your flexibility with the change in routine.” I swing my messenger bag to my back as I lean into the car to unbuckle Evie and scoop her into my arms. “Ma coccinelle will be with me for the time being. If you need to pack a bag⁠—”

Chantal lowers the driver’s side window and cocks her head, brows drawn in confusion. “I packed for both of us before we left this morning. Are you taking an early lunch with Evie?”

I stand to my full height and settle my daughter on my hip, her sparkly lavender diaper bag clutched firmly in my hand, and stare at the nanny who seems to have wildly different information on what’s going on than I do.

“How long did you pack for?”

She shrugs as if I should already know what the fuck is going on with my kid. She’s not wrong, but I feel very much like I’m playing catch up. “For the full ten days just to be safe. Though if we’re with you for longer, I can do laundry, yes?” I nod as I process this very fresh news. “Excellent. Shall I come back in an hour?” She taps at the screen of her phone, already setting an alert for forty-five minutes from now.

I fucked up bad on who the mother of my child is, but I hit the lottery on finding Evie’s nanny. Chantal is probably the only reason I haven’t already pulled custody from Amie. That and keeping my daughter separate from my work life is a good thing.

But not right now.

“No. Take the rest of the day.”

“Are you sure?” She glances to her phone as the screen lights with a notification, then back to me.

This time my nod is accompanied by tiny hands smacking my cheeks. “Positive.” I lighten the tone of my voice and address my daughter while apprising Chantal of my plans. “We’ll get lunch and go play for a bit at the park. And then we’ll go home for a nap, won’t we?”

I shift my focus to Chantal. “I’ll work from home the rest of the day, so you go ahead and do what you need. Take some time for you. I’ll drop some extra funds in your account for your troubles.” And later, after Evie is in bed for the night, I’ll grill Chantal on when their extended stay with me was decided and what Amie is off doing.

Or more likely, who.

Not surprisingly, Evie is more interested in playing at the park than she is in eating. I manage to get most of two chicken nuggets and a very small handful of fries into her before I give up for both of our sakes.

Sanity is a precious gift, especially when dealing with my baby girl. Her genes are only half-mine. So when Evie is done, we move on.

Watching her toddle around the play set, clumsy and uncoordinated, has my heart firmly lodged in my throat. Each stumble, every bobble has me leaning one way or the other like I’m watching curling or bowling, and my body position has bearing on an object over which I have no control. It’s fucking exhausting.

When my baby girl starts to droop, I scoop her up and snuggle her close. “What do you think, coccinelle? Should we swing for a bit?”

I get a nodded response as wild hands bitch-slap my chest.

Evie doesn’t talk much.

I’m not sure if that’s something I need to worry about at her age, but to err on the side of prudence, I add googling appropriate milestones to my mental to-do list.

That fucking list grows by three for every single item I knock off of it.

“Let’s go, then.” I slide her into the swing on the end of the row and give her a gentle push. Giggles dance through the air as her little fingers meet each other over and over in the sign for more.

Another push and another until she’s going about as high as my heart can handle.

I’m able to check my email while maintaining a constant swing pattern and knock out couple of responses.

Evie’s head full of untamed black curls lists to the side and rests against her chubby hand where it’s gone slack on the support rope. A few more minutes of swinging should have her good and relaxed—ideal for the swing-to-car-seat transfer. And if all goes well, we’ll make the car-seat-to-bed transfer just as easily.

The single chirp of a police siren startles my wild child before the steady rhythm of the swing soothes her back.