Page 24 of Keeping the Score

“I’m afraid I’m not much help. I know nothing about babies.” I give him a glum smile. “Trevor and I both agreed we didn’t want kids.” Which makes the fact that his new girlfriend is pregnant that much more depressing.

“I don’t want kids either,” Ford mutters, looking down at Matilda’s face. “But I apparently have no choice in this matter.”

I feel for him. I really do. This is a life-changing surprise.

“Okay. I’ll just get in with her.” He lays her on the bathmat and pulls his T-shirt over his head.

Gulp. “Whoa. What are you doing?”

“Getting in the tub.” He undoes his belt and zipper and shoves his jeans down. He steps out of them, leaving him in a snug pair of black boxer briefs. He hooks his thumbs into the waist band.

“Jesus!” I wave my hands. “Stop!”

He shrugs, as if being naked in front of me is no big deal. “Fine.” And he picks up the baby and steps into the tub, still wearing his underwear.

Sweet Jesus. I’ve seen his bare chest before but this… this is magnificent. His body is hard and fit, with perfectly proportioned shoulders and hips. My eyes linger on the grooves of his abs then lower to his powerful legs. I swallow. “Is it warm enough?”

“I think so.” He sits in the shallow water and places Matilda in the baby seat facing him.

“We should have scrubbed the tub first,” I add fretfully. “There could be germs in there.”

“Not in my house,” Ford retorts.

“Right.” He has a meticulous cleaning routine. I tease him sometimes about how he could afford to hire a cleaning lady, but he’s tried that and apparently they can’t meet his standards.

Matilda is snuffling and hiccupping but not screaming. She puts one fist in her mouth and looks up at me.

Oh, yeah. Those are Ford’s eyes.

It kind of knocks me sideways, seeing that miniature replica of him, with the pale green irises ringed in darker green, thick eyelashes, and mop of dark hair.

I hand Ford the little cloth and bottle of baby soap.

Chomping on her fist, she does seem distracted as he gently moves the soapy cloth over her skin. Ford squeezes the cloth over her hair and I give him the shampoo bottle to lather up her locks. His massaging fingers calm Matilda even more, and we exchange hopeful glances.

While he’s doing that, I dig out a little comb for her hair, some lotion, and a clean onesie. I also find a pink sack sort of thing that I think she might sleep in.

While I wait for him to finish, I look around his bathroom. It’s lovely, too, sleek and clean with a huge glassed-in shower,gray and white tile, and a square modern vanity. My gaze lingers on the shower and the bottles lined up on a shelf inside. That’s an extraordinary amount of hair-care products.

Ford stands, water running down all his sleek muscles, the wet cotton of his underwear plastered to a fat bulge at his groin. I blink rapidly and vacate the bathroom so he can dry himself off. He emerges with a big towel around his waist and Matilda in his arms, now swaddled in the hooded towel.

“She’s not screaming,” I whisper.

“I know.” Once again he lays her on the bed and carefully dries her off everywhere. She’s still kicking and flailing, but her eyes are bright and open, watching his every move. It takes a while, but eventually she’s dressed again with only a few squawks as Ford maneuvers her little limbs into the clothing. He straps the pink sack around her with Velcro and her eyes are drooping.

“I think she’s going to sleep,” he murmurs.

“Yeah. Where does she sleep?”

He points to the apparatus beside the bed and carries her over to it to gently lay her down.

I’m holding my breath as he straightens, waiting for screams, but other than a couple of huffs and grunts, Matilda stays silent.

I tiptoe out of the room. Ford follows moments later, now wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and a T-shirt. Who knew he even owned a pair of gray sweatpants? I have to admit to a weakness for such attire; Trevor may have betrayed me, but he was also a pro athlete with a great body, and when he wore gray sweatpants I was a total floozy for him. I’m sure this reaction to Ford in the same clothing is just Pavlovian.

I take my time looking away as he fiddles with a device on the coffee table, then collapses onto the couch. “Holy shit.”

I sit, too. “Yeah. Holy shit.”

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