Page 62 of A Little Crush
I’m sorry about the loss.
There. It isn’t much, but at least it’s something. My phone buzzes with his response.
Jax
Yeah, it’s a bitch.
Me
The agenda your assistant sent says you have a few interviews. Do you want me to wait?
Jax
I’ll meet you at the hotel.
Me
Okay.
I snap a quick photo of Poppy in a gold and black Lions onesie and send it.
Me
She’s still your biggest fan.
Blue dots appear almost instantly.
Jax
Needed that. Thanks, Rore.
I’ll be late tonight. Don’t wait up.
Text me when you get to the hotel.
“Always thinking of others,” I mumble undermy breath.
Me
Will do. And seriously. You did great tonight. Don’t beat yourself up too much, okay?
As I wait for his response, I balance Poppy on my knee, bouncing her up and down in a gentle rhythm. “Your daddy’s gonna be okay,” I tell her. “He’s just a little bummed.”
I check my phone again, but there aren’t any notifications.
With a sigh, I slip my phone into one of the diaper bag’s pockets. “He’ll be fine.”
My lips curve toward the ground, but I slip the diaper bag strap over my shoulder and head outside with Poppy. After grabbing us dinner, I head back to the hotel room, ready for some downtime. Thanks to the flight and the late game, Jaxon’s still-packed bags sit next to mine just inside the door. After laying out Poppy’s elephant blankie in the main area, I grab their things and place them in the larger bedroom before sending a quick follow up text to Jaxon, telling him we made it to the hotel. He doesn’t reply.
I like hanging out with Poppy. I like her smell, her little coos, the way she flaps her arms when she’s excited, and how her eyes light up anytime I’m in the room. Honestly, she’s the best distraction I could hope for after tonight’s loss, and I’m almost sorry she’s stuck with me when she should be working her adorable magic on her daddy. I bet she could make him feel better.
A crib is set up next to the king-sized bed, and after a few stories, Poppy rubs at her tired eyes.
“You tired, Little Miss?” I brush my lips against the crown of her head, and she squirms in my lap, letting out a quiet fuss. “I’ll take that as a yes,” I add with a smile. Tossing the book onto the coffee table, I start her bedtime routine. Jaxon walked me through it when he first hired me. ChangePoppy’s bum, feed her a bottle, zip up her sleepsack, then lay her in the crib so she can get some sleep. It should be easy, and on paper it is, but this is the trigger I’ve yet to voice aloud. The seemingly ordinary routine that leaves me anxious and on edge.
Scanning her up and down, I do one more run-through of my mental checklist. Changed bum? Check. Clean jammies? Check. Bottle on the nightstand andnotin her crib where she could possibly choke? Check. Baby monitor pointed directly at the crib but out of arm’s reach? Check. Sleepsack fully zipped and buttoned so she can’t wiggle out of it and possibly get it wrapped around her neck or cover her face or become a hazard? I crouch down and drag my hand along the zipper and snap one more time. Check.
“Check,” I repeat under my breath, hoping the verbal acknowledgement will keep my OCD from triggering. It’s funny that way. The way it manages to weave itself into the things we care about most. Like taking care of an innocent little girl. An innocent little girl whose life is in my hands. All it takes is one minor slip-up, one minor mistake, and?—
