“You have to change him,” I say bluntly and start back up the stairs. I hear Tate following behind me so I keep talking and try really hard not to sound annoyed, just informative. Tate’s trying, in his own way. “As soon as he wakes up, always check the diaper. Nine times out of ten he needs a change.”
“Oh.” Tate sounds dejected and when I glance over my shoulder at the top of the stairs, he looks as sad as he sounds.
“I never told you that so you aren’t expected to know.”
“Yeah. But I mean, it sounds like common sense,” Tate mutters and follows me into the bedroom.
“Grab me a towel please.”
Tate scurries to the bathroom and grabs a fresh towel from the shelves there. They are all tightly rolled and fluffy like a hotel thanks to his cleaner, Josie, who I met the day before. He holds it out to me, but I don’t take it. I give him instructions instead. “Lie it out on the bed, not too close to the edges. You should invest in a changing table. He’s got a while longer in diapers.”
Tate nods and lays out the towel. I drop Dylan onto his back in the middle of it. As I start unsnapping the onesie and changing Dylan, I give Tate step-by-step instructions. He’s very quiet so I glance up as I toss the used baby wipe into the trash beside my nightstand. Tate is facing the wall, not me or the baby. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Giving Dylan some privacy.”
A smile blooms on my lips. I can’t control it. His answer is too ridiculous. “You are giving an infant privacy?”
“I mean, he doesn’t need everyone looking at his junk.”
"Tate Garrison, have you lost it entirely?" I'm trying to sound stern but a giggle bubbles up and finally, Tate looks over at me.
“Don’t laugh at me. I feel weird seeing a kid naked,” Tate mumbles, his cheeks tinging with the slightest bit of pink, and it’s adorable.
“He is not just any kid, he’syours," I remind him and turn back to Dylan who is perfectly content, naked, and clean again. His chubby legs are in the air and he's reaching for his toes. "And do I have to remind you that you see, like, twenty men naked several times a week in locker rooms? This shouldn't freak you out."
“It’s not like I’m looking at those dudes,” Tate mutters. “And I mean, like, I’ve never cleaned a baby. I don’t want to hurt him or put my hands in the wrong place.”
“There is no wrong place,” I reply, still smiling a little. “I once had to clean poop out from between his toes because something he ate gave him diarrhea and it leaked everywhere.”
“That’s so gross.” Tate’s handsome face twists into a look of revulsion.
“It was,” I confirm and start to wrap a new diaper around Dylan. “But whatever, shit happens. Quite literally. He’s a baby. He’s helpless. He needs us to do the dirty work, Tate.”
Once the diaper is on, I ask Tate to watch him and walk over to one of my still-not-really unpacked suitcases. I grab a clean shirt and elastic waist pants for Dylan. I make a note to add summer clothes to the ever-growing list of things Tate needs to buy for the baby. Diana didn't need an expansive warm weather wardrobe for him in England, but Los Angeles is a different story.
“He needs some lighter clothes,” I say.
“I’ll leave you one of my credit cards while I’m on the road trip,” Tate offers. “And the car. Go get whatever you need. Food orders too. Just charge it all.”
“I…” I stop myself from arguing because what choice do I have? “Fine. Thanks.”
I walk over and dress Dylan. Tate isn’t watching the kid, he’s watching me. I confirm it with a glance, but Ifeltit before that. Suddenly my pajamas feel a little more revealing than they did before. The fabric is thin, the boy shorts are tight and, well, short. And I’m bent over. I think of last night and that psychotic break we both had that ended in a make-out session and his hands on my breasts. I feel a warmth spread through me and I straighten immediately, grab Dylan off the bed, and hand him to Tate.
Tate’s eyes flare but he takes his son and tries to get Dylan to settle on his hip. But Dylan starts fussing immediately. “Try bouncing him.”
Tate bounces. Dylan fusses more and reaches his little hands out toward me. I step out of reach grab a pair of sweatpants from my suitcase and pull them on over my pajama shorts, keeping my eyes averted from both Dylan and Tate. "He doesn't want me."
"He's uncertain," I reply and rake my hands through my bedhead. "Give him a minute."
“During this minute I’m giving him, should you and I discuss the tonsil hockey session in the bathroom?” I look up at that question and find his gorgeous eyes focused on me with trepidation. “Or are we going to pretend it didn’t happen?”
"No," I lie. "Not pretend. Forget. We should forget it ever happened. Neither of us is in our right mind right now. And…"
I look up at him again. He’s staring intently. Dylan is wiggling in his arms and Tate rubs his big palm across his back, which doesn’t help ease Dylan at all. Now he’s starting to voice his discontent with frustrated squeaks. “And…?”
Shit. “We owe it to Diana to keep our focus on Dylan.”
As if emphasizing my point, Dylan’s arms and legs kick and punch the air and he lets out an ear-piercing wail. Tate grimaces and lifts Dylan, holding him out to me. I sigh and take him and he immediately simmers down. “He hates me.”
