by Lane Hart
“Right,” I answer. “Quinton Dunn. Nice to meet you…”
“Kelsey,” she supplies as we turn down an aisle. “Didn’t you have a game today?”
“We did. Won it too,” I answer.
“Awesome, congrats!” she replies. “Okay, so here are the changing tables we currently have in stock. We have these in white, oak, cherry and espresso.”
“This one will work great,” I tell her, setting Brady’s car seat down in front of the first one we come to, a white one, to start unstrapping him.
“Good choice,” Kelsey says cheerfully. “It’s usually three-twenty nine, but it’s on sale this weekend for just two hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
I grab a diaper and the pack of wipes that are getting low and place them on the table and then lower Brady to the wooden structure as the sales associate continues talking.
“This one has three spacious drawers and a cabinet underneath, making it great for storage too. In fact, once he outgrows the changing table, it can be converted to a regular dresser…ah, what…what are you doing?” she asks when I start unsnapping the one-piece outfit Brady’s wearing. “Oh, whoa!” she exclaims, reaching up to hold her nose once she gets a whiff of his stink.
“I swear I didn’t feed him any rotten milk or anything,” I tell her as I pull my shirt over my face again and start undoing the diaper.
“Wait, you’re changing him, like, here?” she asks, sounding nasally like Fran Drescher since her nose is still plugged.
“Well, yeah. That’s what they are for, right?” I ask as I take a handful of wipes and try to mop up the brown mess, not without more gags and dry heaves.
“But, sir, you can’t…”
“Oops,” I say when some of the runny poo splatters onto the pristine white changing table.
“Oh my God,” the associate mutters when I pull the diaper out from underneath the kid.
Looking around the floor with my hand holding up the nasty, poop-filled diaper I ask, “Do you have a trash can around here? I can’t just leave him.”
“Sir, these tables are for sale, not for actual use,” Kelsey tells me belatedly.
“Too late now,” I tell her. “Can you watch him while I find a trash can, or do you want to take the shitty diaper?”
“Um, yeah, okay, straight back and to the left are the bathrooms,” she tells me, putting a hand on Brady’s stomach, not that he’s going anywhere or anything.
After I dispose of the hazardous waste, wash my hands and return to the changing table aisle, Kelsey has thankfully diapered and redressed Brady and is now holding him on her shoulder.
“Thanks for your help,” I tell her.
“No problem,” she says with a smile. “You do know that you have to buy this table now, right?”
“What? But I just used it once,” I argue.
“Yeah, and you got your son’s poop on it.”
She makes a valid point.
“Fine,” I exhale in agreement. “I think it should fit in the back of my Land Cruiser. Can you watch him while I pay and load it in my SUV?”
“Yeah, of course,” she replies with a smile.
“Oh, and do you have more of those butt wipes?” I ask.
“We sure do.”
“And that’s his last clean outfit, so I probably need some tiny clothes for him,” I tell her. “I mean, it could take days to do the DNA test and get the results back, so I probably need more of that milk powder stuff too.”
“Oh, so he may not be your son?” she asks with a creased brow.
“Not sure,” I answer honestly and then cringe. “And can I beg you not to tell anyone about any of this whole ordeal?”
“Sure,” she replies. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thanks, Kelsey.”
“If you want to take him up front to pay, I’ll grab some wipes, a few newborn outfits, and formula and meet you there. Anything else you need while you’re here today?” she asks.
“Do you have something to make him sleep longer?” I ask. “He woke up every two hours last night, and I really need some sleep.”
“Is he drinking from four-ounce bottles?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Does he finish them during a single feeding?”
“Oh yeah, like he can’t guzzle them down fast enough.”
“Then maybe he needs more at each feeding so he can sleep longer without getting hungry.”
More to eat equals sleep longer? Hell yes.
“Oh my God. You’re a baby genius,” I tell Kelsey. “Let me get some bigger bottles.”
“Sure,” she says with a smile. “And babies like to be swaddled when they sleep, are you doing that?”
“What the fuck is a swaddle?” I ask her.
“I’ll grab some of those too,” she replies with a giggle.
“Thank you. You’re a lifesaver, Kelsey.”
“You’re welcome! Give me a few minutes to grab a buggy and load up; then I’ll see you up front to watch him while you load up,” she says before walking away.
I get Brady buckled into his seat, all the while feeling a little more optimistic about everything. In fact, Kelsey seems to know a lot about kids…
At the front of the store where the registers are, there’s only one other person in line, so I wait behind them while an older woman rings up a woman and her toddler.
“Hi, did you find everything you need today?” the older, rotund lady asks when it’s my turn.
“Yeah, Kelsey’s rounding it all up for me and said to meet her here,” I explain.
“Oh good,” she replies with a smile.
“Has she been working here long?” I ask.
The lady considers my question for a moment. “About a year I believe.”
“And did you do, like, criminal background checks and all on her?”
The lady looks confused, blinking her eyes silently at me for several seconds before she answers. “Well, of course. We thoroughly vet every applicant before hiring them. I can assure you that you and your son are safe when shopping with us.”
“And how much does she make, you know, like an hour?” I ask.
The woman’s jaw falls open in shock that I would ask something so personal.
“You’ll have to discuss Miss Kelsey’s wages with her directly,” she finally responds stiffly. Then the rest of the wait is spent in silence.
Finally, Kelsey appears with a shopping cart slam packed with baby goods and parks it behind me.
“All set, except for the changing table,” she tells me over the pile.
“How much do you make?” I ask her.
“Ah,” she looks from me to the other sales associate, who I assume is her boss. “You want to know how much money I make? Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Around fourteen an hour.”
“And how many hours a week do you work?” I ask.
“Thirty or so,” she answers with a shrug.
“I’ll pay you two thousand to come work for me day and night this week,” I offer her.
“Holy shit! Doing what?” she asks. “You play football.”
“Yeah, and in order to play football, I need a babysitter. You seem to know your baby shit, and this lady said they checked you out before they hired you, so… what do you say?”
“Oh my God. Sure, I mean, yeah. That would be awesome!” the young girl exclaims before turning to her boss. “Can I please have a week off?” she begs.
“Well, I suppose…wait, are you that quarterback for the Wildcats?” the lady asks me.
“Ah, yeah. I can get you tickets to our next home game if you want,” I offer.
“Wow, my husband will be so excited,” she says. “Now let’s ring you up.”
As they begin to unload the buggy and start scanning items, I look down at the sleeping baby at my feet and can’t help but wonder if I’m going a little overboard. If Brady’s not mine, then I can always donate the baby items, right?
That reminds me
of tomorrow’s to-do list: DNA test, take Brady to see a pediatrician and try to track down his mother.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times bestselling author Lane Hart was born and raised in North Carolina. She continues to live in the south with her husband, two daughters, and several pets named after Star Wars characters.
When Lane's not writing or reading sexy novels, she can be found in the summer on the beaches of the east coast, and in the fall watching football, cheering on the Carolina Panthers.
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