The asshole doctor had transformed for that one special moment into an adorable human being—someone just as insecure as the rest of us and unable to control his mouth. I’d liked that guy. He’d seemed warm and sweet—approachable. Not the same snooty J.Crew model I’d met after the funeral or the horndog I’d overheard in the movie theater all those years ago.
But the minute I’d mentioned Pippa being sick, he’d turned back into Dr. Prick again.
“Give her to me,” he demanded, pushing past me into the house and reaching for the baby. “You should have brought her to me the minute you thought she was coming down with something.”
“Hold on there, jackass,” I said, feeling my hackles shoot up. “Take a breath. She’s not dying. And I only just realized something was off. I was going to call you.”
He got a few steps into the house before mumbling to himself and turning on his heel to walk right out again to his truck. I stood there staring after him through the late-September twilight, wondering if maybe he was the one who needed medical attention instead of Pippa.
“West?” I called after him. “You heading out so soon? Thanks for stopping by.” I couldn’t help but add a teasing tone to my voice even though it made him turn and shoot daggers at me with his eyes.
“Getting my medical bag,” he shot back before mumbling, “Smart-ass,” under his breath.
When he returned to the house, he closed the door behind us and gestured me over to the sofa. Once I sat down, I looked at him warily, reluctant for some reason to release Pippa into his care.
West removed a stethoscope from a carryall that looked more like a canvas tool bag than a traditional doctor’s bag. It was filled to the brim with first aid supplies and served as a strong reminder that this man truly was a physician. While he may have also been a jerk, he’d gone through years of medical training specifically to learn how to help small children like Pippa.
I lowered the baby from my shoulder to the deep cushion on the sofa between us. West immediately peeled back the blankets to check her out.
“Why isn’t she dressed?” he asked without looking up. He rapidly rubbed the diaphragm of the stethoscope against his own shirt to warm it up before placing it on the baby’s chest.
“I just bathed her. She was—”
“Shh,” he snapped, holding up his free hand to stop me from continuing.
I pursed my lips and narrowed my eyes at him. Fucking ass. Such a gigantic prick. Why ask me a question if he didn’t want to hear the answer?
As he listened to her heart and lungs, his slender fingers moved the stethoscope around her tiny bare chest. His hands looked gentle and capable despite being attached to someone with a giant ego. I could tell he cared about her or maybe just cared about all kids. I had to assume anyone who went through that much trouble and expense to become a family doctor had to care about children.
Adriana had been lucky to have a friend who liked kids—someone she could count on to help her figure all that baby stuff out. Or, hell, maybe it had come easier to her somehow. Easier than it had me anyway.
Goldie had spent several days of her time and God’s own stockpile of patience to help me learn how to do even the most basic things for Pippa. I could now feed her, change her, and bathe her. But giving her the first solo bath without Goldie’s help had just about killed me. I’d been convinced I was going to drown her or break her. Babies were slippery fuckers when wet.
I kept thinking about how much Griff and Sam would have cracked up seeing me transforming into babysitter extraordinaire this week. I hadn’t told Griff where I’d gone and had brushed off his texts and calls so far. I knew I needed to contact him soon to tell him where I was, but I also knew he’d come running. And I didn’t want to take him away from his own newborn to help me with Adriana’s.
“What’re her symptoms?” West asked in a soft voice. He was peering into her ears now with one of those pointy ear-looker things.
“She keeps throwing up,” I explained. “Every time I feed her she spits it all back up again.”
West’s tongue seemed to twist in his mouth to keep from smirking.
“What?” I asked. “I’m worried about her. She’s going to starve if she can’t keep her formula down, right?”
He wrapped the blankets back around Pippa and scooped her up onto his shoulder before beginning to pat her firmly on the back.
And that’s when I remembered.
Burping the baby. Burping the baby was a thing I was supposed to do after each bottle. Shit.