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“Brandon, glad I caught you.” Ian closed out his email and opened the document with his client’s name on it to make notes. “You arrive in Houston yet?”
“About an hour ago. I’m ready for a beer, my hotel room and about five days of sleep. In that order.”
Ian chuckled. His client had been filming all over with a tight schedule; the crew had literally been running from one location to another.
“What’s up?” Brandon asked.
“I know your mind is on overload right now, but I need to discuss the next script. I have a film that will be set in Alaska and the producer has specifically asked for you. I’d like to send this script to you and see what you think.”
Brandon sighed. “Sure. Did you look it over?”
“Yeah. I think this character would be a perfect fit for you. I can see why they want you for the role.”
“Who’s the producer?” Brandon asked.
Ian told him more specifics and turned to see Emily...only she wasn’t there. Panic rushed through him as he jerked to his feet, sending his chair toppling to the floor behind him.
“Emily,” he called, glancing around the very tiny area.
“Excuse me?”
Ian glanced at the phone. For a second he’d forgotten about the call. “I need to call you back. The baby is gone.”
“Baby?”
Ian disconnected the call and tossed his phone on the table. Stepping over the toys and blanket, Ian crossed to the other end of the trailer. He peeked into the tiny bathroom: no Emily.
“Emily,” he called. “Sweetheart?”
In the small bedroom, Ian saw bright rainbow material sticking out from the side of the bed. He rounded the bed. Emily sat on her bottom, still chewing her favorite stuffed horse. Of course, when she saw him she looked up and gave that heart-melting smile.
“You’re rotten,” he told her. “Your mom is not going to let you come play with me anymore if you give me a heart attack.”
He scooped her up and was rewarded with a wet, sloppy horse to the side of the face. Nice.
The next hour went about as stellar as the first, and by the end of hour two, Ian knew he was an amateur and needed reinforcements. There was just no way he could do this on his own.
How the hell did Cassie manage? Not only manage, but still put up the front of keeping it together and succeeding at each job: mother, sister, daughter, trainer. She did it all.
Of course, now she was home, in bed, flat-out exhausted and literally making herself sick.
As Ian gathered up all Emily’s things, she started crying. The crying turned into a wail in about 2.5 seconds, so Ian figured she was hungry. Wrong. He changed her diaper. Still not happy.
He picked up the bag and Emily, stepped outside and strapped her into the stroller. Perhaps a walk around the estate would help.
Keeping toward the back of the main house, Ian quickly realized this also wasn’t making her very happy. That was it. Reinforcements were past due.
He made his way to the back door, unfastened the very angry Emily and carried her into the house, where—thank you, God—Linda greeted him with a smile and some heavenly aroma that could only be her cinnamon rolls.
“I’ve done something wrong,” Ian yelled over Emily’s tantrum. “We were fine.” A slight lie. “But then she started screaming. She’s not hungry. She has a clean diaper. We took a walk. I don’t know what to do.”
Linda wiped her hand on a plaid towel and tossed it onto the granite counter before circling the island and holding her hands out for Emily. The baby eagerly went to the middle-aged woman and Ian nearly wept with gratitude that someone else surely knew what they were doing.
“She probably needs a nap,” Linda told him as she jostled and tried to calm Emily.
Ian laughed and pushed a hand through his hair. “After all of that, I need one, too.”
Smiling, Linda patted Emily’s back. “You say you fed her?”
Ian nodded. “She took a bottle. I have some jar food, but Cassie said to save that for a bit later.”
“If she’s had her bottle, then her little belly is full and she’s ready to rest. I’ll just take her into the master bedroom. Damon has a crib set up in there for when Cassie is over here.”
Ian sank to the bar stool, rested his elbow on the island and held his head in his hands. Good grief, being in charge of one tiny little being was the hardest job he’d ever had...and he’d had the job only a few hours.
Hands down, parenting was not for wimps.
A slither of guilt crept through him. Had he been too hard on his parents all those years? His free-spirited mother who was always seeking attention and his by-the-book father who could never be pleased...were they just struggling at this whole parenting thing, too?
