Page 50 of His Holy Chaos

I squint at him, shaking my head, and raise my glass. Brat.

He blows me a kiss and spins away.

"I just need to know one thing," Glynn says, and their voice is quiet. Their green eyes meet mine. "If it gets bad again, and it might, Ford, because that's how this works with him, are you going to stay?"

The question is simple. The answer should be simple.

I think about my daughter. My routines. My pristine house and my controlled life.

Then I look at the dance floor, where Jude has somehow convinced a stranger to teach him a move that involves far too much hip rotation, and he's failing spectacularly, and Pierce is filming it, and he's never looked more alive.

"I'm not going anywhere," I say.

Glynn studies me for a long moment. Then they extend their hand. I shake it.

"Then welcome to the family," they say.

Chapter 24. Jude

We're at his penthouse, but I can tell he misses his house. He calls the nannies and his mom all the time about Angel, and it's painfully obvious how much he wants to be there, no matter how much fun we’ve been having. Ford's penthouse is beautiful, but it's a hotel room. His house is where Angel is. His house is where he lives.

I'm curled up on the couch with my head on a throw pillow, watching him pace between the kitchen and the study for the third time in an hour.

"Daddy, I have something to ask you,” I say. He stops pacing and looks at me, puzzled. “Can we visit Angel? Please.”

He studies me for a long moment, and I can see the calculation happening. The risk assessment, the measuring of variables. Bringing me into the penthouse was one thing. Bringing me into Angel's space is another.

“Do you want to go there?”

“Yes, please. I promise I’ll be so, so good.”

"Hm. Yeah. I know someone who could help me teach you some discipline," he says finally, and there's a glint in his eye.

"You? Hah! As if! So many tried. None succeeded."

"Not me. Angel."

"Angel is a baby. She can't even speak yet!"

"One week there with me and you'll understand what I mean. She doesn't give you the option of not doing what you're supposed to do. Are you up for the challenge?"

"The challenge of living with you for a week? Hell yes."

But it seems I don't know what I'm talking about.

The first night, I learn what parenting actually is.

At four in the morning, the monitor on Ford's nightstand crackles to life. First a hiccup, then a whimper, then a full-throated wail that cuts through the dark like a siren. I'm dragged out of a dead sleep, disoriented, blinking at the unfamiliar ceiling. Ford's bedroom. Ford's house.

Ford sits up, already awake, already in motion. Then he pauses, remembering I'm here, and looks at me with a smirk barely visible in the blue glow of the monitor.

"Chop-chop, prince. Duty calls."

And of course I get up. I'm not going to let that poor thing cry.

We pad down the hallway together, Ford in front, me stumbling behind him in boxers and one of his t-shirts that hangs to my thighs. The nursery is dark except for the nightlight, a soft blue glow that turns everything underwater. Angel is standing in her crib, red-faced, fists clenched, tears streaming, furious at the world for the crime of existing at four in the morning. I relate deeply.

Ford moves through the routine with muscle memory. He makes the bottle and changes the diaper, then hands her to me. "Do your thing. The one that makes her sleep."