I was at the back of the house, sitting under the covered lanai overlooking the pool, sipping a scotch when my cell phone dinged, alerting me that I had received a text message.

I glanced at it on the table next to my comfortable lounge chair. The caller ID stated "Unknown." I received many spam calls and messages from people I didn't know. My phone number was supposed to be unlisted, but in today's digital age, nothing remained private for long.

I clicked on the envelope icon and frowned at the message. Check the front door.

What the hell?

Ignoring it, I reclined again, but curiosity got the better of me. From the lanai, you could see straight through the living room to the foyer and to my front door. It wouldn’t hurt to look. Standing, I stretched, then checked that the casual pair of slacks, loose t-shirt, and pair of leather, moccasin-type slippers I wore were presentable. In no hurry, I pocketed my phone and walked into the house, across the octagonal living room with its coffered ceiling.

I’d done the bare minimum of work today in my home office located to the left of the foyer, but it was such a nice day outside, as it usually was in Los Angeles, that I’d decided a brief break from my computer was not out of the question.

I reached the front door, opened it, and looked out. To nothing.

Until I glanced down.

My heart skipped a beat when I discovered a large wicker basket on the flagstones. Inside that basket, cushioned by a small, light blue fuzzy blanket, was a baby.

"What the fuck is this?”

I mentally apologized to the infant for using such language. Shit. Was this some kind of joke? I looked around, but no one else lingered.

The baby was sleeping, thank god. Tucked between the blanket and a side of the basket, was a folded piece of paper.

At first, I wasn't sure what to do. Call the police? Should I touch the basket, the envelope, or just wait for the cops to get here?

Curiosity overrode my caution. I crouched down, plucked the paper from the basket and unfolded it.

This is your son, Ethan. I'll call you later. Kelli.

This time I couldn't help it. A string of oaths, spoken softly so I didn't wake the infant, erupted from my mouth as I stood there, dumbfounded, my heart pounding, shaking my head.

What the hell?

I stared down at the basket. The baby. The note in my hand. Then back at the basket holding the baby.

A baby!

A cold chill skidded down my spine, followed by a myriad of emotions, anger being among the first. What the hell kind of person dropped a baby off on someone's doorstep? That only happened in fairytales. Not only that, it was dangerous. What the fuck was Kelli up to?

I weighed my options. I should've called the cops right that second, but instead, I stared at the angelic look on the sleeping infant's face and wondered what Kelli was thinking; my instinct was to pick up that baby, to protect it. I couldn't just leave it on the doorstep, and I certainly wasn't going to stand here waiting for the cops to come and ask me a bunch of questions for which I had no answers. If the cops came, Kelli could very well be charged with child abuse, endangering an infant and a myriad of other issues.

I glanced down the curved driveway. The three-car garage blocked my view to the west, but on the southside of the street and down the hill toward the corner on the eastside, I didn't see any sign of Kelli. There were a few cars parked along the street in the distance, but I couldn't tell if anybody was sitting in one. I didn't recognize the car that Kelli used to drive, but that didn't mean she wasn't out there somewhere, watching to see what I would do.

I heaved an impatient sigh and once again glanced down at the baby. I didn't know anything about taking care of babies. Maybe I could bring it inside, where at least it would be out of the heat, and then just hope and pray that the kid didn't wake up.

"Damn you, Kelli," I swore under my breath as I finally picked up the basket and brought it inside. A large walnut octagonal table stood at the end of the foyer, just before it opened into the living room, and I placed the basket there. The baby didn't wake.

Nearly breathless with relief, I stepped back outside the entryway and grabbed the baby bag that had been left with the basket. Inside I found empty milk bottles, plastic bottle nipples, a couple of pacifiers, milk formula, and a ton of diapers. Incredibly small diapers. I could barely generate enough spit to swallow.

Moving quietly, thankful that my house staff was off for the day, the noise of a lawn mower starting up entered from the backyard where I'd left the sliding glass door open. I cringed as I stared down at the tiny sleeping face, my only movement a continual slow shake of my head.

This is your son. Ethan.

I frowned. Did the baby look like me? It was hard to tell. How old was the kid? A boy, based on the color of the blanket. It wasn't exactly a newborn, but he still had a big head, nearly hairless, but what hair there was looked brown like mine. Could he have my nose? Who the hell could tell at this point? It was a cute little button nose, but that's about all one could really say. He had a little Cupid's mouth, and as he seemed to settle deeper into sleep, dimples appeared in his cheeks. There could have been some similarity in the chin or jaw.

He was a cutie, no doubt about it. I glanced at the note one more time. I'll call you later.

"To hell with that," I mumbled. I stepped away from the table and strode into my study, barely seeing the walls lined with bookshelves, my desk cluttered with numerous projects, and paperwork associated with those projects. Leaning my hip against the desk so that I was out of earshot of the child, but it was still in my line of sight, I pulled my phone from my pocket.

I found Kelli’s phone number buried in the endless list of contacts and hit voice call. When there was no answer, I texted, Stop playing games. Answer your phone. Again, I called her number, but it went to voicemail.

I wasn't sure what to do. If I called the cops, I knew that social services would get involved. What the hell was she thinking? What did she mean by simply dropping a baby off at my house? Was it really mine? The resemblance in regard to hair and the shape of the kid's jaw was similar to mine, but how could I know? Did he have deep blue eyes like me? I wasn't about to wake him up to find out.

On the heels of that thought came another question. Could I really be that baby's father? Was I a dad? I felt like someone punched me in the stomach. If I was the father, why wouldn't Kelli have said something when she first realized she was pregnant? Dammit, she’d told me she was on the pill! Was this some kind of prank, some sick revenge? I’d kicked her out, yes, but because I caught her screwing around with a former friend of mine. So how could I know the baby was mine and not that guy’s?

My heart pounded, and placing the phone on the desk, I realized my hand was trembling. I quickly made a fist and took a deep breath, focusing on calming my nerves.

Slowly, I walked back toward the table where the baby still lay quietly nestled in the basket, and looked at him more closely. Maybe I did see a resemblance, but that could be all in my head.

I lifted the baby bag and pulled out the incredibly large number of disposable diapers, placing them on the table beside the basket. There must've been at least two dozen. I'd never even held a baby before, let alone changed a diaper. How hard could it be? I glanced at the white, puffy contraptions and decided that if I could design killer software and video games, I could certainly figure out how to put a diaper on a baby.

The milk… now that was something different. I pulled the can of formula out of the baby bag and began to carefully read the instructions. Babies got hungry after a nap, didn't they? I needed to be prepared.

I glanced at the four plastic bottles, an assortment of nipples and screw caps, and gathered them carefully in my arms, trying not to make any more noise than I had to as I carried the bottles and can of formula into the kitchen. The kitchen opened on three sides and at its north end, boasted a roomy dining area with a large bay window that overlooked the lanai and the pool beyond.

I placed the milk items on the center island marble counter, read the instructions again, and then fixed a couple of bottles. Out of curiosity, I tasted the formula and gagged. Obviously, Kelli had decided not to breastfeed. Kelli would do nothing that would endanger her looks, and leaking, milk-plump breasts would not be her idea of attractive. Then again, she'd gone through a pregnancy, and that would've caused quite a few changes in her body.

I remembered Kelli's svelte figure, her toned, flat stomach and medium-sized breasts. She’d never gotten breast implants like a lot of her peers did, and I asked her why one time. Her answer? She wanted to be the real thing. She didn't want boobs that looked like melons, but she did admit that if the time ever came where gravity changed her profile, she might consider augmentation.

The gurgle of a waking baby broke the silence and froze me inside and out. Was that a cry for attention? I put the milk back down on the counter and stepped into the foyer. Two little white fists swung back and forth over the top of the basket. My heart once again pounding, stomach in a tight knot, I peered into the basket, startled when a pair of huge blue eyes blinked back up at me, the little pink mouth opening in surprise.

He did look like me.

I smiled, and then the expression on the baby's face altered. First a wrinkled brow, the eyes filling with tears, and then the mouth opening and pulling into a frown.

Alarmed, I spoke softly to the baby, “Everything will be all right.”

But he obviously didn’t get it, because a high-pitched wail erupted from his lips before he took a long breath and screeched, shattering my eardrums.

At that moment, I mentally cursed Kelli as I'd never cursed any woman in my life. How dare she do this to me! What came out of my mouth was a soft, comforting sound as I reached for the baby. I lifted him, along with his blanket, awkwardly into my arms and gently bounced the both of us. The caterwauling didn't stop, and in fact seemed to reach a fever pitch, his face turning red.

Okay, so he doesn't like that.

I stood still and adjusted him so that I was cradling him in one arm, plucking the blanket away from near his face. His little fingers latched onto my pinky, and before I knew it, the little guy was suckling on the tip of my finger.

Hungry. The kid was hungry.

I quickly headed into the kitchen, grabbed one of the bottles of milk, and gave it a shake. I tipped it so the baby could drink, but he made a face and squalled again, a drop of milk balanced precariously on his chin. I brushed it off and then realized it was cool. Didn’t babies like warm milk?

Taking a deep breath and trying to knock back the panic rising in my chest, I ran for the microwave, and skidded to a halt. Some of my friends refused to have microwaves, didn’t have them in their homes because they swore they were unhealthy, harmful even. I couldn’t subject this newly created life to a barrage of invisible microwaves. I would have to manually heat the damn milk.

I prided myself on being an incredibly intelligent, creative, and well-organized individual, but the process of cradling a baby in one arm, finding a pan, unscrewing the bottle of milk I’d just made and dumping it into the pan, and then turning on the burner to allow the milk to heat slowly was quite a challenge for me. Especially since I didn't really know what I was doing. I kept dipping my pinky finger into the milk, trying to test it for temperature. When it tested barely lukewarm, I figured that was enough. Still balancing the baby in one arm, the empty bottle near the stovetop, I poured the milk into the bottle. If it was too hot, the bottle would crack. It didn't.

I finagled the nipple onto the top of the bottle, then grabbed it. Barely warm. Tentatively, I put the nipple in my mouth and allowed a few drops of the god-awful tasting formula to drip onto my tongue as I grimaced. Not too hot. Carefully, I lowered the bottle and rubbed the nipple on the baby's bottom lip and he immediately latched onto it. His eyes widened, hands reaching for the bottle over mine, and he began to drink greedily, making loud sucking noises and little grunting sounds in his throat as he swallowed.

Adorable.

My heart was racing now, and I moved into the study and sat down on the couch. By that time, the little guy had sucked down nearly half the bottle.

Then my phone rang. I looked at the desk, back at the baby, and grunting with annoyance, quickly stood, reached for the phone and then sat back down on the couch. My teeth gritted together when I saw the display. Kelli.

I hit the answer icon and held the phone between my ear and shoulder on the same side I was holding the baby, needing to balance the bottle with my other hand.

“Joel?" I'd never forget her voice, kind of raspy, but not in a hoarse way. Sexier.

"What the hell are you doing?" I hissed, proud of myself for not raising my voice to the level I wanted. Not shouting. I didn’t want to scare the baby. Anger flushed my face with heat, the hand holding the bottle starting to shake again.

"I—I'm sorry for the way I handled things," she stammered. "Especially considering our history, but I figured that giving you a little bit of time with him on your own might be the best way for you to process it."

"Process it," I repeated, shaking my head.

"Joel, I discovered a few weeks after our break-up that I was pregnant."

"How do I know it's mine?"

“I haven't been with anyone since you. He’s definitely yours.” Were those tears in her voice? I hardened my heart toward the emotion in her tone. My confrontation with her former lover had been just before the last time I saw her, when I told her to pack her bags and get out. I didn't even want to get into it.

“Why aren't you taking care of this baby? Why leave him on my doorstep?”

"Joel, don't worry. I've arranged for a nanny to come by. She should be there early tomorrow morning. I know that you don't know anything about babies, and to be honest, I didn't either, but it’s not hard to learn and this nanny is fantastic. She's trustworthy and she's helped me out with Ethan numerous times over the past few months."

"Where are you?" I demanded, striving and failing to keep my voice calm. "Would you mind telling me what's going on?"

"I'm on a photoshoot, Joel, up in San Francisco. I'll be gone for a few days and I thought… I thought that maybe now was a good time for you to get to know your son."

My son. I glanced down at the baby, eyes half closed now, belly bulging, the bottle of milk just about gone. My son?

"Kelli, I don't have anything… no supplies, no furniture, no nothing to accommodate a baby. And why couldn't you give me a heads-up? Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant? Instead, you dump the kid on my doorstep. Do I look like a fire station to you?"

A muffled squeaking sound came over the phone, like Kelli was weeping. Or laughing. It was hard to tell.

"Joel, I didn't want to tell you because I didn't want you to feel obligated—"

"And now? Leaving a baby on my doorstep isn't an obligation? What were you thinking?"

"What I'm thinking is that I want my son to get to know his father," Kelli said softly. "And I was hoping that, maybe, when I get back into town, you and I can have a little talk. Maybe patch things up? A baby needs his father, you know."

I wasn't sure if that was a dig or not, with her knowing my personal history with my own dad. I scowled. "Kelli, I don't think this is a good idea—"

"I've got to go, Joel, the photographer’s calling me. I'll see you in a few days. Don't forget, Sarah will be there first thing in the morning."

The call disconnected and I stared down at the baby, looking fat and content. I couldn’t help but smile. Until I noticed an odd sensation in the palm of my hand. Then the smell hit me. Oh god. Time for a diaper change.

The evening went on like that. Me trying to figure out why he was crying, him crying as I changed his diaper, fed him, and bounced him until he finally drifted off to sleep.

After midnight, I laid down on the bed and fell into an exhausted slumber, and the baby immediately woke up screaming. Which happened it least every thirty minutes throughout the night. And each time, I inwardly swore at Kelli. Damn her! Damn her!

Each time, I gathered every ounce of patience I’d ever possessed and presented a calm demeanor to the baby, to Ethan, whispering or talking very softly. When the kid got going, it seemed like nothing would settle him down. For maybe the twentieth time tonight, I checked his diaper. Dry. He wouldn't take any more milk, so he was full. Why was he fussing? I tried cradling, placing him on my shoulder, rubbing his back, nothing seemed to work. It wasn't an all-out screech, but a lonely cry.

A lonely cry. A subdued, I'm not sure I want to be here kind of cry. Of course, he didn't know me and was probably scared. I felt for the kid, recalling my own strained relationship with my dad.

"Don't worry, kiddo, your nanny will be here first thing in the morning," I soothed. I could understand why Kelli would hire a nanny. She was often away on photoshoots. I wondered about the woman, Sarah. Kelli trusted her. Still, I would judge for myself, thank you very much.

Just before dawn, my eyes heavy-lidded, my hair mussed, wearing only a pair of basketball shorts, I settled a sleeping Ethan carefully on his back in the middle of my king-sized bed. I surrounded him with pillows and blankets. No way in hell would he be able to roll off the middle of the bed.

I’d just patted the last pillow in place when the doorbell shattered the silence.

I froze, waiting for mayhem to burst forth.

Ethan remained sleep. It was a miracle.

I squinted out the sliding glass doors at the backyard and pool, which were barely visible in the darkness and wondered what time it was. Before the bell could ring again, I quickly made my way out to the hall and into the foyer.

When I opened the door, I found myself looking down at a lovely young woman. She was probably in her mid-twenties, average height, maybe five-foot-five and had what I'd call a classic hourglass figure. She wore her brown hair in a high ponytail that was folded into a bun. I stared at her heart-shaped face, exquisitely thin eyebrows, slightly upturned nose, and firm lips. Her hazel green eyes complemented her olive-toned skin to a tee.

Whoa. This couldn’t be the nanny.