ODESSA

One last pair of flats goes into my suitcase before I yank the zipper tight. It’s almost nine o’clock, and the flight leaves in fourteen hours from LaGuardia. I texted Beckham earlier to let him know I’d meet him there around nine, but I never heard back.

He stormed out of the office after lunch today, and I never heard from him after that.

Washing up for bed and slipping into pajama pants and a tank, I climb under my cool sheets and pull my tablet from my nightstand for some late night reading. I read until my eyelids grow heavy and the e-ink words jumble together on the dimly lit screen.

The buzzing on my nightstand interrupts my gentle lull and pulls me back into the moment – into my cold, dark room. Eyes squinting, I grab the phone and answer immediately when I see who’s calling.

“Beckham,” I say, voice groggy. “What’s up?”

“What are you doing?” His voice is dialed down, low. Almost seductive.

“Sleeping. Which is what you should be doing too. We fly out tomorrow morning.”

“I need you to come over.”

My lips twist, peeling into a wide smile I can only hope to conceal in my tone. “You’re shameless. And no. The answer is no. I’m in bed. I’m staying here. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

“Odessa.” My name in his mouth is heavier this time, causing my heart to hammer. “I mean it. Come over. Now.”

“The desperation isn’t doing you any favors. Goodnight, okay?”

A weird noise comes from his end. It sounds like a squawking bird, high pitched and shrill at first until it grows louder and closer. And then I realize it’s a baby.

* * *

The penthouse elevator doors part, and there stands Beckham, a wailing newborn cradled in his arms. I’d forgotten how small babies are when they’re brand new. I haven’t held a newborn since my oldest sister had her last, and it’s been years.

“I can’t get her to take a bottle.” Beckham’s hair is combed every which way, his eyes squinty and his posture exhausted. A small bottle rests in the palm of his hand. Navy sweats are cinched low around his hips, and a white t-shirt reveals a hint of the ‘v’ that leads to familiar territory. I’ve seen him dressed up. I’ve seen him naked. But seeing him so casual with a baby in his arm almost feels like an illusion.

“May I?” I scoop the crying baby from his arms. He hands me the bottle which is tepid at best. “This is cold, Beckham. Let’s get her a fresh one. Do you have any frozen breast milk?

“She’s on formula.”

“Where’s Eva?” I ask.

“Obviously not here.”

I carry the unsettled baby into the kitchen, Beckham following. An open canister of Similac rests next to a diaper bag. Pulling out a fresh bottle, I heat some sterile water and mix two ounces with a scoop of powder.

Testing it on my inner wrist, I run the nipple across her mouth until she opens up. She latches on immediately, as if she was starving.

“Why will she let you give her a bottle and not me?” He watches like I’m performing some kind of magic.

“Babies are fickle,” I say. “She’s still figuring out the world around her. Sometimes they like to be held a certain way or they want their milk a certain temperature. You’ll get to know her eventually. Crying is the only way they can communicate right now.”

I carry her into the living room, lowering us into a cushy leather chair. I prop my legs on a nearby ottoman and settle in with the dark haired beauty.

“She looks like you.” I gently pull the bottle from her lips and hoist her over my shoulder, patting her back until she gives me the tiniest burp.

Beckham takes the seat across from me, not looking away for one second. Either he’s amazed by this interaction or he’s overprotective of his daughter.

“You’re good with her,” he says.

She sucks down the final ounce, and I place her over my shoulder once more. “I have six nieces and nephews. Lots of practice.”

He looks down for a second, his elbows resting on his knees. “You want kids, Odessa?”

“Someday,” I say. “Not in a rush or anything. My family’s as close as we are big. I’m the only Russo out of five not married with kids. The pressure is intense. I’m sure it’ll happen exactly when it’s supposed to. I’m not worried.”

“Try being one of fifty-six.” His hand hooks the back of his neck and he leans back.

I’m sure he’s exaggerating.

“So you have experience with babies then? Being from a big family?”

His terse lips harden. “Men didn’t do that in my family. She’s the first baby I’ve ever held.”

“What’s her name?” I watch her eyelids flutter and feel her relax in my arms as she settles in the white blanket that envelops her.

“Baby.” His eyes are still closed. “That’s her name. Baby.”

“You need some sleep, Beckham. You’re not making any sense tonight.” I stand up slow, not wanting to wake her. “Where’s her crib?”

The only indication that a baby lives in his penthouse is the stuffed diaper bag sitting on the counter next to the can of formula.

“There’s a bassinette in my room.” He points toward the hall.

I whisk her down the hallway, check her diaper, and deposit her in her bassinette like she’s made of glass and china. When I return to the living room, Beckham is passed out. Yanking a faux-fur throw from behind the sofa, I cover him up.

I suppose he’s right. We’re sort of friends now.

Attempting to be quiet in a penthouse with wood floors and eleven foot ceilings is almost impossible.

“You’re leaving?” He sits up, rubbing his eyes.

“We’re flying out tomorrow,” I say. “Wait. What’s your plan? Is Eva going to stay with the baby?”

He rises, tossing the throw off and rubbing his temples. “The baby’s temporarily in my custody. Eva’s going through some things. She’s not able to care for her. I have a nanny coming during the day, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go to Vermont this week. Can we reschedule?”

I ignore the sinking feeling my heart makes.

“You know what?” I swat at the air. “I’ll handle it. I’ll do the interview and the town hall meeting. I have everything scripted out. I can tell them you’ve had a family emergency. If I show a picture of the baby, they’ll understand. Everyone loves a baby.”

He’s quiet for a minute. “You’d do that for me?”

“It’s kind of what I’m good at…”

His hand flies to his hip and our eyes meet. “Yeah. Fine. I appreciate that.”

I check the time, mentally calculating how much sleep I’ll get tonight if I leave now. Beckham studies me, holding me in place with a single sharp stare.

“Do you need anything else before I take off?” I point toward the elevator. The thought of him being alone with a newborn tonight, with no one else, makes me feel sorry for him. A week ago he was just a guy with a big ego making the best of his sexually decadent lifestyle. Then shit got real. “You going to be okay tonight? Alone?”

His jaw sets. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Just remember, you’re her father. You know what’s best for her. Don’t get frustrated if she won’t take a bottle or if she cries. It’s normal. She’ll eat if she’s hungry enough and the crying won’t last forever.”

I get a quick nod out of him, though I can’t help but feel he’s not ready for me to leave yet.

“Call me if you need anything.” I head toward the elevator. “And Google is your friend.”

Beckham’s fingertips slip into the waistband of his sweats, a hint of his taut stomach peeking out. He half-smirks, still locked in place.

“Thanks for coming out,” he says.

“We’re friends now, right? That’s what friends do.”