Although she had no intention of taking his down vest, she said, “Okay.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Go to sleep, Wren. I’ll watch out for Cupcake.”
She snuggled into him and let her eyes drift closed. She could smell male sweat overlying soap and a hint of forest. She liked how he smelled. “Okay,” she heard herself murmur again, drowsily.
Falling asleep hadn’t been so easy in a long, long time.
CHAPTER FOUR
ALEC SLEPT IN SNATCHES, an hour here and there. He was uncomfortable, but unwilling to disturb Wren or the baby by moving. The floor seemed to get harder as the night wore on, the cushioning beneath him thinner and more inadequate. He felt as if he was pillowing his head on a square rock. Tomorrow night—if they were still here—he’d find something else. His arm did go numb under Wren’s head, and sharp pains stabbed his right shoulder, the one he’d landed on when he fell through the window.
How long had it been since he’d slept cuddling a woman? Two years, maybe? No, longer than that—closer to three. Oh, who was he kidding? He and Carlene hadn’t been that friendly in bed for a while before their divorce. And his few sexual encounters since hadn’t included sleep—or much in the way of cuddling, either.
Early on, Wren had snuggled onto her side and shifted her head to his shoulder. He had a suspicion she would have been nestled against him if not for the small lump that was Cupcake between them. Wren, he thought, was a cuddler.
She was also a quiet sleeper, or maybe simply exhausted to the point where her body had decided to suspend all but essential operations. Once she settled in, she went boneless. He couldn’t even hear her breathe. Every so often, to reassure himself, he tilted his face so that he could feel a soft stir of warm air on his cheek when she exhaled.
He’d never slept in bed with a baby, although he’d been known to snooze on the sofa with one of his daughters on his chest, their knees tucked up and thumb in mouth. Remembering the sweet weight of a baby gave him a piercing pain beneath the breastbone that was sharper than the one in his shoulder. That memory led to others, even less welcome.
Maybe he hadn’t been the best father in the world, not given his working hours. The last straw for Carlene had been when he’d missed India’s fourth birthday party.
“You’ll be here when I blow out the candles, won’t you, Daddy?” India had begged him, her blue eyes wide. “You will, right?”
“I’ll do my best,” he’d promised, giving her a big hug and kiss on the nose before he went out the door.
But there had been a shooting, not an especially ugly one—he didn’t even remember the specifics, except that Benson was out because his mother was dying and Molina had come down with the flu, so Alec and his partner had gotten the call even though they shouldn’t have been top of the rotation yet. It was his job. Somebody had died. A kid’s birthday party didn’t cut it as an excuse.
India hadn’t been that upset. Her Grandma Olson had been there, and half a dozen friends from preschool with their parents chiming in the birthday song. She’d gotten lots of presents, and when he did finally make it home had taken great pleasure in showing them to him one at a time, putting each carefully away before presenting the next. That was India, congenitally organized.
It was Carlene, predictably, who was furious, certain that Alec was teaching his daughters that they couldn’t depend on him. The words she’d said that night still gnawed at him when he let his guard down. It was only a few weeks later that she’d packed one day while he was at work and announced when he got home that she and the girls were going to her mom’s.
He swore under his breath and tried surreptitiously to flex muscles that ached.
Cupcake was considerably more restless than her mommy. Having her under there was unsettling, like sleeping with a cat that had burrowed beneath the covers. She snuffled and wriggled and periodically woke crying. The first couple of times, Wren barely regained consciousness, and only after Alec shook her awake. He had to unbutton the front of her shirt and help the baby find a nipple. The whole experience was weird and so intimate he tried not to think about the fact that he was groping in the dark for this woman’s breasts and moving her body around so that the strange small creature between them could suckle on her.
He tried to keep the blankets pulled high to maintain the baby’s body temperature. The air outside the coccoon they’d created was winter cold. During one of his periods of wakefulness Alec realized that he couldn’t hear the rain. Incredulous, he lay listening to the silence. Had it finally stopped? Forty days and forty nights. No, it hadn’t actually been that long. He remembered Wren saying that the day felt surreal, as if it had gone on forever and only now mattered. He felt that way about the storm. After the days of gray, slanting rain, bobbing on floodwaters, hauling soaked, scared people until their faces were interchangeable and his tiredness grinding, this attic was an oasis.
He should have slept like a baby, he thought, then smiled as he gently settled Cupcake on her back and pulled blankets higher over her mother, who was already burrowing onto his shoulder. Okay, maybe not. If he had made it home to his own bed, he might have slept like a log. Not a baby.
Probably he should have checked if Cupcake was wet, but he was damned if he was going to bare her butt or try to figure out an alternative he could wrap her in.
With a groan, he did slide his hand under her to make sure she wasn’t soaking the comforter, but so far it was dry, thank God. He seemed to remember that a woman’s breasts didn’t produce much actual milk the first day or so. The trickle of colostrum apparently wasn’t overwhelming Cupcake’s bladder.
The next time he opened his eyes, it was to the gray light of day and to the contented sound of a baby nursing. What the hell…? Alec blinked gritty eyes a couple of times and oriented himself. Attic. Childbirth. Brown-feathered Wren and her wrinkly, red-faced baby.
No weight on his shoulder. He turned his head and saw Wren curled on her side supporting Cupcake’s head. She smiled at him, her face so close he could see the lighter flecks in her brown eyes.
He stretched and discovered that pretty much every muscle in his body ached and he was hungry.
“Damn,” he muttered. “What I’d give for a heaping plate of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon and country-fried potatoes.”
“After a hot shower.” Longing suffused her voice.
“Yeah. Definitely after a shower.”
WHO NEEDED TELEVISION or a morning newspaper when you had a new baby and a gorgeous man around?
Since waking, Wren had spent most of the time—well, half the time—minutely studying her daughter. Less exhausted this morning, she felt wonder bubbling in her like champagne shaken until it threatened to pop the cork. To think that she had created this beautiful, perfect, little person! Wren loved everything, from the tiny, fuzzy eyebrows to the pink lips that pursed and occasionally smacked, to the curve of cheeks and high forehead. When she nursed or bobbed against Wren’s shoulder, Cupcake’s head fit in the cup of her hand as if made for it. She weighed hardly anything, but as Alec had pointed out yesterday, she was doing well, so if she was a week or two early it obviously hadn’t mattered. Wren could tell how relieved he was when he said that. She suspected he, too, had hidden a few shudders at the thought of how many things could have gone wrong.
Astonishingly enough, watching him sleep, and gradually wake, had been almost as engrossing as staring at her beautiful baby. Every so often she looked away from Cupcake to study Alec’s hard face, only slightly relaxed in sleep. No open mouth or drooling; somehow he managed still to seem guarded. And yet there was something about his closed eyelids, the dark lashes fanned on his cheeks, that gave him an air of vulnerability. He was dreaming; his eyelids quivered, and a couple of times his nostrils flared and his mouth tightened. One hand lay on top of the covers, and she saw his fingers twitch, make a fist, then relax again.
At