house with Sean and Joanie was a relief and a joy. This was my home. This was my baby. This was my man. Life was treating me pretty well at the moment.
I sank into my bed with Joanie lying beside me and tried to nap like the nurses had advised. Instead I stared over at her tiny face, marveling at the squeaky noises she made, caressing her slender fingers.
Sean came to check on us, sneaking in to avoid waking me. He stopped sneaking when he realized there was no need, slipping his hands into his pockets as he looked down at me. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
I just grinned and directed my tired eyes back to my baby. “I know. But I can’t look away.”
“I know the feeling.” He stretched out on the other side of her and we admired together.
I ended up drifting off just a few minutes later.
♪♫♪
Our miraculous reprieve from journalists lasted all of one day. When the alerts popped up, Sean and I read through a couple of the articles that claimed to know something about the birth of our love child. I’d heard the assumption so many times that the claim was almost funny. Almost. We rolled our eyes and shut off the computer.
At least we were safely in our own house, able to ignore it if we avoided large swaths of the internet. I was doubly grateful that Sean had convinced me to move. I missed the home I had made with Jonas, but I was safe here, Joanie was safe here, and that’s what mattered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Her beautiful eyes
The color’s not mine
The pout of her lips
It makes her face shine
This sweet baby girl
She’s not from my blood
This love’s overwhelming
Just beginning to bud
I’ll be here for you
Cry a tear for you
Live a year for you
And more
—Sean Amity
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The last thing I wanted to do was leave the house. I was two weeks postpartum. Two measly weeks. I was not my usual chipper self. I had no confidence in my ability to nurse my baby in public, or to just not cry. My body was not the same size or shape it used to be, and finding clothes was frustrating and difficult, so my clothes were really more appropriate for being at home and unseen. But there I was, out in the world, with Tucker driving and Nick riding shotgun, taking my baby to get her little heel pricked again because they didn’t like her bilirubin levels the first time.
I hadn’t asked Sean to come with me. I didn’t have to. He just came. I think he could see that this task was beyond my ability to handle on my own. I mean, I could have. If I’d had to do it by myself, I would have gotten it done. Hear me roar and whatnot. But Louisa had left when Joanie was ten days old, saying she’d intruded long enough, and also that she needed to get back to her horses now that I was past the biggest hurdles. So I was utterly relieved to have Sean beside me in the back of the SUV, the baby carrier between us. Sean insisted on bringing his diaper bag. He’d bought one for himself, unbeknownst to me. It was very manly. It was army green, with straps and zippers. It even had a patch on it that said, “Tactical Diaper Bag. Crisis Management Kit.”
I loved that man.
I wished I could enjoy that feeling more, but I was too consumed with concern and nerves and feelings of incompetence.
If only my normal motherly insecurities had been the only fears on that drive to the hospital.
They later justified their actions, trying to excuse what happened by saying, “If you’d just sent out a press release, we wouldn’t have…”
They blamed us. Blamed Sean most especially. Said they had to do their job somehow, so they had coordinated their efforts to be sure they got the photos they wanted.
We were at a stop sign when a car pulled around in front of us, cutting us off and then stopping, right there in the middle of the street. “What are they doing?” I muttered, confused.
Then two photographers jumped out and my heart sank. Not here. Not now. Not when I have my baby with me.
One climbed onto the hood of their car so he could get a better angle through the windshield to see into the back of the SUV, his camera flashing non-stop. The other ran up to Sean’s window and knocked on