Chapter 1“Sorry about this, can you just hold him for a second while I wipe this off me? It’s like he has this wild sixth sense that I’m wearing clean clothes, must throw up all over him straightaway.”
Kate glanced at the familiar green door behind the harassed young guy thrusting the baby out toward her, knowing the fastest way to get round him was to refuse, but old parenting instincts die hard. She recognized the exhausted look in the guy’s eyes, and the I’m-holding-on-by-a-thread-here tone in his new-dad voice. Sighing inwardly, she held her hands out for the red-faced, squirming baby.
“I’d keep him at arm’s length, he’s just filled his nappy. He’s like a grenade, goes off at either end without notice.”
“Yeah, they do that,” she said, trying to surreptitiously check her watch without tipping the baby to one side. “Hello, you,” she whispered, thrown straight back to Alice’s baby days by the unexpected weight of a baby in her arms. He was surprised enough to stop crying and stare up at her, silent when she stroked the pronounced curve of his cheek with the back of her finger.
“I think he likes you, you should keep him. I’ll come back for him in about eighteen years,” the guy said, finally finding a pack of baby wipes in the bottom of his overstuffed changing bag and scrubbing ineffectually at the baby sick down the front of his hoodie.
“Trust me, you’ll look back when he’s eighteen and wish he was this small again. He’ll still be throwing up, just beer-induced rather than milk,” Kate said.
“God, I’d kill for a beer right now,” the guy sighed, giving up on his scrubbing and shoving the wipes back into the bag. Kate caught his eye and he shook his head and laughed. “I don’t mean it.”
“I know,” she said. “It gets easier.”
Lifting the baby onto her shoulder, she waited while he reclipped his baby carrier in place and gave himself a shake.
“Thanks for being cool,” he said, wrinkling his nose as he took his son back. “We better go and find somewhere to change you, hadn’t we, bud?”
Kate glanced sideways as he moved away into the lunchtime crowds and found the shoulder of her black jacket covered in baby sick.
“Shit balls,” she muttered, dragging it off to examine the damage. She’d spent the last two days deciding what to wear for the job interview, and none of her plans had involved baby sick.
Sighing, she did the only thing possible: shoved her jacket in the nearest litter bin, reassured herself she wasn’t underdressed, then threw her shoulders back and turned toward the painted green door again. It was open, an older guy heading out just as she headed in. She stepped aside with a tight smile, giving him a wide berth.
“Don’t worry, I won’t vomit on you too,” he said, having clearly witnessed the whole incident.
She shrugged lightly, an it-happens gesture designed to move things along.
“I think you have some in your hair,” he said, peering at her.
Kate touched her curls and groaned when she found them damp. “Oh, for the love of God.” She’d stashed a hair band in her pocket earlier and reached for it on autopilot, patting herself down and belatedly realizing she wasn’t wearing her jacket anymore.
“In the bin,” the guy said, rueful. He looked like someone never likely to find themselves in such a ridiculous situation, well put together from his suntan to his tweed jacket to his polished shoes.
“Well, that’s that, then, isn’t it? Message received,” she said, glancing up at the skies in surrender. “I can’t go into a job interview with no jacket and sick in my hair, can I?”
He looked at her for a moment, then silently unknotted his tie and handed it to her.
“For your hair,” he said.
Kate looked at it, surprised, and then at him.
“You’ve come this far,” he said, by way of explanation.
She swallowed hard and nodded. He was right. She could salvage this. Tying her hair back, she took a deep, grateful breath.
“Thanks,” she said.
He nodded and held her gaze for a second, then stalked away into the London street scene.
Copyright © 2025 by Josie Silver. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
