He's a Prince. She's a journalist.
They have a complicated relationship. More like he's into her but she hates his guts.
He needs to behave. She needs to let loose.
He's interested in her because she's the last girl interested in him.
Both of them n...
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Marianne is in my arms, crying hysterically.
I don't know what to do.
"We have to call Emily," the words roll off my tongue while my chest tightens.
I hate this.
Emily never leaves Marianne under any circumstance. Having a baby wasn't easy for them, so she is in charge of taking care of her daughter, leaving work and everything to the side. Tonight is the first time they ever leave her to go on a date, and Marianne gets a fever.
Bloody hell.
"We should call an ambulance," Mark has to shout since Marianne is crying on full-volume.
Why on earth would we need an ambulance?
"She's got a fever, Mark. It's a simple thing."
I think.
My eyes scan the kitchen counter, where Emily left pretty much everything she owns for her kid. A small basket with tiny bottles catch my eye, and I don't think it twice, I grab it. Skimming through the meds I find Calpol, liquid paracetamol.
Bingo.
After reading the basic instructions, I give her the dose the box recommends. I hope this works. Just as I'm putting it back on the basket, I remember Mom making me take long warm baths whenever I had fever in my childhood.
"Grab her." I give her to him, who's blue eyes are staring at me as if I'm crazy.
Which I am.
I've never bathed Marianne. I have no idea how to do this.
"Never mind," I reach out for the baby and grab her from him. "Take off your clothes."
Mark blinks at me. A mischievous smile curves up his lips. "I never thought I'd hear you say this, Kate." He wriggles his eyebrows for good measure.
I roll my eyes. "You're going to shower her." I lift up Marianne and as soon as the words leave my mouth, Mark's smile fades. I grin as I climb up the stairs, knowing that he's right behind us.
"Why me? You're the girl! You're the one who can shower with her."
I press my lips, trying not to laugh out loud. "But you're the expert, Mark! I mean, you did the whole milk temperature testing thing, which was bloody impressive." I hear him mutter curses behind me and my smile widens.
We reach the bathroom. The whole room stills as we look around for a minute. There are so many things in there. There's a huge table with the small bathtub for the baby and the thing has shelves on the bottom, filled with various size bottles. They all looked used.
What is this? Is there a simple soap bar?
I know babies cry harder if they get shampoo in their eyes, and the last thing I want to do is to irritate Marianne more.
