The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  His pale eyes glitter. “Exactly. That’s the Ryder I want.”

  I heap on another spoonful of sugar. “I hear you, sir. I understand what you’re saying. You need me to focus less on getting laid, and more on getting her heart,” I say, bringing my fist to my sternum and tapping so hard you can hear it.

  “Yes. Keep it bawdy. Keep it fun. But don’t lose sight of the end game. You’ve got their backs. You’re helping the men of the world connect with their soul mates. Do that, and you’re golden.”

  I need to polish my rough edges. That’s all this is. I’ll refocus my show, clean up my seminar act, and I’ll be good to go. No one needs to know I don’t believe the bullshit I’m selling anymore. All I need to do is sell it. “I can do that.”

  He pats the edge of his desk, which he does whenever he’s about to say something sympathetic. “I know it can’t be easy, and I know things have changed with Maggie out of the picture,” he says, and cold dread runs through my body. It’s a knee-jerk reaction to the mention of her name. I’d rather not have the sympathy.

  “I’m fine. Romeo and I have moved on.”

  “Good. I have a new assignment for you. It’s a big project.” He spreads his arms wide as if showing the scope of the work. “We have an advertiser behind it, and I think we can turn it into a book deal if it works out.”

  My ears prick. Book deals that work out are like little money machines that spit up cash in the form of royalties every month.

  “I want you to produce The Consummate Guide to Ten Wonderful Dates That Can Lead to Love.”

  “You do?”

  “We’ll run it as a series of columns. I think it can be wildly successful across all our mediums. You can use it as the fodder for your show as well.”

  “Isn’t that like that movie How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days?” I ask, cringing inside because Maggie loved that movie.

  Cal scoffs, shaking his head. “Dear Lord, no. That was based on a bet. McConaughey was trying to win an advertising account and if he could make any woman fall for him in ten days, he’d land the deal. This isn’t about that sort of romantic swagger. This is a roadmap to the possibility of true, authentic love. The point of this assignment is to provide the recipe to help men along in their romantic quests. I want you to outline the dates, the topics of conversation, the stages of getting to know each other, and the expectations.”

  “A dating guide?” I say, since this is a little different than some of my most popular columns in the last year, like “Ten Post-Sex Pitfalls to Avoid.” It’s a little squishier than “Five Positions Guaranteed to Bring Your Woman Toe-Curling Pleasure.” It’s a little tougher than “How to Spice Up Your Sex Life with a Long-Term Lover.”

  Cal nods enthusiastically, his face now oblong. “I want this to be the definitive handbook on where to take her, how to romance her, and how to win a woman’s heart.”

  And once you do, she’ll stick her fist into your chest, hunt around for that damn organ, and rip it out, holding it like a bloodied trophy above her head in the arena.

  “That sounds simply fantastic,” I say with a grin so roomy you could pack a bunk bed in it. “So you want me to write about how to woo a woman in ten dates?”

  This is like being given the directive to build a bomb.

  He nods.

  “And talk about it on air?”

  Another nod.

  “And outline ideas for dates to take her on?”

  He strokes his chin, taking a beat. “Ideally, I’d love for you to actually go on some of these dates.”

  “With the goal of getting a woman to fall in love with me?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Well, we can’t really guarantee that’ll happen. Love is a fickle and precious thing. But it would be helpful if you can find a woman willing to, say, take a trapeze lesson with you. Think of it as field reporting. You’re actually going to roll up your sleeves, get out there on the ground, and let us know what works.”

  And when the green wire touches the red wire, the bomb explodes in your face, kids.

  Cal rises and slaps me on the back. He walks me to the door, stops, and wraps his hand on the knob. “And if you don’t turn this ship around, your show is canceled.”

  That just makes this bomb-making assignment a real winner, now doesn’t it?

  5

  Nicole

  “Ooh, look! A new one just was added to the database,” Penny coos in excitement as she points to the screen.

  We’re gathered around my iPad at Speakeasy, our favorite Midtown haunt, perusing the latest offerings on a bank I’ve been in touch with in Manhattan.

  “He’s five-foot-nine. College educated. Plays the violin. And he has red hair,” Delaney reads, then runs her fingers over the ends of my hair. “Do you want little redheaded babies?”

  I laugh. “I think I’d like the choice whether they should have red hair or not, and clearly I’m only bringing recessive genes to the equation.”

  Penny swipes left dramatically as if the new donor is a Tinder no. “Anyone else? And are we ever going to see what they look like besides when they were five years old?”

  I shake my head. “In most cases, only childhood photos of donors are posted. Every now and then you hear of a woman who’s seen adult photos of her donor, but that’s highly unusual, and only allowed at a few, select banks. It’s actually quite rare to even see high school or college photos, since a lot of donors only do it because it’s anonymous.”

  Penny points to the screen, reading another donor’s profile in frustration. “Look. This guy is six feet, has blue eyes, played hockey in high school, went to UCLA, and works in tech. But what does he look like?”

  “Unfortunately, we’re just going to have to imagine,” Delaney says, with a heavy sigh.

  Penny reaches for her red wine. “That makes me so sad I need a drink.”

  “And let’s be honest, looks do matter,” Delaney adds.

  I nod vigorously. “They do. That doesn’t make me vain, right?”

  My girls shake their heads in unison, defending my stance. “We all want a cute elephant baby for our matriarchy,” Penny says, patting my hand.

  I laugh. “But seriously. You think it’s reasonable to want a handsome donor, right? In addition to all the other things that are obviously critical. Not a serial killer. No criminal record. College degree. Height, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “Absolutely,” Penny says, setting her wineglass down with a resounding smack. “How are you possibly supposed to say a green-eyed, five-foot-ten, college-educated man with no murder convictions is enough?”

  “It’s like online shopping without seeing what you’re buying,” Delaney adds. “Who buys anything on the Internet without seeing a photo? You don’t shop for shoes just by the size, color, and style. You need to see them. Try them on.”

  “I don’t think trying on is an option.” I wink.

  Delaney sticks out her tongue. “But you need to see the goods. You can’t fly blind.”

  I reach for my water. No more chardonnay or mojitos for this mama-to-be. I’ve had all my health screenings, too, and my doctor sees no reason why I can’t get pregnant. All I need is the other half. “I just wish I knew more about these men.”

  Penny peers at the site’s latest offerings once more. “This is crazy. You can select whether someone has skills in auto mechanics, plumbing, or kickboxing. You can choose if your donor has detached earlobes, a particular kind of eye spacing, and his favorite subject in school. You can even opt for someone who’s a good cook. But you can’t see if his jawline is actually square, if his lips are truly full, or if he’s as handsome as you’ve dreamed.”

  I scrunch my forehead and imagine my dream candidate. Briefly, my mind is blank, but then an image pops into my head. “I just wish I knew the guy was going to be a Ryder Lockhart level of hot,” I say, matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, he is a hottie,” Penny says, and Delaney nods her agreement. They’ve both met him at my work events and the occasiona
l group happy hour.

  “He’s gorgeous. Just the other day I found myself cataloging his features. He really does have it going on. Plus, he’s smart and funny and good to animals.”

  Penny hums mournfully. “Too bad he’s not a donor.”

  “Ha. Yeah, it’s a bummer he hasn’t made a deposit at this sperm bank.” I tap the screen. “I’d order up one serving ASAP. Get that turkey baster inside me stat,” I bark as if I’d be saying that to the nurses while I tell them to shoot me up with Ryder Lockhart’s DNA.

  Wait.

  Ryder Lockhart’s DNA.

  The clouds part. The sun rises. The bells ring. Never have three words sounded more like a perfect solution to a problem.

  I straighten my shoulders. A zip of electricity buzzes through me. “Girls,” I say in a hushed voice, motioning for them to come closer. They scoot in, eyes eager.

  “He has everything I could want in a donor. Should I . . .?” I trail off, leaving the unasked question hanging between us.

  “Should you ask him?” Delaney supplies, like she wants to be 100 percent certain of my meaning.

  I fiddle with my napkin. “Should I ask him to be my donor?” It comes out like a croak.

  “You’re seriously considering him?” Penny asks, taking a deep breath.

  “Am I?” But I know the answer. I am. I really am, and now my stomach is parachuting and loop-de-looping with some wild combination of nerves and possibility. “Yes. I literally didn’t even think about it until this very second. But now that the idea is in my head, it sounds like the perfect solution. Is that the craziest thing I’ve ever said?”

  Normally, Delaney and Penny would tease me about all the crazy things I’ve said about dating, or the ultimate deal-breakers in dating profiles (submissive men need not apply at the house of Nicole), unexpected uses for oranges (guess . . .), and what number of battery-operated friends is too many (for the record, there is no such thing as too many).

  But my question isn’t in the same camp. It’s vastly different, and we all know it.

  A hush falls over the table.

  “If you’re asking if he has good DNA, I’d have to say yes,” Delaney says, taking her time with each word.

  “He’s certainly handsome,” Penny says.

  “He’s clearly smart,” Delaney adds.

  “He’s a perfect gentleman,” Penny points out. “At your office Christmas party last year, he offered you his coat. Remember how cold you were?”

  “Frozen,” I answer quickly. I’d dressed for fashion, not for weather, and the sleek red sweater felt like it was made of cobwebs that wintry night. When we all left the party together and the arctic tundra air slapped my face, Ryder gave me his jacket until the girls and I could hail a taxi. Confession: I wanted to keep that coat. It smelled like him. Like cedar and sexiness and total class. Its warmth and weight made me feel like I was enveloped in his arms.

  I wonder if those sorts of traits are passed on genetically – chivalry. In this case, I bet nurture won out over nature, since manners are usually taught, but why not give a man points for chivalry when it comes to rating his DNA, even though there’s no chromosome for it.

  And he earns lots of points for DNA. A flash of images pops before my eyes: framed photos I’ve seen on his desk of his niece, the times he’s helped his brother with his kid.

  “He’s a family man, too,” I say, penciling more tally marks in his column of pros. “He has a brother and a sister, and he helps his brother with his little girl. He’s picked her up after school a few times, and they’ve gone on little adventures around the city.” He has frequently updated me the next day in the break room about excursions to their favorite bakery, jaunts to gymnastics classes, or trips to the art supply store for the budding little painter.

  “Those are definitely attributes you won’t find in a sperm bank scorecard, but they’ve got to rate high,” Penny says.

  I nod, taking in the full scope of his potential, adding up all the little moments I’ve experienced with him as a friend and colleague in the year since he joined the company. Everything I know about him affirms that he’s both a good guy and a deeply good-looking guy. Sure, his show has taken on a sexier slant lately, but since my kid will have a dating guru as a mom, I’m not bothered that the rest of the DNA would come from another sexpert, too.

  Silence spreads as we all stare at each other, a tableau of three best friends deep in thought. Here we are considering something that has the potential to be amazing, but also incredibly complicated. I’ll need to have paperwork drawn up outlining expectations (just a small cup, please), as well as involvement (no need to send a birthday card), as well as compensation (how exactly do you put a price tag on that kind of prized DNA?).

  What would it be like for my friend and colleague to be the fa—

  But I don’t bring myself to say the F-word, even in my head. Because this isn’t a choice about how a baby makes three. Ryder and I aren’t a one and two, and that’s just fine. This is a choice I’m making to be a single mother, and I don’t need a father for my child.

  I just need the other half of the baking mix.

  As co-workers, the situation might be awkward. As human beings, it might simply be odd, too.

  But life is a string of uncomfortable moments, and our job as adults is to navigate through them with the least harm and most love. Asking him to donate sperm is awkward as hell, but it’s also precisely the sort of thing that professionals like us, skilled at discussing the ins and outs of the most bizarre requests men and women make to each other, could manage.

  That is if he says yes.

  Another nosedive.

  Oh God, I hope he says yes.

  He might say no.

  He’ll probably say no.

  But I’ll never know if I don’t ask.

  “Soooooo,” Delaney says, her eyes wide.

  “Soooooo,” I repeat. “I should ask him?”

  They wait for me to answer my own question.

  “I should?” It comes out tentative at first. I say it again, stronger this time. “I should.” It sounds right. I absolutely should ask him to be my donor.

  Penny and Delaney look at each other, then me. They say in unison, “You should.”

  “It’s so much better to know the donor,” Penny adds.

  “He’s the total package,” Delaney reiterates.

  “He really is,” I say, and it feels crazy, but incredibly right, too. It makes me nervous, but it excites me. I set my hand on my stomach, quelling the nerves. I look at the time on my phone. “There’s no time like the present. I’ll ask him tonight.”

  After all, this potential donor is as handsome as a girl can dream up and more. He’s got a little bit of everything a girl could want, and he has that extra something special that I especially need.

  He won’t want to be involved beyond the deposit.

  6

  Ryder

  I slam the white plastic ball across the table, imagining it’s Cal, it’s Maggie, it’s the institution of marriage.

  What it is, though, is a perfect shot.

  However, our opponents are tough as nails, even with Steve’s crazy-ass swing.

  It’s down to the final serve. Do or die. The wiry guy is a determined mofo. He extends his left arm so far to the middle of the table that his teammate actually jumps out of the line of fire, like a frog skittering away from the street. But Steve’s backhand is so vicious he grunts as he returns the ball with astonishing power, sending it screaming in Nicole’s direction.

  Tension threads through me. No way can she get this. No way anyone can dive the way she needs to. But somehow, the woman stretches across the corner of the table and saves the ball before it rattles to the floor. In a split second, she hits it with a perfect return.

  Perfect because Steve’s teammate misses, since he’s still scrambling to get back into position.

  I thrust my arms in the air. Nicole hoots.

  “We are the champions,�
� she says, and that calls for scooping her up. I lift her in my arms. “We absolutely are.”

  Buoyed by the thrill of victory, I squeeze her tight, and for a second her breasts are pressed flush to my pecs. Naturally, I have no choice but to swing my eyes downward, and hot damn. They are highly bitable. But then, this isn’t the first time I’ve noticed Nicole’s rocking body. She’s lush. Curvy hips, a delicious ass, lean legs. On top of that, she has that long red hair, those fantastic lips, and these light blue eyes that make you do a double take and wonder if they’re contacts, because how can anyone have eyes that shade of blue? I even asked her once, and she got in my face, opened her eyes wide, and said, “See anything less than real?”

  “Nothing but blue skies ahead,” I’d said.

  Also, it should be mentioned her ass is something I’d like to worship. I’ve checked out her backside pretty much every time she’s ever bent down to pick up a Ping-Pong ball from the floor. If I ever strip her to nothing, I’ll spend ample time nibbling it, no doubt. Then I remind myself to stop objectifying her. Besides, I need her advice and input. I’ve got to sell her on helping me with Cal’s do-or-die project. She’s the perfect companion to test these dates with me, and I need to find the right moment tonight to ask for her help.

  “Hey, superstar, want to get a glass of champagne and toast to our victory?” I say as we break the embrace.

  “I would love nothing more,” she says brightly, since the bar that hosts our games—the Lucky Spot—is known for its champagne and Ping-Pong nights.

  We shake hands with Wide Swing Steve as well as his teammate, congratulating them on a game well played.

  “Good job, guys,” I say.

  “You, too.” Steve shakes his head in frustration. “You two are a tough team to beat.”

  “Why, thank you,” Nicole says. “So are you.”