The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  “It’s not implausible. You might pick up the baby from day care, realize you left something at the office, and scurry back, the baby in your arms,” she says, and I clench my teeth because she’s fucking right.

  But I could handle that. Ryder would be fine with it, too. That’s simply not the sort of scenario that would trip us up. He’s sophisticated and savvy about social situations. Plus, he knows the score. “Perhaps the column should be ‘Reasons Why It’s Wise to Snag Your Friend’s Baby Batter,’” I suggest, a smart little clip to my voice.

  “Do share.”

  But before I can reel off my five reasons—I have them handy—my phone chirps.

  My pulse skyrockets while my stomach flips. I grab my cell from my pocket. His name flashes across my screen in a text, and it feels like my whole future hangs in the balance.

  “It’s him,” I whisper reverently.

  My mom’s hazel eyes sparkle, and she claps in excitement. Any annoyance I felt is erased by her reaction. She’s in this with me, and I won’t be able to do it without her.

  With nervous fingers, I click on the message.

  Are you free tonight?

  10

  Ryder

  Simone drops my hand and scurries toward a table strewn with paint jars, brushes, and mini easels. Her class starts in two minutes. The nine-year-old skids, pivots, and rushes back to me. She throws her arms around my waist. “Thank you for taking me. I’ll make a Picasso now.”

  I ruffle her hair. “Of course you will. His blue period was the best.”

  “Do you want a painting of a blue horse for your kitchen, then?”

  She’s obsessed with horses and with painting. “Let me tell you a secret,” I whisper. “I’ve been hoping for a blue horse for a long, long time.”

  A huge smile spreads across her face. A front tooth is missing. “Then you should have a blue horse. You should always get what you want.”

  “Isn’t that the opposite of what they teach you in school? You get what you get, and you don’t have a fit?”

  “I think you should get what you want. I should get what I want, too. And I would love for us to have an ice cream sundae after class. If I paint you a blue horse, can I have an ice cream sundae? I mean, can we split one?”

  “Ah,” I say, stroking my chin. “Now that I understand you’re only thinking of my ice cream needs, I’ll consider it. But do you really think your daddy will be okay with that?”

  “Which daddy?” She points at me. “If it’s your brother, my daddy, no. But if it’s my other dad, yes.”

  “Too bad it’s my brother, your daddy, who’s picking you up when he finishes his workout.” Devon’s partner is working all weekend on a big case, so Devon’s single parenting today.

  “Uncle Ryder,” she says, grabbing my arm. “You have to convince him. What if we skipped class so we can get ice cream?” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, knowing my brother is a health nut.

  “We would be in so much trouble.”

  “You can’t get in trouble with your own brother.”

  “Have you met your father? He would be furious. Plus, you love class. Go paint. I’m going to think deep thoughts somewhere in this store.”

  She laughs and spins around, her silky hair like a dark flag trailing behind her as she runs the final few feet to the table and plops herself in a chair.

  Her class is only thirty minutes, and even though I’m not artsy, there’s something irresistible about perusing the shelves at this shop. The hip notebooks. The freshly sharpened pencils. The soft bristles of paintbrushes. They whisper of creativity and ideas. I amble through the aisles then stop at the recycled paper notebooks when I spot a collection with cats and dogs in spacesuits on the front covers. The images are familiar. I furrow my brow, then I remember.

  Nicole’s notebook that she carries around at work has astronaut dogs on it. The woman hasn’t been far from my mind over the last few days. I pick up the notebook and flip through the blank pages as if I’ll find the answer to her question in there. I’ve thought of little else since she asked me. I promised myself I’d make a decision today, so I texted her an hour ago to ask if she’s free tonight. Whether I’m in or out, I want to give her the courtesy of a decision sooner than later.

  The question remains, though—am I in?

  I swing my gaze to the art class in the corner, staring at Simone, her long brown hair spilling down her back. The tips of her hair are blue. She asked Devon and Paul if she could dye it. They said if she learned the names of the most famous artists and their most famous works, they’d take her to a salon for a proper blue-ing.

  That girl is such a source of joy in their life. She’s sunshine. She’s happiness. And she came from a choice—a choice to open their home to a child who needed one.

  I have the power to make that choice for Nicole. I rest my hand against a shelf and stare at the back of Simone’s head till my niece is a blur, and my gaze is elsewhere. It’s on the future. The weight of the request.

  It’s awesome and scary. What if I make the wrong choice like I did by marrying Maggie? That decision to mingle my life with Maggie’s seemed so right at the time. What if I choose badly again, even if the decision feels like the right one now?

  I set down the notebook and noodle on all the possibilities until my brother texts, asking if I mind if he stays another thirty minutes to lift weights.

  Ryder: You need it, you scrawny bastard. No problem.

  He responds with a raised middle finger emoticon.

  When class ends, I inform Simone she’s getting her wish for ice cream. She beams and tells me my wish for a blue horse has come true, and she’ll finish the painting in the next class.

  After a chocolate-sauce-drenched sundae, we meet up with my brother outside his building. His dark hair is sweat slicked, and he’s a few inches shorter than me, but still a handsome devil. He’s also ridiculously fit and muscular. Simone gives him a big hug.

  “Hey, honey bun, can you head inside? Daddy will meet you upstairs.”

  She nods and runs into the building.

  Devon lifts his chin. “Have you decided?”

  Nothing like an older brother to cut to the chase. I sought out his advice the other day, but this is the kind of issue that bears repeating, so I ask again, “What do you think I should do, Dev?”

  “You know what I think,” he says, his tone as no-nonsense as the rest of him. “I want to know what you think.”

  I lean against the side of the building. “I think . . . what if. What if I do this and something goes wrong? What if something happens and it all goes belly up?” I’ve tried to develop a rhino’s thick skin since Maggie, but I’ve got some tender spots still. “I don’t want to get blindsided again.”

  “I hear you, man.” He claps my shoulder. “But that’s why you sign papers. You seal it airtight. No one is going to get blindsided when you lay out the terms. This isn’t a relationship. It’s a business deal.”

  I laugh. He works on Wall Street, so deal-making is his bread and butter.

  “I signed a marriage license, too, and then my whole life was a lie. What if this is the next one?” I ask, since I’m a persistent bastard, too.

  “This isn’t the same thing. Besides,” he says, nodding toward his daughter, who’s waiting for the elevator, “look at my girl. I wouldn’t have her if someone else—some scared fifteen-year-old girl from North Dakota—didn’t give her up. She knew her girl would have a better life elsewhere, and she made that happen. Nicole’s not asking you to pledge your life to her like Maggie did. What Nicole is asking is, honestly, a lot simpler. It has a beginning and an end. If you think about it, she’s asking you to give her the same gift someone gave Paul and me.”

  And my heart threatens to melt. “You little shit,” I tell him with a sneer. “When you say stuff like that, you make it almost impossible to say no.”

  “Maybe you don’t want to say no.”

  I go home, and after I wal
k Romeo, toss balls to him in the park, and feed him the most delicious kibble in the universe, so rich in nutrients it makes his handsome brown-and-white Border Collie coat glow, I flop on my bed.

  Romeo hops up and scoots besides me. I rub his head as I think about Nicole. I’ve known her since I started at Hanky Panky Love. She’s always been my sexy co-worker, a fun woman. Now I’m seeing another side of her, one that’s daring in a whole new way. To embark down this path, and to woman up enough to ask me to man up, is bold.

  It’s fucking hot, in fact. It takes guts to do what she did. It takes bravery. That’s so damn sexy.

  I drag a hand through my hair.

  Jesus Christ, this woman has always been gorgeous, and now, she’s even hotter. How is that possible? How the hell does asking me to jack off in a cup make her even sexier? But it does. Judging from my dick’s imitation of an iron spike right now, I evidently find this new side of Nicole intensely hot.

  Why the hell am I so goddamn turned on thinking about masturbating?

  “What the fuck is wrong with me?” I mutter. Romeo licks my face. Okay, my hard-on deflates a bit. “Do I want to say no?” I ask my dog.

  He rubs his nose against my shoulder.

  “What would you do, buddy?”

  He pants.

  “Good answer.”

  He jumps off the bed, scampers to a corner where he herds his dog toys, and grabs a floppy giraffe. He vivisected the giraffe a week ago. Now it’s a damaged stuffy with a neck and one leg. But he loves it, and holy shit, he loves it a lot. So much that he’s jammed it between his legs and he’s humping it.

  Yup, that’s my boy. He’s screwing a mutilated giraffe stuffy.

  “Get a room,” I shout.

  But he keeps going, thrusting and pumping.

  I know the answer. I’ve known it since I left the diner. My brother’s comments only bolstered what my heart had already decided. I needed the time to make sure I wasn’t rushing into this decision.

  Nicole is a brave, bold, beautiful woman who’s unafraid to carve out a life on her own terms.

  I admire the fuck out of that.

  And I also want to fuck her.

  11

  Nicole

  Ever want something so badly it’s like a hungry ache in your bones?

  Yeah, me neither.

  As I leave the subway and walk the few blocks to An Open Book, I try once more to read meaning into Ryder’s text message as well as the location. We’re meeting at a bookstore on the Upper West Side. What does that tell me? Is his answer a yes, a no, a maybe? Please let it not be maybe. I can’t bear this in-between state much longer. I’m a woman who craves answers.

  I tug my light blue scarf around my neck. There’s a cool breeze in the air. My black boots clack against the sidewalk, the rhythmic sound like a metronome, keeping time with my anticipation. I turn the corner, narrowly avoiding a couple with their arms draped around each other. The sandy-haired man peppers kisses on the cheek of the pixie woman by his side. She seems to swoon, her eyes falling briefly shut. I look away. That kind of love is not in my future, and I’m so incredibly fine with that. But I pray that another form of love will be.

  As I near the shop, the warm glow of the An Open Book sign dangling above the purple doorframe feels like an invitation. I look up at the night sky and make a wish. Inside this little independent bookshop is the man who is going to give me my heart’s desire.

  Yanking open the door, I head inside. I stride to the small cafe where Ryder said he’d wait for me.

  My chest falls. The man is known for punctuality. I scan the white bakery case and the five round iron tables, but he’s not here. When I spin around and survey the bookshelves, my heart nearly leaps from my chest.

  He’s in the . . .

  Oh my fucking God, he’s waiting for me in the . . .

  I bring my hand to my mouth, and I want to run, to leap into his arms. When he sees me, his blue eyes twinkle with mischief.

  I am a teapot about to whistle. I am a dog dancing before dinnertime.

  He taps the shelves and holds up a book.

  A pregnancy guide.

  He’s ten feet from me. But I sprint anyway, and I grin like a fool. I stop two inches from him and clamp my hands on his broad shoulders. “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes—”

  I tackle-hug him before he can say anything more. I knock the breath from him in an oomph as I rope my arms around his neck and crash into him.

  “But I have one condition,” he says, embracing me back.

  I’m crying tears of happiness, so I don’t care. “Anything. Name it.”

  “You better hear it before you agree.”

  The moment screeches to a halt. He’s going to want visitation rights. He’ll want lots of money. He’ll want summers, or weekends, or evenings out.

  I unwrap myself from the warmth of his strong chest and swallow. “What’s your condition?”

  “I thought it would be best to present it in the form of a column.”

  “A column?”

  “Top five list and everything.”

  I groan inside. He has five conditions? Maybe my mother was right. Maybe asking for baby-mix from someone you know is a big mistake. Anonymous donors request nothing but greenbacks.

  I steel myself as he fishes in the back pocket of his jeans. The paper is square, folded in quarters. He hands it to me. “Open it.”

  I unfold it then read the headline out loud. “‘Top Five Positions for Getting a Woman Pregnant’?”

  I blink and stare at him. The cogs turn slowly in my brain. I part my lips to speak.

  He raises a hand to silence me. “Hear me out. You explained how it worked. The room, the cup, the magazines, the videos. The whacking off in a fucking public place. The cost. But most of all . . . the wait. You’d have to wait for an appointment for me, for the testing, for the jerking off, then for your special date with the turkey baster.” He cups my cheek. His hand is big and warm. “What if we did it the old-fashioned way?”

  I draw a deep breath, letting the air fill my cells as I process his question. I’m not sure what to make of this change-up. I didn’t prep for this option.

  Quickly, I weigh the pros and cons of this unexpected offer to take a ride on his baby-making train. On the one hand, I’m asking him to give me a baby. A person. The least I can do is make it easier for him, right? A clinical exam room has to be up there on the list of unpleasant places to get off. Surely, I wouldn’t want to paddle the pink canoe on a doctor’s table.

  On the other hand, sleeping with a friend and a co-worker is a recipe that calls for just the right mix of ingredients. Add too much of a spice, and it tastes awful. Bake too long and it burns. Would we be able to manage all the complications of working together and screwing at the same time?

  My mind latches onto the prospect of . . . screwing Ryder Lockhart.

  Having sex with the most handsome man I know.

  Getting horizontal with this gorgeous, witty, generous man who’s willing to give me a piece of himself.

  My stomach has the audacity to swoop.

  My skin prickles as my mind fills with images. Undressing him. Undoing his zipper. Guiding him inside me. I lick my lips. My nipples tighten.

  Oh dear Lord in Heaven.

  It sounds dangerous and divine.

  Truth be told, it sounds like a faster route from A to B, too.

  And it’s also eons easier than the other way. This is the way it’s done. He’s asking to make my life simpler and to give me my greatest dream.

  All I have to do is get naked for him and spread my legs.

  Why on earth am I weighing pros and cons? This is all pro.

  “You think we could pull this off?” I ask. “Working together and taking baby-making to the next level?”

  He scoffs as if it’s incredulous that we couldn’t do that. “You and me—we’re pros. Who else can approach sex from such a practical angle?”

  “And this is the pra
ctical way to achieve a goal?”

  He shrugs playfully. “Practical and more pleasurable. Besides, we’re mature adults, and this is a quicker and better solution.” He takes a beat and pins my gaze. “Unless you don’t think we’d have fun in bed . . .”

  I swallow and quickly dispel that notion. “Oh no. That’s not a worry at all. I’m sure it would be fun.”

  He lifts a hand and fingers the end of my hair. “What do you think? Still think I’m a good guy?”

  The swoop revisits my belly when he touches me. I nibble on the corner of my lip and fiddle with his collar. “Want to know what I’m thinking?” I ask, coy and flirty.

  “That I now win the weirdest thing someone has asked you?”

  “Would it be weird? Sex with you?”

  “Do you like it weird?”

  “I like it hard. I like it good. And I like it a lot.”

  A groan echoes in his throat.

  I tap-dance my fingers down his chest. “And I think I’m going to find out if you’re as good in bed as I’ve always thought you might be.”

  “You’ve thought about me in bed?” he asks in that deep sexy voice, and oh, how this moment has shifted from baby planning to something dirty and delicious. Something I didn’t expect to happen tonight. But my body likes his plan, since it’s getting hot and bothered.

  “I might have let my mind wander from time to time,” I admit.

  Dropping a hand to my hip, he yanks me close. “What do you say we test out how it’s going to be with a kiss?”

  “We get to kiss, too?” I tease.

  “Woman, I’m not just going to fuck you. There’s going to be kissing and fucking. Fucking and kissing. And coming.”

  That swoop in my chest settles between my legs now, like a pulse beating.

  He bends his face to mine, and he dusts his lips to my forehead.

  I shiver.

  He presses a soft kiss to one eyelid then the other.