White Lilies (A Mitchell Sisters Novel)

by Christy, Samantha

  Baylor rolls her eyes. “The exact same world we lived in two seconds ago,” she pouts. “She’s not doing it!”

  “What if you and Gavin couldn’t have kids?” Mindy asks. “What if you wanted them so much you thought you would die from want. What if you didn’t have a sister to loan you her uterus, so some random woman stepped up and said she’d have a baby for you. Are you seriously going to sit here and deny that to someone?”

  Baylor puts her hand on my arm. “Promise me you’ll think about it long and hard, and without margaritas flowing through your veins, before you jump into anything, Skylar.”

  “So,” I ignore my sister and turn to Mindy. “A newspaper ad?”

  “I guess you could,” she says. “But if you’re serious about it, I could probably hook you up with this couple my mom knows.”

  “They aren’t going through an agency?” I ask.

  “No.” She shakes her head sadly. “The woman, Erin, I think her name is, she had cancer so no agency will touch her. I think there’s also a family history of medical problems, too. I guess they don’t want to risk giving a kid to a sick woman when there are so many healthy ones who want kids, too.”

  “That’s sad,” I say. “So I could give a baby to a woman who used to be sick and really wants a kid but nobody will give her one?”

  “Yup.” She holds her drink out to me in a toast. “It’d probably pave your way straight to the pearly gates.”

  I can feel the smile creeping up my face. It’s a feeling I haven’t felt in . . . well, ever. I want to do this. I want to give someone what nobody else can give them. I look at Mindy. “Let’s do this. Make the call.”

  Mindy smiles and pats my hand. “You are an amazing person, Skylar,” she says. “But, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll let you sleep on it.”

  “Wait, you can’t be serious,” Baylor says.

  “As a fucking heart attack, big sister.”

  chapter two

  I’m nervous. What if they don’t like me? What if they are like Stepford people and want to control every morsel of food that goes into my mouth and make me do yoga and shit every day? What if they demand I give up coffee? I’ve already given up alcohol, what else do I have left? What if they don’t want their kid to grow in my slutty womb?

  I have vowed to be as honest as I can with them about my past, even at the risk of them rejecting me. It’s all part of my resolve to become a better person.

  Two weeks. Baylor made me consider it for two entire weeks, thinking I’d chicken out. When I not only didn’t flake out, but did substantial research on surrogacy and how it benefits both parties, she finally came around and is now on Team Skylar. As opposed to Team What-The-Fuck-Are-You-Doing?

  I keep checking my watch. It’s almost four o’clock. That’s when they’re supposed to show up. We had to meet on a Saturday because of their jobs. I’m not even sure what they do. I don’t know anything about them except their names. Griffin and Erin Pearce. And according to Mindy, they don’t know anything about me, either. Her mom said it would be better if we got to know each other in person rather than have someone else relay our information.

  I look around the restaurant and try to guess what these people might look like. I see a couple having a late lunch. Or an early dinner. They are about mid-thirties. He’s burly like a cop or a fireman maybe. She’s petite and looks like she could be a nurse. Yeah, a fireman and a nurse. They’d make good parents, right? The woman looks over at me and I freeze. Oh, God, is that them? Then Mindy walks out from behind me, taking them their check. “Breathe, Skylar,” she says on her way by.

  I’ve been anxious all day and my staff has definitely noticed, although Mindy is the only one who knows what’s going on.

  I walk into the bar area seeking water to quench my bone-dry anxiety-ridden mouth. As my bartender, Trent, serves me a glass, I see several groups of men enjoying our happy hour. Some of them stop talking and look over at me appreciatively while I survey the area. Keep looking, boys. These legs are closed for business. There’s a woman sitting alone at the end of the bar. She’s eyeing all the guys in the room, probably looking for a date for the evening. Slut.

  Hmmfp. Hypocrite, I chide myself.

  My eyes fall on a man sitting at a high-top by himself. He’s reading a magazine, oblivious to the woman at the bar trying to get his attention. He’s stunning. Can a man be stunning? He’s got exceptionally dark hair, almost inky black. It falls to his collar, curling up at the ends. He reaches up to push a piece of it out of his eyes as he reads. He’s wearing jeans and a blue button-down that is open to a slate-gray t-shirt underneath. The sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, revealing a small tattoo on the underside of his forearm that I can’t quite make out.

  He looks up and catches me staring. I can’t pull my eyes away, because his eyes—they’re incredible. Gray eyes, that are the exact color of his t-shirt, hypnotize me as the edges of his mouth curve up to reveal a smile that only adds to the smoldering appeal of his roguish face. Stubble, as dark as the sculpted shag on his head, dots his strong jaw and I wonder if he’s gone without shaving for a few days, or if this is simply his usual testosterone-laden five-o’clock-shadow.

  As quickly as he looked up, he resumes reading his magazine after briefly eyeing the restaurant entrance. I sit at the bar, mourning the loss of the brief moment we shared. It almost makes me want to scrap this whole surrogacy idea and mount myself on his smoking-hot lap.

  Get it together, Skylar. I make my way to the bathroom to splash water on my face. I lean against the sink and take a few calming breaths. Then I smooth out my dress, running my hand over my flat stomach, wondering if in a few months, it will be a distant memory.

  I reach up and tighten my dark-blonde ponytail, wondering if I should let my hair down. Wearing my long, wavy hair up makes me look severe, like a bookish librarian. But when I work in the kitchen, it’s easier to put it in a hairnet or tuck it under a cap. In the end, I keep it tied up. If they don’t like me the way I am, screw them. I’ll just find someone else’s spawn to grow. My green eyes stare back at me in a silent pep talk before I walk out into the restaurant.

  Mindy grabs me and pulls me aside. “They’re here,” she says. My heart races and my eyes dart around quickly assessing the couples seated in the main room. “In the bar. He’s totally hot. She looks like she just stepped off a fashion runway. She’s nice. She came up to me asking where she could find the most amazing woman who ever walked the face of the earth.”

  I take a deep breath and blow it out. “Here goes nothing.”

  “Okay. Break a leg,” she says. “Wait, is there an appropriate encouragement for someone in your situation?”

  “How about ‘get knocked up’?” I laugh awkwardly, walking towards the bar.

  I spot the woman immediately when I get to the hostess stand. She’s at the same table where gorgeous-testosterone-man was sitting. She’s standing up and leaning over the table. Her goddamn legs go on for miles. Her long blonde curls hang in loose spirals down her back. She has the perfect hourglass figure that has a tiny waist flaring out to shapely hips underneath her designer pencil skirt.

  I look down at my nothing-special dress that houses my not-so-prominent curves and suddenly I’m jealous of her. I’m jealous of the woman who is barren because cancer took away her ability to have children.

  I shake my head at my callousness and attempt to rub the tension from the back of my neck.

  She stands up from the greeting she was dolling out to her husband and takes a seat, leaving me stunned, as the recipient of her affection was indeed Mr. Gorgeous-testosterone-man.

  Holy shit—that’s the would-be baby daddy?

  My shaky legs carry me over to the table and I introduce myself. “Uh, hi. I’m Skylar Mitchell,” I say, leaving any shred of confidence back at the hostess stand.

  “Oh, Skylar.” She stands up, pulling me into a crushing hug, her generous boobs suffocating my meager ones. “We are so very glad to m
eet you. I’m Erin and this is Griffin.” I reluctantly give her a pat with hands that hang by my side. I’m not big on displays of affection. I look around the bar uncomfortably as she continues to stifle me.

  “Uh, I’m glad to meet you, too,” I say when she finally releases me. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  She shakes her head. “Trent is already getting us some water. Thanks.” She motions to the stool next to hers. “Here, sit.”

  I watch her take a seat, crossing her statuesque legs. I go to sit and miss the top of the stool, sliding off to the side only to be caught by Griffin before I’m completely sprawled out on the floor.

  “Oh my God,” I say, smoothing out my dress and extricating myself from strong, toned arms. “I swear I’m not this clumsy. I mean, I won’t be like falling down and shit with your kid. Uh, I mean, I’ll be careful. And I won’t cuss. I don’t know if they can hear in there, but I won’t—” I stop talking mid-sentence when it occurs to me that I’m rambling and they must think I’m crazy. “Sorry. I’ll shut up now.”

  A throaty, sultry laugh bellows out of Erin. “It’s okay, Skylar. We’re completely nervous, too.”

  “Oh, good,” I admit. “I thought it was just me.”

  Griffin offers me his hand. “Thanks so much for agreeing to meet with us.” His deep voice is sinfully smooth, like aged whiskey. His rugged spicy scent still lingers around my head, making me think inappropriate thoughts such as how I might offer to extract his sperm with my pulsating orgasm.

  I put my small hand into his large one and try to ignore the spark that courses up my arm, through my chest, over my abs and right to my core. I purposely refrain from any eye contact, remembering the moment we had a few minutes ago.

  Wait! Wait one goddamn second. We had a moment a few minutes ago. And now he’s sitting here expecting me to loan him my uterus to grow a baby for his lying, cheating ass?

  Trent brings a tray full of waters to the table.

  A squirming Erin takes a long drink of hers before asking, “Skylar, I need to use the bathroom. Can you point the way, please?”

  I direct her to the restrooms in the back and watch her gracefully leave the table. Then my eyes snap to his. My lips pucker. My eyebrows shoot up. My arms cross in front of me. I’m ready to chew up and spit out his totally hot, wandering-eyed ass.

  Griffin looks behind him and then back at me, confused. “Are you okay?”

  “Am I okay?” I ask, pinning him to his seat with my accusing stare. “Five minutes ago you were eye-fucking me and now you want me to loan you my lady parts?”

  His jaw drops. “Eye fu . . . uh . . . no.” His hand comes up to rub across the stubble on his face. A low, grumbly nervous laugh escapes him. “Ms. Mitchell, if I can be candid here; when I acknowledged you earlier, I was simply smiling at a beautiful woman who was looking at me.” He holds my gaze with his steely eyes as he draws his brows together in concentration. “Rest assured, I don’t intend to ‘eye fuck’—as you so eloquently put it—or do any other type of ‘fucking’ with you or anyone else who is not currently my wife. I never have and I never will.”

  An unexpected wave of shame, coupled with a dash of disappointment courses through me. I don’t normally get embarrassed. In fact, nothing ever makes me blush. Except apparently Griffin Pearce putting me in my place.

  He’s right. How could I have read so much into a simple smile? Probably because I was being the old Skylar who would hook up with anyone who had the body of an athlete and a condom in his wallet.

  “Call me Skylar. Wait, never?” I raise a doubting brow that all but calls him a liar. “As in, she’s the only one you’ve ever been with?”

  He nods. “High school sweethearts.”

  Of course they are. Hell, my sister will probably write a damn book about this. High school sweethearts fall in love, get married, lose the ability to have kids because of cancer, find baby-mama to carry child, live happily-ever-after. I can see it now.

  Heels click on the concrete floor behind me. “You aren’t scaring her away, are you Griff?”

  “No, sweetheart.” He stands and helps her back onto the stool. Maybe he thinks they’re dangerous now.

  Erin sits down and puts her hand on top of Griffin’s. “Okay, so I guess we should tell you about ourselves.” She flashes me her luminescent smile. “We’re both twenty-seven years old. We grew up in Ohio, started dating our senior year in high school and then went to college together at NYU. Griffin is a freelance photographer who shoots anything from still-life photos to glamorous magazine spreads. I teach second grade in lower Manhattan. I got cancer when I was eighteen, shortly after we started dating. Stage two cervical. I did chemo and radiation which were unsuccessful, so they ended up taking my entire uterus in a hysterectomy.”

  She gives Griffin an endearing look. “He stood by my side back then and has every day since.” She turns back to me. “I’ve always wanted kids, but Griffin wasn’t so sure. I mean, he doesn’t have any experience with kids. I work with them every day and see how wonderful they can be. I eventually wore him down and now we’re ready. Actually, we’ve been ready for a few years, but we have been unable to find an agency that will allow us to adopt or find us a surrogate.”

  She nervously traces the top of her water glass with a finger. “What questions do you have for us?”

  I’m still stuck on cancer at eighteen. That must have been awful. “I guess I’m wondering why the agencies won’t let you adopt. I mean, you don’t have cancer anymore, do you?”

  She shakes her head. “No, but they are very thorough, and unfortunately there’s a prominent history of cancer and heart disease in my family. Combine that with my medical past and I’m not exactly the ideal candidate for a new mother.”

  “So they deny you the right to adopt based on your cancer that’s now gone, and other shit that might not ever happen in the future?” I ask, belatedly chiding myself for the bad language.

  “Yeah, that pretty much sums it up,” Erin says. “So, will you tell us about yourself?”

  “Well, I’m twenty-four. I manage this restaurant. You probably figured that out by the name. It’s my parents’ place. We also have one in Maple Creek, Connecticut and a third one is being opened this year over in Long Island. I have two sisters, one older, one younger. I don’t do drugs—well if you don’t count smoking the occasional cigarette and drinking—which I promise I won’t do if I get pregnant. I love to ride my bike around the city. I’ve always been pretty healthy. I’ve never been married or pregnant, but, uh . . . I think my parts are in good working order.”

  “You sound like a well-rounded person, Skylar,” Erin says.

  I try to hide the disappointment in myself as I fold my restless hands together on the table. If she only knew the half of it.

  “There’s one more thing you need to know about us,” Griffin says, looking sadly at Erin.

  She nods her head at him. “Full disclosure,” she says.

  “Huh?” I ask, unsure of what’s passing between them.

  “We need to be totally honest with you before we get any further into this process. I don’t want to dupe you into anything and then change the rules,” she says.

  “I thought it was all pretty clear.” I juggle my eyes between them.

  “I can already tell you I’m very excited and totally interested in having you carry a baby for us.” She fidgets with her fingernail, another sign of the anxiety she must be feeling. “When they took my uterus, they left my ovaries in because I was so young, even though they said the radiation and chemo could possibly affect my eggs. But at eighteen, I was devastated at the cancer diagnosis and couldn’t imagine going through the fertility treatments required for egg retrieval which would have delayed my cancer treatment. And as fate would have it, I went into early menopause a few years ago. It was always a possibility. We were just hoping it wouldn’t happen quite so soon.

  “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t have any eggs. We would have to
use yours.” She looks from me to Griffin, who gives her an encouraging smile, nodding at her to continue. “This baby would technically be yours and Griffin’s, so you’d have to not only become our surrogate, but you’d have to legally give your own baby up for adoption.”

  I’m in awe of her total candor. She could have waited until we established a relationship to tell me this. She could have, as she said, duped me into it, pulling a bait-and-switch on me. But, she didn’t. She also didn’t have to be totally honest with me about her family history. How would I have ever found out about it? She’s laying it all out on the table.

  I decide to do the same.

  “You haven’t yet asked me why I want to do this,” I say.

  She leans her elbows casually on the table. “I was getting to that. What makes you think you can even go through with this, having never had a baby?”

  “Full disclosure?” I ask.

  “Please,” she says, looking nervously at Griffin.

  “I’m not exactly what you would call a morally sound person. Until a few weeks ago, I, uh . . . overindulged in booze. And, um . . . men.” I shamefully glance at Erin, who gives me a sympathetic look, and Griffin, whose jaw is tight and unreadable. “I’ve never been in love and don’t ever intend to be. I don’t even like kids that much, well, with the exception of my nephew and Chris’s kids—the Maple Creek Mitchell’s manager. And I only like those kids because I don’t have to deal with them all day. I couldn’t do that. I’m not cut out to be a mom.

  “I just woke up one day and wanted to change my life. I vowed to quit my destructive patterns and do something that really matters. I hope this qualifies.” I look Erin square in the eyes. “I don’t want you to worry, though. I promise I won’t fall in love with your baby.”

  She grabs my hand. I watch a tear escape her eye. “Are you for real?” She wipes her tears with her other hand. “Griffin will attest that I’m a firm believer in fate. I believe fate brought us together, Skylar. I believe nobody else would want to have a baby for us. I believe nobody else would want you to have their baby.” We both share a laugh.