The Doctor's Nanny

by Emerson Rose

  This isn’t your baby, Lourdes. You need to get that straight in your head right now. Whoever I have a baby for, it will be their child, their sperm and their egg. I am merely a host, helping them get from point A to point B.

  With that in mind, I know without a doubt that I can’t help the Wilds. Not with the weird undercurrent thing that’s happening between Liam and me. I’ve never felt so immediately connected to a man after speaking to him for just a few hours. It’s unsettling. And the fact that he’s married to one of the most unpleasant women I’ve ever met makes it all the more confusing.

  I start the car and head to Rachel’s to pick up Toby. It’s past his bedtime. He’s probably already asleep. Maybe I’ll just sleep in her guest bedroom instead of driving home. I have a feeling there won’t be much sleep going on tonight anyway. Last night was bad enough, worrying about the questions to ask the prospective couples, but now I have a gorgeous blonde DJ with perfect white teeth and lickable dimples to think about. I may as well get used to those lapis blue eyes, his chiseled chest in his fitted Henley, and his seductive, disarming smile, because they’re going to rob me of another night of sleep.

  These thoughts are so wrong. I’m a terrible person. I should never contact them again. A pain twists in my chest at the possibility of never laying eyes on Liam Wild again. I have a crush on a married man, a married man who supposedly wants to have a baby with his wife. They don’t seem like they’re on the same page with this surrogacy thing. They both say they want a baby, and obviously they have contacted an agency, but I don’t feel like there is any love between them—no chemistry. And the burning desire to have a child wasn’t there.

  When I pull into the driveway, the house is dark. It’s eleven thirty and they’ve all gone to bed, so I creep quietly into the guest bedroom off the kitchen in the back of the house. They had fish for dinner. I can smell it hanging in the air as only fish can do. I wonder how that went over with Toby. He’s a picky eater, or at least he is for me. Rachel has always been able to get him to eat anything. She has a way with children.

  In the bedroom, I close the door and strip down to my bra and panties and slide between the sheets. I reach to the bedside table to switch off the light and hear my phone buzzing in my purse on the floor. Who on earth would be texting me at this time of night?

  I try to reach off the edge of the bed to get my purse without getting up, but I end up cracking my head on the bedside table instead. I curse and rub the lump rising on the top of my head and lean against the side of the bed, pulling my knees up to my chest to read the accident-inducing text.

  Did everything go ok? Were you able to choose between the two couples?

  It’s Rachel. She heard me come in.

  I don’t know. The couple from Malibu sounded so normal on the phone, but in real life, he was controlling, and I could tell she didn’t like him. And the other two weren’t the people I was expecting.

  What? Like a couple you didn’t know?

  No, they were prospective parents, just not a couple I chose. Not sure what happened. I’m going to sleep. See ya in the morning <3

  Her next question is going to be did I make a decision, and I’m not ready to talk about that yet. I don’t like to lie to my sister, but there’s no way I’m telling her I have a crush on the man I might surrogate for.

  Ok, night. Love you too.

  I sigh and lean my head against the mattress, closing my eyes. I’m so tired I could just sleep here on the floor, and in fact, I do begin to doze off when my phone vibrates in my hand again. Damn, Rachel. Can’t a girl get some sleep around here? I look down at the glowing screen and gasp when I see that it is not my sister. It’s him. Every molecule of my body is suddenly on fire. My tummy does a flop and my heart races. I turn the screen over, pressing it against my chest. Oh God, what do I do? What do I say?

  I flip the phone over slowly and peek at the message again.

  I hope this isn’t too forward or unethical, but I’d like you to come to my club tomorrow night and see what I do for a living. I wouldn’t want my career to detour you from choosing us. Please consider it. The club’s name is Fiction. It’s on Hollywood Blvd. I’ll be there from ten until close, and I’d love to show you around. Liam Wild, AKA DJ Freedom

  He wants to show me where he works. Ok, that’s not so abnormal, is it? I mean, it’s not your traditional profession. He probably thinks I won’t choose them if I think he’s a bad boy DJ.

  Or, maybe he is a bad boy and he wants so spend time with me because he’s feeling the same magnetic pull, the hint of familiarity, or the tingling current that zipped up my arm when we touched tonight.

  I can’t. No, no, no. I have to stay far away from that man. If I go, it wouldn’t be to make sure that he is an upstanding citizen who’s capable of raising a baby. If I went, it would be to feel his lips on my cheek and to see his sexy eyes light up when he sees me.

  No, I’m deleting him from my phone and I’m never calling them again. Wait a second. How did he get my number anyway? I look at the text again and chew on my lip. I click to my recent calls, and there’s my answer on the first line, an unknown call to Liam. That sly bastard called himself when he was putting his name and address into my phone.

  Well that does it. Now I’m sure his interest isn’t innocent. He’s acting on the energy that we felt flowing between us, and I can’t be a part of that. I turn off my phone and crawl back into bed where I stare at the ceiling and wonder why I have such crummy luck when it comes to men.

  All of the guys I date end up being boring or clingy. I don’t have a wide variety of college guys to choose from. My off-campus life revolves around Toby, so the few dates I go on are with guys I’ve met in class, and the party crowd tends to shy away from AP courses.

  And now I meet a man with a million watts of energy and chemistry exploding all around us, and he’s married and wants me to hire me to have a baby for him and his wife. I squeeze my eyes shut and sigh. Time to leave the pity party, Lourdes, while you still have a shred of dignity. I flop onto my side and wait for sleep to take me.

  The next morning, I wake to Toby jumping on the bed, squealing, “Mommy, cancakes!” My sister is standing at the foot of the bed, making sure he doesn’t topple off.

  “Cancakes?” I grab his little warm body and pull him close for a hug. “I think you mean pancakes, buddy.” I kiss him on the top of his head, and he wiggles free and slides off the bed to run back into the kitchen, where Rachel must already have a batch of ‘cancakes,’ because the house smells like an IHOP. Not only is she awesome with kids, but she inherited all of the great cooking genes.

  “Did you sleep okay?”

  I toss the comforter aside and sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Not really. This is harder than I thought it would be. I feel like I wouldn’t want any of these people to be my parents if I had a choice. It’s such a big responsibility making sure a baby is going to good people.” Rachel sits down next to me and places her hand on my knee.

  “No parents are perfect, honey. You just have to follow your instincts and go with the people you think will love their baby like you love Toby. They don’t have to be filthy rich or famous or big time professionals, just two responsible people who have hearts big enough to share their love and their lives with a child.”

  “But what if they just think they want a baby and they’re not sure, or what if they’re using a baby to fill a hole in their life? I’m so afraid I’ll get too far into this and learn something horrible about the couple I’ve chosen.” I groan and prop my elbows on my knees and hold my face in my hands. “This is impossible. I’m just going to have to take a year off school.”

  “Oh stop it. You are not. You just met these people. Give them a chance to prove themselves. And remember, all kinds of people have babies—trashy people, poor people, people with psych problems or drug addictions. But the people you’re talking with are screened for all of that. They’re good people who can’t expand their family on
their own, and they’re looking for help, not judgment.”

  She’s right. I shouldn’t be so quick to judge. Maybe Malibu Barbie and Ken deserve another meeting, and I never actually got to meet with the Weavers. I wonder how that happened. I need to call the agency and follow up.

  “You’re right. I’m being too picky. I’ll have the agency set up a few more meetings. I’d like to meet the Weavers anyway. I can’t imagine how they mixed up my couples.”

  “Maybe it’s fate,” she says, patting my knee. “Time for cancakes. Come on.”

  “Stop encouraging that. Remember, I’m an English major. I can’t have my son running around speaking grammatical gibberish.” I smile, and she rolls her eyes when Toby races back into the room and jumps into my arms. When he’s had enough of my hugging, he climbs behind me and begins to jump on the bed again. I watch him with a twinge of jealousy. It’s just not fair that kids get all the energy and adults are left worn out and sleepy. We must use it all up when we’re little until there is just enough left to live the rest of our lives half-dazed.

  Toby suddenly stops jumping and squats down to examine something by his feet. A smile breaks out on his face and he yells pone as he resumes jumping with my phone in his chubby hand.

  “That’s Mommy’s phone.” I pronounce phone with an f sound in an attempt to correct his grammar, but it’s useless. He continues to jump, but now he’s holding it over his head chanting, pone, pone, pone. Ok, so it’s cute. I can’t help but laugh. The phone vibrates with a text, and Toby’s expression turns serious as he hands it to me.

  “Mommy’s,” he says.

  “Thank you, little man. Let’s go eat pancakes.” I take the phone from him and follow him into the kitchen, where Rachel has prepared a breakfast that would make Paula Dean proud. We sit down, and I glance at the text I just received.

  I’m pretty sure I hijacked the right phone number last night, but since I haven’t received a response, I wanted to extend the invitation again. Fiction, tonight, ten o’clock, please. –Freedom

  Shit. I thought if I ignored him, he would go away. No such luck. I fiddle with my necklace while I think of how to respond. I could just keep trying the silent treatment. Surely he wouldn’t keep sending texts to someone who never responds, would he?

  “Earth to Lourdes!” Rachel yells, and I look up at her.

  “One or two?”

  “Oh, uh, two please. Sorry.”

  “Important text?”

  “More like insistent.”

  She slides two pancakes on my plate and one onto Toby’s.

  “Who’s being insistent? Is it a guy?” She says, her voice hopeful.

  Rachel is usually hell-bent on finding me a boyfriend, but the surrogacy thing has put a stop to that lately, so I’m surprised she’s being suggestive. She points her spatula at a plate of bacon and silently encourages me to take some, so I do.

  “No, it’s not a guy. I mean, it’s a guy, but not like that. What happened to staying away from men until this surrogacy thing is over?”

  “I know. I forgot—force of habit. So who’s the text from?” She’s avoiding direct eye contact with me while she fixes Toby’s plate. It almost feels like she knows something, but there’s no way she could.

  “One of the potential fathers.”

  She stops with a spoonful of freshly cut fruit midair.

  “One of the daddies is texting you?”

  “Yeah, he wants to show me where he works or something so I don’t judge him by his profession and take them off my list, but they weren’t on my list in the first place. I was supposed to meet the Weavers, but instead, this guy and his wife showed up last night. It’s really weird.”

  She finishes dumping fruit on Toby’s plate when Ivy swoops into the room with Blake.

  “Blake, is it ethical for a potential father to be texting Lourdes and wanting to show her where he works?” she says to Blake as he pulls out a chair for Ivy. Before he can answer, she turns her attention to me.

  “Wait, where does this guy work that would make you hesitate to choose him?”

  I should have kept my mouth shut. I’m not planning on meeting with him anyway.

  “Face to face meetings are common among surrogate mothers and intended parents,” Blake says.

  “But what if the intended father is trying to sway the decision in his favor?”

  “It’s not breaking the law, if that’s what you’re asking.” Blake places three pieces of bacon and a spoonful of something from a casserole dish onto Ivy’s plate.

  “Why do you ask? Is someone pressuring you, Lourdes?” he asks.

  “No, of course not.” I wave my hand toward his plate. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. You can’t just change the subject. You never answered my question. What does he do?” Rachel asks.

  I take a big bite of my pancake and smile at her.

  “You can’t chew forever.”

  I chew very slowly, though, and watch her over the edge of my glass while I take a long drink of orange juice before I respond.

  “He’s a DJ.”

  She lurches forward, coughing, and launches a chunk of cantaloupe onto her plate.

  “What? It’s not like he’s a drug dealer or anything. He’s some big time electronic music DJ that tours all over the world. And didn’t you just get through telling me not to be judgmental?”

  Blake is patting her on the back and handing her a glass of water. The kids stare wide-eyed while she sputters and takes a drink.

  “I wasn’t judging. I choked on a piece of melon,” she says between coughs.

  “Didn’t you have some friends in college that were into that kind of music, honey?” Blake asks.

  Rachel squirms in her seat and busies herself with cutting her pancake.

  “Yes, Autumn and Casey were really into that scene. That’s why I was a little surprised that a DJ would be looking for a surrogate. They can be pretty wild.”

  So Rachel had raver friends, huh? She never mentioned that to me. Maybe she wasn’t as squeaky clean as I thought.

  “So he wants you to come to a dance club to see where he works?” Blake asks.

  “Yep, that’s what he said.”

  This will be good. Neither of them will think that’s a good idea, and that will help me stay away from the disaster waiting to happen at Club Fiction.

  “Well, it sounds as if he’s interested in having you be their surrogate, enough so that he’s willing to give you proof of his professionalism. I say you should go,” Blake says.

  If I had food in my mouth, I would be choking on it right now like Rachel, but instead, I clang my fork against my plate.

  “Mommy noisy,” Toby says with a tiny wrinkle between his brows. He looks so much like Terrell when he frowns that it tugs at my heartstrings.

  “It was an accident, honey. Mommy will be more careful,” I say sitting up straighter in my chair so he takes me seriously. We don’t mess around at the table at home, and he knows it.

  “So you think it’s a good idea, Blake?”

  “No, he does not. Blake, I can’t believe you sometimes. It sounds fishy. I don’t like it.”

  Blake shrugs and tosses a chunk of bacon to their dog, Buster, who has been waiting patiently for Ivy to drop a scrap of food. Rachel snorts. She hates it when he feeds the dog table food.

  “I’m not going, so it’s a moot point anyway.”

  “Well, thank God for that,” Rachel says.

  She shouldn’t be thanking him yet.

  Chapter 13

  Liam

  She hasn’t answered my text. Maybe she’s already deleted me. The attraction couldn’t have been one-sided, could it? No. No way. I could tell she was feeling it too. She was uncomfortable. Her sense of decency and respect for my marriage ironically make me even more attracted to her.

  So wrong, but so right.

  She is everything that Amira is not, and that makes this so much harder to wrap my brain around.
Why did I have to meet the perfect woman when I’m married to such a profoundly nasty one? Amira’s antics have cost me a lot, including six months’ worth of hot nights with even hotter women all over the world. I can’t let her take away this opportunity for happiness, no matter how improbable it may be.

  If she never answers my messages, I’ll never make any of this happen. It’s noon. I have ten hours to make her think this is a good idea. Texting is obviously the wrong medium of communication. I need to call her.

  I walk out onto the patio, sit in a chaise, and dial her number. I wonder what she’s doing today. Maybe she’s working, or maybe she’s doing something with her son.

  It rings four times, and I’m about to hang up and try again later when she picks up. At first, all I hear are children screaming, but then her soothing voice flows through the line, and that undeniable urge to touch her overwhelms me again.

  “How are you today, Lourdes?” A soft breeze flutters my collar as I watch a squirrel expertly balance along the decking.

  “I’m fine. Is this Mr. Wild?” she asks.

  “Yes, and please call me Liam. I don’t think anyone has ever called me Mr. Wild.”

  “Ok, Liam,” she says with a nervous cough.

  “I wanted to make sure you got my text about meeting me at Fiction tonight. I’m looking forward to showing you around.”

  “Oh, uh . . . yes, I did. I was going to text you back. I don’t think I can make it. I don’t have a sitter tonight.”

  “No problem. We can do it tomorrow night. If you can’t get a sitter by then, I can hire someone.” I have no idea how to hire a babysitter, but I’m not giving her an easy out. I want to see her, and I won’t take no for an answer.