Contents
Craving 3 NEW (2018) FREE BWWM Romances?
1. Malaysia
2. Daniel
3. Malaysia
4. Daniel
5. Malaysia
6. Daniel
7. Malaysia
8. Malaysia
9. Daniel
10. Malaysia
11. Malaysia
12. Daniel
13. Malaysia
14. Daniel
15. Malaysia
16. Daniel
17. Daniel
18. Malaysia
19. Daniel
20. Malaysia
21. Together
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Craving 3 NEW (2018) FREE BWWM Romances?
Interracial Love Books
Her Designer Baby
(Loving Over 40 Book 1)
Shawna Washington
Her Designer Baby
Shawna Washington
Copyright © 2018 Shawna Washington
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Malaysia
The sun was setting over Hidden Hills, Los Angeles. It was one of those sunsets where the orange glow of another hard day's work gone by gave the whole world a dream-like hue of warmth and accomplishment. At least that’s how I was feeling driving away from another successful sale.
I won’t lie. I often feel a sense of accomplishment and even arrogance when I see my name on the commercial sign on the front lawn with the words “sold” dangling underneath. “Agent: Malaysia Park” never looked so good as when I have the opportunity to switch out the added signage from “available” to sold. Most clients, when they speak to me on the phone, assume by name I may be of Asian ethnicity, and they can credit my mom for that.
My father and mother were in journalism and on a trip to gather some content on traveling in Southeast Asia. They spent three days and three nights there. My mother fell in love with the scenery and the people, and apparently, she fell all the more in love with my dad. I was conceived on that trip; a detail I could have done without, but my parents felt my name would always remind them of the amazing time they had there. It seems the hundreds of photos and tourist knick knacks weren’t enough of a memento.
Once back at Rojo Real Estate to drop off the sign and finalized paperwork, my supervisor, Michele, could instantly tell I was in a mood. I tried to hide what was really running through my mind after the sale of the mansion up in Hidden Hills with forced enthusiasm, but she read right through me.
“So, they’re buying,” she asked me flatly.
“Yep,” I responded with a sappy vigor.
“Mmhmm,” she mumbled. “And you’re happy about it?”
The tone of her voice was more a question than a statement. I had my back to her, sat down the folder, and then finally took a deep breath before turning around. On the exhale and spin I let out the truth.
“They were the perfect family, Michele. Too perfect. He’s ridiculously rich and young, she’s even younger and feels like the most blessed girl in the world yadda yadda yadda.”
Michele looked at me from under her blonde bangs with a knowing smirk. She’d heard me rant like this before. It only happens in those moments that I come across families. It’s no secret I was a “type A” kind of business woman just by knowing me, but only a select few knew my most recent thoughts on family life. They weren’t bad, but certainly not great.
“They’re expecting, and she looked like a lit up a string of Christmas lights she was glowing so much,” I prattled on.
Before I could go into why this couple got under my skin with their Hallmark movie cuteness, Michele raised her hand up to me in a “stop” motion.
“Malaysia,” she said, “have you done what I suggested? Have you considered adoption or any of that?”
The look on Michele’s face wasn’t one of aggravation, but her usual no-nonsense compassion. She hasn’t just been a great supervisor, but often times the voice of reason to most of her staff in our business and personal pursuits.
I had to take a moment, and just be honest. Blatantly honest.
“No,” I responded matter-of-factly.
“Why not!?!”
“Because…” I placed my hands on my hips and wiggled my lips around a moment as if tasting around in my own head for a satisfactory excuse. I had none.
Michele answered for me, “Exactly!”
“But I honestly don’t know if I trust myself to be a mom this late in my life, Michele. I still throw myself into work as hard as I did twenty years ago!”
I was now using hand gestures and arm movements while talking and that’s never a good sign. Michele stood up and walked over to me gently taking hands and having placed my arms at my sides. She gave me a smile that I’d become too familiar with. I called it her “Mama Michele” smile.
“It’s closing time, Malaysia,” said Michele, her hands still on the side of my arms. “Go home, have a drink, sit with yourself, make up your mind.” She nodded her head a little waiting for my response. All I could do was sigh.
“Yeah,” I muttered. She let go of my arms so I could gather up my purse and my suit jacket.
I heard her call to me on my way out, “And thanks for closing the sale, Malaysia!”
“You’re welcome,” I hollered without looking back.
* * *
The ride home wasn’t as easy as the one from the Hidden Hills property. When I finally reached home I felt an instant ease before I even reached my parking space. A lot of my work colleagues thought I was insane for choosing such a pricey complex but for the aesthetics and amenities it’s worth every single penny.
Choosing this residence also gave me an extra incentive to “sell, sell, sell”. I love working in real estate which makes having it as a career easier, but I also love creature comforts and this set of apartments provided more than I could get if I were paying way less. It’s worth my baby blues that pop up every now and then when working with family-like clients.
By the time I reached my own unit and was inside I had almost forgotten why I had even come home early. When I set my purse and jacket down and pulled the wine out the fridge I instantly remembered. “Oh yeah, wine, drinking, family issues. Ugh,” I said to myself.
I found a
glass in one of my kitchen cabinets and thought about how, as nice as the apartment was it definitely wasn’t one of the floor plans for bigger families. It was for families of “one”, like myself.
Was I a family?? What classifies a family? These thoughts bounced around my mind as a poured my first glass of merlot. I took a sip, let the flavor swell in my mouth, swallowed and gently set the glass down. The apartment was so quiet, the clink of the wine glass on the counter made that sense of solitude more obvious. Before I could let myself further sink into self-pity, I decided to go run a hot bath and threw in some lavender bath bombs for good measure.
I managed to finish off that first glass of wine and was quickly on to my second by the time I returned to the master bathroom. I surveyed my own face in the huge vanity mirror. I was still damn good looking for forty-one years old. Clear cocoa complexion, thick black hair, natural high cheeks that were full as my lips, but wait… I looked near the corners of my slightly upturned almond shaped eyes. “Are those creases?!?!” I marveled at my own reflection. I hadn’t noticed that before but there they were, so minuscule as not to even be a big deal, but there they were. I leaned back from the mirror and slightly frowned, then waved my hand at the mirror dismissing the whole thing. I knew I was beautiful, but that was the part of the problem.
I finally took off my clothes and eased into the hot, welcoming, scented water in the soaking tub. This was one of the other many amenities I loved about my apartment, and on days like today, I took full advantage of the immense space it provided my round hips and curvy backside.
My body image has always been positive, but it was that which bothered me most. Anyone looking at me would say I was more than healthy enough even at my age to bear children, so why not? I even had a date or two ask me outright and I told them the truth. It was always the pursuit of the luxuries I love, the status, the independence of working for myself and not being dependent on anyone and not wanting anyone dependent on me. Needless to say, when you’re that blunt about a touchy subject like marriage and family, some men can be… turned off.
I slid myself further down in the tub and gently reached for my glass of wine that was now sitting on the edge. Closing my eyes, I took another sip and then set the glass back down. The clink of the glass was even more prominent in the spacious master bathroom than in the open living space and kitchen. I had never paid attention to how such a familiar and simple sound can say so much about your current state.
I opened my eyes and looked up at the ceiling. It was my selfishness that had gotten in the way of starting a family, or even a long-term relationship. Selfishness and fear. Fear of ruining a man I love, but even more fear of ruining a child I thought I wanted. I didn’t make decisions I wasn’t certain of in my career, so life changing decisions were not something I wanted to toy with either. But there I was, nearly all the way submerged in the tub, my dark hair becoming heavier along with my thoughts.
I stayed just like that for what seemed like the whole evening, almost hoping to wash away my worries in lavender water and wine. Sadly, just as the scent of the bath bomb stuck to my skin, my fears of parenthood stuck with me in bed the rest of the night
Daniel
The days are filled with more blood than a little. It’s expected when you’re a surgeon but today in particular, after the procedure, I wondered were my hands finally becoming a little less steady with age or was my surgical assistant just sloppy on the suctioning. Nonetheless, the patient was in the recovery room and I had made my way to clean up and sterilize myself as usual. Infection control and cleanup were standard procedure after surgery. If only life were so simple.
“Daniel Anderson, Ph.D. M.S” was a really fancy way of saying I had paid my medical dues and then some. On television dramas, they make the medical field almost seem like a luxury career. What they don’t show is the things you sacrifice to have that career: relationships, hours of sleep, your sanity… a family. Of the few medical professionals I know other than myself, very few had stable relationships, let alone a great family life. The one thing most television series get right is at some point they turn to alcohol to cope with it all.
Before I could let myself feel too self-righteous in my thinking, Shepherd stepped into the sterilizing room. I quickly made myself look preoccupied by washing my hands more vigorously than usual. He didn’t seem to notice. He cut on the other faucet over the huge vat we called a sink and began pumping unreal amounts of foaming antibacterial soap from the dispenser. His cheerfulness was on the level of a Santa’s elf being promoted to Santa’s personal assistant.
“You almost lost focus back there, Shep. What has you so up in the clouds?” I asked with more sarcasm than I intended.
“Well,” Shepherd chimed, “I became a father yesterday!”
The irony. The tragic irony. I looked up at the mirror on the powder blue tile wall. The lines in my face seemed to deepen at Shepherd’s news. I swear I saw one of my dark brown hairs turn silver and fall from under my surgical cap.
“You don’t say,” was all I could muster from behind my protective mask.
Then came the part every wannabe parent dreads from the new parent: pictures. Shepherd had already dried his hands and dug in the pocket of his scrubs to pull out his phone.
Before I could admonish him for apparently having his phone in the operating room he pressed its power button on, and in a few minutes was showing picture after picture of a red-faced, chubby newborn in your standard hospital issued striped cap.
“Yep,” he glowed, “me and Priscilla are finally the parents to one Preston Holland Shepherd”.
I don’t know what turned my stomach more; Shepherd’s unyielding glee at the wonders of his own loins or my concerns about my own shriveling away with every swipe of his hand across the phone.
After a few moments, I dried my hands and began removing the rest of my protective gear while Shepherd prattled on about how they weren’t sure if Priscilla was going to have a vaginal birth or not, and all the ups and downs her family went through just helping them prepare things for their son’s arrival.
I didn’t want to seem disinterested or cold, but I also didn’t want Shepherd to see the discontented look on my face for much longer. Unfortunately, he noticed.
“Hey, um…” he muttered. It was coming. The talk we had almost every other few months throughout his wife’s pregnancy. Shepherd cleared his throat before continuing.
“Are you still considering having some little munchkins of your own, boss man? I mean,” he paused, “even we thought 'it’s too late' and 'how on Earth can we be in any position to raise a kid this late in the game', ya know.”
I was wanting to avoid this conversation. I can be a prick, but I didn’t want to dampen Shepherd’s announcement of his son with my pessimism on parenthood. He persisted.
“You know, I still have the number for the clinic we visited. They have so many resources and information for you and your significant other to get sta— "
“Ah,” I interrupted, wagging my finger in Shepherd’s direction. “See, that is where you have the one up on me. I gotta have someone to get pregnant first.”
Shepherd immediately looked embarrassed, and I was not sorry in the least.
“That’s how that works, right?” I said with every ounce of sarcasm implied. “We’re doctors. We should know these things,” I said as walked past and patted him on his shoulder.
Walking toward the door and dumping all my protective items in the bin, I figured those words would be enough to end the discussion. No. He threw in one last shred of hope.
“Well, if you do find that someone, I will still be holding onto that information for you. Fertility clinics gave us a second chance. It’s never too late,” Shepherd yelled as I let the door close between us.
Malaysia
Another day, another dollar. I couldn’t lie to myself and say I had slept well. My mind had been on the entire time.
There wasn’t enough sunlight beaming through a w
indow in my apartment to wash the dust off my feelings about starting over. Was starting over even an option at this point? Despite my negative mood I managed to go through the motions as I did every morning: coffee, tv on, news blaring, quick breakfast, dress suit on. Life. But at that moment I was feeling the sting of a life I had fallen into. The rat race.
By the time I was in the car my vigor for doing routine was wearing thin. I don’t know how long I sat there in the parking lot lost in my thoughts. I don’t even fully remember cranking up the car and finally pulling into the parking area near the office. I don’t remember Michele calling my name once, then twice, then a third time. But I definitely remember what she said next.
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