The Baby Mission

by Vivian Wood

  I immediately go to pour myself a glass of a nice pinot noir. Milo greets me, persistently rubbing against my ankles. I set my wine glass down and spend a minute opening a can of cat food and plating it for him. He goes nuts as soon as he hears me get the can down from the pantry, meowing his approval and pacing back and forth.

  “Here,” I say, sitting the plate on the floor. He comes over and starts chowing down immediately, and I stroke the silky top of his head. “What are you going to do when you’re not the only one that I’m taking care of in this household? Hmm?”

  I take a sip of the wine, closing my eyes and leaning back against the kitchen counter. The bright notes of black cherry, berry, currant hit my tastebuds.

  Swishing the wine around a bit in my mouth, I set the glass aside. It’s definitely time to change.

  As I head into my bedroom, I’m already unbuttoning my white silk dress shirt, pulling it from my rust-colored wool pencil skirt. I head into the small walk-in closet, unzipping my skirt and stripping down to my polka dot thong and matching bra.

  What the hell, those can go too. Standing naked in my closet, putting my skirt and my shirt away, I’m just tired. I contemplate the racks of hanging clothes. Too dressy. I open my loungewear drawer, searching for something more casual.

  After pulling on a pair of yoga pants and an oversized tee, I grab my glass of wine and hit the couch. The couch is new, made of a stiff pale pink linen, and it makes an odd noise when I launch myself onto it.

  I sip my wine, and then leave the glass to rest on the floor. Milo comes over, having finished his food, and sniffs the glass. “I can guarantee that you don’t want that,” I tell him mildly.

  Looking over, I can’t help but see the catalog of sperm donors still sitting on my coffee table.

  For some reason, looking at the book fills me with existential dread. I pick up the book and flip through it, feeling completely uninspired by the smiling men I see there. I jump up and grab my phone from my purse, checking my texts as I resettle on the couch.

  There are already a half dozen texts from co-workers about the case I’m litigating, but nothing new from Jett. I scrunch down on the couch.

  I asked too much of him, and he ghosted me. Pure and simple.

  I find the remote at the end of the couch and turn the tv on, watching Real Housewives. It relaxes me, oddly; it’s like turning my brain off after a long day. I drink my wine and eat some leftover Thai. One glass of wine turns into three, and three turns into me opening a new bottle.

  When my phone chirps, it has worked its way underneath me, startling me. I give it the stink eye.

  When I check the screen, a new text message from Jett flashes.

  Can we meet?

  I blink. Of all the things that I expected, this wasn’t one of them. Maybe he’s going to tell me face to face why he can’t be my sperm donor?

  Biting my lip, I open the message. If that’s the case, no way am I getting all dressed up and going somewhere. Besides, I’m working on my fourth glass of wine. I’m not drunk, but I’m obviously not driving anywhere either.

  I’m at home, not planning on going out… but you can come here if you want, I text.

  I’ll be there. Text me the address, he texts back.

  I’m a little surprised as I text him the address. He says that he’s ten minutes away.

  I look around at the Thai takeout containers, the wine glass and bottle, and the sperm donor book. Shit, I guess I should clean up. I quickly tidy the apartment, then run into my closet and try to find a less-holey tee shirt. I settle on a black off-the shoulder sweater.

  I have a minute or so left, so I quickly refresh my deodorant and change the tv channel to a nature documentary.

  Even though I’m expecting it, I freak a little at the sound of the buzzer. Heart beating fast, I go to the front door and check the screen.

  He’s there, every bit as handsome as I remember. I buzz him up, trying to remind myself that he’s probably just being a gentleman. A real man would tell the woman who wants his sperm no to her face, right?

  I let out a hysterical giggle just as he knocks on the door. I take a deep breath, and then go to let him in.

  When the door swings open, he’s there, filling up the doorway with his royal blue eyes, impeccable dark grey suit, and tattooed skin.

  “Hi,” he says, cracking a smile. It touches his eyes, makes them crinkle a bit.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice is telling me what a bad idea it is to let him in. But I step back, sweeping a hand. I can hear my heart pounding as he comes in, and I shut the door behind him.

  I’d forgotten how tall he is. I swear, my ovaries want him.

  “Hi. Welcome,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ear.

  In a heartbeat, he moves toward me, pinning me up against the wall with his body. I’m too shocked to even make a sound, especially when he bends down and kisses me.

  I’m not talking about some little peck, either. No. He takes my lips, teasing them a little. His beard tickles a little, sending chills up my spine. When I gasp, he uses that as an invitation to invade my mouth with his tongue, sweeping and dancing.

  I become aware of the fact that he’s pressed against me, so tight that I can feel his bulge where it pokes my belly.

  God, yes, I think. Take me right here, right now.

  Without warning, he ends the kiss, and steps back. I’m left off-kilter, looking up at him with confusion on my face.

  His blue eyes twinkle. “I just had to double check that we have chemistry.”

  My fingers go to my mouth, still tingling from being kissed.

  “Yeah… I think it’s safe to say that we do…” I say, shaking my head. “Um… should we maybe… go into the bedroom?”

  His brows arch. “Do you have the paperwork? I brought my papers from my doctor saying that I’m clean.”

  “The paperwork for… you getting me pregnant? No, I haven’t even drafted it.”

  “But you can?” he asks.

  “Sure, yeah,” I say, frowning. I’m shaking now, the adrenaline having just hit.

  He’s still grinning at me like the cat who caught the canary.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’m just trying to cover all my bases.” He reaches inside his suit, and pulls out a sheaf of paperwork. “Here, for you. The proof that I’m clean.”

  I take it, uncertain what to do. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll see you later, then,” he says. He looks at me, squinting a little. “God, you have the most amazing collar bones.”

  I reach out a trembling hand and catch his lapel, drawing him closer. Just for a minute, I promise myself.

  Jett allows himself to be pulled in, his grin growing wider.

  This time when our lips meet, it’s sweeter, slower. I reach up and put my hands around his neck. I shiver as he breaks the kiss to touch his lips to my neck, my collar bone, my shoulder.

  Yes. Fuck yes.

  I run my hand along his shoulder to his biceps, impressed with how muscular he is. Our lips find one another again, and I open my mouth to him. He dominates the kiss, but I give as good as I get, using my tongue as my weapon.

  I force myself to pull back, and lean my forehead against his. My breathing has grown heavy in just the few moments that he’s touched me.

  “Paperwork?” I whisper. It comes off as a question, though I didn’t mean it that way.

  His whole face lights up when he laughs, and I feel the rumble all the way to my core.

  “Ah yes. Paperwork,” he says. He gives me a final kiss, then releases me. “Text me when you’re ready. When I come back, you’d better be prepared.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask, a little breathless.

  He doesn’t answer, he just winks. Cocky bastard.

  He turns and lets himself out the door, and then I’m left staring at the space where he just was. I’m not going to lie, my panties are a little damp, and this was only kissing.

  I push myself off of the wall, lookin
g down at the papers in my hand. I grab my glass of wine from the kitchen and sink onto the couch, mulling over the last few minutes.

  I decide that I know three things for certain.

  One, I am so fucking hot for him, it’s not even funny. Even his name is hot.

  Jett fucking James.

  Two, I’m going to get the paperwork drawn up as soon as possible.

  And three, I am surely going to be prepared the next time he comes knocking.

  That’s a fact.

  Chapter Seven

  Jett

  “So what I’m saying is…”I go quiet for a second as the cars come around our side of the racetrack, drowning out all other sound. It’s a few days later, and I am at the track, trying to close the deal to sign Bryce Derrick.

  No matter that I’d much rather be looking at Cady Ellis. I stifle the thought before my mind can go somewhere inappropriate and weird.

  “What?” Bryce shouts.

  I look at him while I wait for the noise to die down. The guy is huge, an absolute beast at 6’5. Not just that, but he’s bulky, too. With his wraparound sunglasses and his oddly blockish head, he reminds me of one of the Beagle Boys from the kid’s show Ducktales. Give him a red shirt and blue pants, and he would fit the part to a T.

  He isn’t very bright either, but that hasn’t stopped the Dallas Cowboys and the Atlanta Falcons from expressing interest in him. I intend to be the agent that makes that happen for him… as soon as I can talk, that is.

  The noise dies down for a minute, and I continue. “You need someone who will be by your side, someone you can rely on to be in your corner, man.”

  Bryce scrunches his face. “And that should be you?”

  “Yeah, dude. That should be me. I know your stats. I know where you’re from, and what high school you went to. But I want to know more than that, be more than that. I want to be the one you call for everything.”

  He pushes up his sunglasses, looking at me with beady eyes.

  “Where’m I from?” he asks.

  “Elijay, Georgia. Home of the year apple festival.”

  “Uh huh,” he says. He’s about to say more, but the sound of the cars racing around the track is closing in again.

  It’s everything I can do to keep my cool. If there was ever a time for a quiet room to conduct a business deal, it would be now. But I’m outwardly placid, because the only way Bryce would meet with me at all is if I agreed to come to the Atlanta Motor Speedway.

  When the cars fade out again, he looks at me. “You know my stats?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I can recite them, right here, right now.”

  “How many intercepts?” he quizzes.

  “Easy. Last season you had eight. And you had one hundred and thirty five tackles, AND twelve sacks.”

  He looks down, but nods.

  “Yeah. You and my momma would get along. She recites my stats to everyone, even the cashier in line at the Walmart. Doesn’t matter if the cashier wants to hear or not.” He chuckles. “I need someone like my momma on my team. Can I trust you?”

  I wait a beat, then stick my hand out. “You can count on me.”

  He shakes my hand, forceful in this as with everything. “Alright. Call me on Monday, and I’ll come up to your offices.”

  “All right man, I look forward to that. Have fun out here,” I say.

  Bryce is already looking at his phone. Fucking millennials, am I right?

  I head around the cement stands, jogging to the parking lot. Just for a little gratification delay, I make myself wait until I’m inside my shiny black Lexus before I check my phone. I have a couple texts from Cady, three hours old.

  I probably should’ve looked at them earlier, but I wanted Bryce to feel like the attention was all on him. I swipe over to my texts.

  I have the paperwork…

  And, where are you?