“Nope,” Nicole says to the instructor. “We’re starting tonight. This is our foreplay. Can you tell?”
Callie sighs with relief. “The last minute might have been a tip-off.” She gestures to the swings. “Are you ready?”
“We’re ready to behave now,” I say, my tone deadly serious.
I climb down the ladder and walk to the other side of the net. God bless the huge net. The only way newbies like us could fly through the air is with the cushiest, safest, biggest net below us. As well as waivers. Lots and lots of waivers. And tons of harnesses. You can’t really get hurt here unless you try hard.
As I reach the top of the opposite platform, Callie’s counterpart on this side gives me a quick hello. His name is Mitch, and he has a camp-counselor brightness to him. Once I’m attached to the harness, I chalk up my hands.
“Are you having a good time?” Mitch asks with a big smile.
“A great time.”
“Best date ever?”
Briefly, I think of Maggie and our dates. My ex was outdoorsy, but not daring. She liked to head out of the city and hike in the woods. Since we loved movies, we spent many nights at the cinema. But trapeze was never in the cards, nor trampoline, nor rock climbing. I haven’t taken anyone here since my divorce, either. Honestly, I haven’t dated much since the split, and I wouldn’t be here if Cal hadn’t said my ass was on the line.
I swing my gaze to Nicole, more than a hundred feet away. “Definitely a great first date,” I tell Mitch.
He gives me a toothy grin. “All right. You’ll need to hop on then go upside down.”
Once I grab hold of the bar, Mitch barks, “Safe to go.”
I step off the platform and whoosh. I’m fucking flying. It’s as thrilling as it was the first time I did it tonight.
“Feet up,” he calls out as the swing arcs. I lift my feet up and hook them over the bar, and then Mitch calls out, “Arms free.”
I drop my arms below me, hanging on with my legs. This is like the loop on a whip-fast rollercoaster. Everything is a fast rush as the world flips into a topsy-turvy blur.
Callie shouts instructions at Nicole, who swings at me.
“Let her build up speed,” Mitch yells.
I give a thumbs-up as I arc closer.
From my vantage point, speeding upside down, I don’t take my eyes off my date. Nicole moves like a monkey, and in mere seconds, she’s switching from hanging by her hands on the bar to holding steady with her feet hooked over it.
“Hands catch,” the instructors shout in their shorthand as Nicole soars to me, her red hair in a long ponytail below her, her arms reaching for me. I stretch out my arms, hands ready. Closer, closer, and here she is.
For a brief moment, nerves spike inside me. But I shove aside hair-raising images of what could go wrong, and do what I have to do. I grab hold of her hands, and she takes mine.
Her neon laughter lights up the sky as she calls out, “Yes, oh my God!”
I’ve caught her, and I’m the only thing between her and the net. I grip her tight as she swings once beneath me, then she lets go, dropping to the net, the harness giving her a bouncy, soft landing.
It’s not the first time tonight I hope to hear her say oh my God.
“A-may-zing,” she says as we pile into our waiting Lyft ride outside the trapeze school.
“I’m sure Cal will be pleased that his first idea for this crazy assignment turned out to be a good time.”
“I didn’t just have a good time,” she says, shaking her head as I pull the door shut.
I arch a brow, curious. “No?”
“I had the best time,” she corrects. “And you can take that to the bank. Let all your listeners and readers know that trapeze lessons are a big win.”
Maybe I won’t get canned. I breathe a sigh of relief as the driver heads uptown. “Tell me why you liked it so much. What makes it a great date for the woman?”
She tilts her head, considering. “It’s different from the usual, you know?” Her eyes are serious. “And different is good. It gets you out of your comfort zone.”
“Out of the coffee, dinner, dates, this-is-so-fucking-boring-sometimes zone?”
“Exactly. You have to trust someone to do something like this. Sure, we have harnesses, but going for a trapeze lesson says the man is willing to put himself in an unusual position. After all, you were upside down.”
“It was definitely a new vantage point.”
Her eyes grow more animated. “And see, I think that helps two people connect. It helps for the woman to see the man can be strong but vulnerable.”
I nod as I take in her assessment. It makes a hell of a lot of sense. “Damn, you’re brilliant. That’s exactly what Cal wants me to talk about in my”—I stop to sketch air quotes to show what I think of Cal’s plans—“dating guide.”
But Nicole doesn’t let it go. Her eyes pin me with an intense look. “But did you feel that way, Ryder? I loved it, and it felt freeing. Did you feel like it would be a good first date for a man trying to romance a woman?”
Romance. I shudder at that word and all its implications. I romanced Maggie like I was a fucking hero in a novel, pulling out all the stops, sending her not only the lilies she adored, but her favorite artisanal butter for the pastries she made. We kissed at the fountain at Lincoln Center after a ballet she wanted to see; we strolled through the farmers’ market in Union Square hand in hand as she shopped. I rolled out the red carpet for her, and she loved it all, and that’s why it was so fun to treat her that way.
In return, she treated me like gum on the bottom of her shoe.
I could answer Nicole with starkness and say, I don’t really care anymore about romancing a woman.
But she deserves more than that. “For most men, yes, I suspect it would be a great start to romance. And for me, I had a hell of a good time with you.”
Nicole doesn’t balk at my honest assessment. Instead, she nudges me with her elbow. “Good thing we can be so scientific about this, right?”
I laugh, relieved that we don’t have to tread more seriously on this topic. I adopt my radio announcer voice. “Gentlemen, tonight we conducted a highly scientific study of dates in New York City, and we’ve concluded that the flying trapeze is an excellent jumpstart to romance.”
Nicole jumps in. “If you play your cards right, by the end of the evening her heart will be topsy-turvy for you. You might even land a first kiss.” She winks at me and whispers, “But I’m pretty confident you’re a sure thing.”
That’s because the sex is guaranteed in ink. It’s sex with a contract, outlined in legalese. The last week has been consumed by paperwork for our arrangement. First, I showed her my health records—a clean bill of health and no STDs. Same for her. Then, the more formal agreement. My lawyer checked the contract for me. It’s everything Nicole proposed. Sex for the sole purpose of procreation. If she conceives, I owe her nothing. That’s the bottom line. No expectations. No future payments. In return, I won’t ask for anything, either. No parental rights. Nothing at all.
Fine with me.
At its heart, it’s a beautiful sort of deal, one that says neither party expects a damn thing. I run a hand through her hair. “Fuck that romance shit. I want you in bed, woman.”
Her eyes blaze with heat. “And that’s exactly where I want to be.”
I love that she’s down to fuck. And I fucking love that we’re not playing games. There’s something incredibly freeing about this kind of relationship. Maybe this is the way it should be—clear and easy.
But once we reach her place in the East 80s, all that easy, breezy, sexy confidence slips away.
Thirteen
Nicole
Dogs are a woman’s best friend.
They’re also buzz killers since I need to tend to my doggy before we get into doggy-style.
Ruby jumps up and down when I unlock the door. She whimpers her excitement at seeing her mistress. She swings her gaze at Ryder and unleashes a
n accusatory bark at the unknown man.
Who the hell are you?
“Shh. He’s a friend,” I tell her and instantly she settles down.
“Hey girl,” he says, in that sweet but firm voice that dog people know how to use. “You’re gorgeous.”
My heart goes pitter-patter over the compliment.
“She says thank you,” I translate, though it’s readily apparent Ruby likes the praise, seeing as how she’s waggling her butt. “She’s shameless. She falls lickety split.”
Ryder shrugs. “Not a bad trait.” He quickly adds, like he needs to correct himself, “In a dog.”
He rubs her chin, and Ruby’s sold. For a second, it hits me how odd it is that they haven’t met yet. Despite our work companionship, there’s never been a need for him to be here.
Now there is, and it’s business time.
But first, I need to take Ruby for a quick walk around the block so she can attend to her business. Ryder joins me, grabbing a dog bag from the stash I keep in an open jar by my door. Dog people get dog people.
“Where’s your boy right now? Waiting patiently by the door for you?”
“Romeo’s at the neighbor’s,” he tells me as we head down the stairs and out to my quiet block. “There’s a sweet lady who lives upstairs from me. She’s been in my building forever, and I mean forever. Rent-controlled and all that jazz. Her niece lives with her and walks dogs, so they have Romeo right now. I booked her because I wasn’t sure how long we’d be tonight.”
“Hopefully we will . . .” But then I’m not sure what to say. Are we hoping it’ll be long or short? Does he want to get in and out with three Hail Marys so he can get home and walk the dog? We’ve been out for a few hours already. Furtively, I check the time. He probably needs to do the deed quickly.
I’ll think dirty thoughts as soon as we finish the dog walk, so I can make it easy for him. I should be a fertile myrtle right now, so hopefully this whole shebang isn’t too much of a time-suck for either of us. Women get knocked up on the first try all the time. My mother did. Why not me?
Soon, we return to my building and head to my floor. As I turn the key in the lock, a voice calls out to me. “Hey, Nicole!”
My shoulders tense as I hear my neighbor Frederick. I’m not entirely sure what he does for a living. All I know is he dresses like a hipster and is completely incapable of, well, anything. Last month, he asked to borrow Drano. A few months ago, he begged for baking soda and vinegar. Honestly, I don’t want to know what he does in his place.
“Hi, Frederick.”
“Hey there,” Ryder says, with a quick lift of his chin.
“Hey, buddy,” Frederick replies. Yeah, he’s one of those guys. Everyone is buddy. Frederick strokes his beard and peers at us curiously over the edge of his glasses. He seems to remember something when he snaps his fingers. “Nicole. Any chance you have a plunger I can borrow?”
Oh Jesus.
“Did you ask the super?” I suggest.
“He’s not around tonight.”
This is when I wish I lived in a doorman building. “Sure. I’ll get one for you,” I say, thinking how incredibly unsexy this is.
“I’ll get it,” Ryder offers.
I shoot him the most deadly stare in the history of stares. Seriously. Because there is no way I am letting this sexy-as-sin man touch a plunger before he gets his hands on me. And it’s not like the bathroom plunger has gotten action in ages. “I’ll do it. You will not touch my plunger.”
He presses his lips together to stifle a laugh, and I realize how weirdly dirty that sounded. “Your plunger,” he says with a chuckle.
I open the door, unleash Ruby, scurry to the bathroom, grab the plunger, and take it to Frederick.
“You’re a godsend,” he tells me, holding up the plunger with the stick end as if I’ve handed him the Olympic torch. “I’ll get this back to you in a jiffy.”
I scoff and wag a finger. “No. No, you will not. You will not knock on my door tonight to return a plunger. What you will do is buy me a new one tomorrow. Good night.”
I open my door, and Ryder follows me in, laughing. “That was fucking beautiful. Also, what kind of man doesn’t have his own plunger?”
I point a thumb in my neighbor’s direction. “That kind of man,” I say, shaking my head as I head to the kitchen to wash my hands. For a full minute. I give them a surgeon-level scrub.
When I’m done, I turn to see the most gorgeous man leaning in the doorway of my kitchen.
Dear Lord, he’s beautiful, and I’m so not in the mood.
From the dog to the neighbor to the plunger. But I need to get it up, so to speak.
“Hey there,” he says, softly. Maybe he senses the shift. Duh. Of course he does. He’s not stupid.
“Do you want a beer?” I ask.
“A beer sounds great.”
I open the fridge and grab one for him. I spin around to yank open the drawer with the bottle opener and I whack my elbow on the edge of the counter. “Ouch.”
It stings.
It radiates though my entire body. Gingerly, I cup my elbow with my other hand. In no time at all Ryder slides past me, opens the freezer, and finds an ice pack.
“It’s not that bad,” I say, like the tough girl I am. “I swear.”
But he doesn’t listen. He shushes me and presses the ice to my elbow. Great. Now I’m cold, annoyed, hurting, and still not turned on. Fuck my life. I lower my eyes because I just can’t even stand myself right now.
“My elbow’s fine now. Thanks.”
He sets the ice pack on the counter, tucks a finger under my chin, and raises my face. I meet his blue-eyed gaze. His eyes are so kind and so sexy at the same time. How is it possible? I’m going to need to gather all the scientists of the world to study this man. He drips sex appeal and goodness simultaneously. But then, there’s a distance to him, too. His armor never seems far away.
“You okay?”
I nod.
He runs a hand over my hair. His touch is gentle. He looks back into my living room. It’s lush and pretty with a cranberry-red couch strewn with gold and silver pillows. Framed photos line the end tables. On the wall is a photograph of a rain-slicked street in Paris. Candles adorn the coffee table. I even have mood music ready to go on my playlist.
“I wanted tonight to be sexy,” I say, gesturing hopelessly to the living room. “I had a whole playlist of Sade songs on my phone.”
His lips quirk in a grin. “We don’t need that to be sexy.”
His words should send a spark through me.
But they don’t.
My heart beats too fast. It’s a nervous rhythm. “I don’t feel sexy. I feel clinical and weird,” I admit.
He nods. “It’s okay to feel a little awkward.”
A new fear digs in. “Do you, too? I mean, it’s fine for me to feel weird. My pleasure doesn’t matter. I need you to feel good.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant I understand. This whole thing is . . . unusual,” he says.
“I don’t want you to feel weird. I want you to enjoy yourself.”
“Funny,” he says, running the backs of his fingers over my cheek, a soft, but wholly possessive move. “Because I want you to enjoy yourself just as much.”
He grabs his beer, takes my hand, and leads me to the living room. Ruby trots by his side and plops down on the carpet as we sink into the red couch. He takes a drink of his beer. I take off my light jacket.
It all feels so formal.
“Ugh,” I say, then drop my face to my hands.
I should punch myself for how I’m behaving. I’m a take-charge woman. For fuck’s sake, I asked this man to knock me up, and he’s willing to do it. I don’t get to behave like a brat.
In an instant, I know what to do.
I lean into him, inhaling his cedar scent as I dust a sexy kiss against his neck, since I’ve already learned this spot drives him crazy. I’m rewarded with a rush of air from his lips. Straddling h
im, I plant my hands on his shoulders.
He wiggles his eyebrows. “So this is how it’s going to be?”
“Yes, this is how it’s going to be.” I tell myself to erase the last awkward minutes, and I crush his lips to mine. He groans against my mouth, a low, dirty rumble of desire.
I’m going to kiss my way out of the weirdness. I’m going to devour his gorgeous lips and rub my cheeks all over that sandpaper stubble. I’m going to trace the outlines of his sculpted cheekbones, and I’ll grind against his lap until he’s hot and bothered.
I kiss him hard, turning the volume to high. I slide my fingers into hair that’s so damn soft, and I curl my hands around his head.
I crush his lips.
I own this kiss.
I want this man turned on.
I want him hard.
I want him ready.
And I need his swimmers to be in a good mood.
Judging from the heavy press of his erection against my thigh, his dick is whistling a happy tune. But that’s not enough. I want his mind blown, and his cock nearly there, too.
I scoot off him.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his breath uneven from our kiss.
“I’m doing this.” I get down on my knees and tug at his workout pants. “I want these off. I want to kiss your cock.”
“Fuck,” he groans as he drags a hand down his face and lifts his hips. “You dirty girl.”
I tug down his pants, then his boxer briefs, and then I die. I die a million wonderful deaths. His dick is beautiful. It’s so fucking gorgeous my mouth waters. It’s long and thick and curved a tiny bit to the right. It’s veiny and proud, and I must taste him.
I bend my face to him and lick the head.
“Fuck me,” he mutters.
He slouches back into the couch, his long legs spread open. I draw him into my mouth. He’s a little salty and so fucking manly. Maybe that sounds obvious. He should taste like a man. But he does, and it drives me wild.
I wrap a hand around the base and stroke him as I draw him deeper.
“Jesus, that’s good,” he groans.
I glance up at him, and his eyes are closed. He breathes out hard, and the look on his face is gorgeous. In seconds, I’ve changed the mood from sober to completely intoxicating, and the turnabout is working on me, too. As I suck, I get lost in the rhythm, in the taste, in the feel.
The Knocked Up Plan Page 8