I mime gagging. The shirt has a cutout over the belly. “Why? Tell me. Why on earth does that exist? Who even authorized a cutout maternity T-shirt?”
Delaney cracks up. “If you were a fashion writer, you’d have to do a column on the five worst maternity items.”
Penny snaps her fingers. “I know one to include. That Christmas maternity shirt that said ‘Santa’s Favorite Ho.’”
I laugh. “That is totally going on the list.”
Delaney hangs up the holey shirt then adjusts her bright blond ponytail. “Have you found anything you like?”
I shake my head. “Not a single stitch of fabric. Am I just too picky?”
“No way. You can never be too picky with clothes,” Penny says, her brown eyes intense. “Let’s keep looking.”
We wander through the racks in the maternity section of a department store in Brooklyn that we traveled to for this purpose. The chichi maternity boutiques in Manhattan are just too pricey for items I’ll wear only a few times. As Penny considers a rack of tent-like shirts, my phone pings.
My Pavlovian response kicks in.
Butterflies descend into my chest.
I grab my cell and slide my finger over the screen.
Ryder: Look. I’m just going to be blunt here. That okay with you?
In the two weeks he’s been gone, our texts have veered from gentle concern over my wrist—it’s totally fine now—to flirty, so I have a hunch I’ll enjoy his bluntness.
Nicole: I like blunt. Especially blunt hardness.
* * *
Ryder: Yes, blunt hardness is apt, since I need to tell you that your boobs look spectacular.
* * *
Nicole: You were always a big fan of the girls.
* * *
Ryder: I’m their number one fan. I had one of those big foam fingers commissioned to say Number One Fan of Your Tits. But it seemed a little too—how shall we say—inappropriate to actually wave around.
* * *
Nicole: Appropriateness is overrated.
* * *
Ryder: Anyway, I noticed the spectacularness of your chest last time I saw you.
* * *
Ryder: Let me amend that. I always notice your breasts. They are always spectacular. And now they’re at a whole new level of spectacularity.
* * *
Ryder: Fuck, now I’m really fucking turned on, and I have to go on air. Thanks a lot for having such perfect tits.
* * *
Nicole: I wish I could say I was sorry that my boobs are distracting you from 2,000 miles away, but I’m not. I’ll leave you with this thought—they’re even more sensitive now.
* * *
Ryder: Did you hear me groan across half the continent? Dear Lord, woman. What are you doing to me?
* * *
Nicole: Distracting you, since I’m buying a new lacy bra to hold my bigger boobs in.
* * *
Ryder: I demand pictorial evidence.
As I contemplate the best angles for shooting a selfie boob-shot later tonight, I look up from my phone. I flinch when I see Penny tapping her Converse-sneakered toe against the floor. Delaney joins in, beating out a rhythm with her dove-gray boots.
Both stand with arms crossed.
The sharp look in two pairs of eyes reads busted.
“I couldn’t help but notice Ryder’s name pop across your screen.” Penny sounds like a cop interrogating a suspect.
“And I couldn’t help but notice the ridiculously silly grin on your face,” Delaney adds.
“Umm . . .” But I’ve got no alibi. No excuse. I’m flirting with my baby daddy.
“What’s going on?”
I sigh, shrug, and hold out my hands. “I don’t know.”
“But you’re texting, as in sexting him?”
I grip my phone tighter, the words we just sent—words like boob and hard—flashing as neon signs before my eyes. “I think so.”
Delaney gives me a sharp stare. “Think? You of all people should know what sexting is. Were you or weren’t you?”
“We were,” I admit.
“Were you going to tell us?”
“That we were sexting?” I furrow my brow. “That hardly seems like something I need to issue a bulletin for.”
“Nicole,” Delaney says, admonishing, “this isn’t flirting with an ex. You’re flirting with the guy who knocked you up.”
They point in unison at my belly. I’m twenty weeks now. It’s no longer flat. My stomach is a crescent moon, and I love it.
Penny rests her arm on the silvery bar of a rack of tunics. “Is something happening between you guys?”
I drop my face to my hands momentarily, hiding behind my utter I-don’t-know-what’s-going-on-ness. But this isn’t my style. I don’t run from things. I don’t hide. I look up and meet the twin gazes of my best friends. “I like him so much,” I say, though that hardly feels like enough. It barely covers the way his kisses make me weak in the knees, how his touch is both reassuring and an absolute turn-on, how my stomach executes backflips when he stares at me like he wants to eat me up. And like doesn’t even skim the surface of how my heart soared when he took care of me a few weeks ago after my fall, treating me like I was the most precious thing in the universe.
My throat hitches. “He’s kind of amazing.”
Penny clasps a hand to her chest and sighs dreamily.
Delaney shoots her a look then turns to me. “It’s not that simple. Amazing isn’t what this is about. You gave me tough love when I was debating whether to give Tyler a second chance. It’s your turn to be the recipient.”
I back up to the mirror, lean against it, and beckon with a curl of my fingers. Bring it on. I can handle it.
Delaney talks into her fist. “He’s the father of your child.” She drops the imaginary mic.
“You’re falling for the father of your baby,” Penny says, stating the obvious because, evidently, it needs to be stated.
“I don’t know if it’s falling in love,” I say, trying to approach my feelings like a show topic. “How would I know, after all? I’ve never felt that before. It might just be pregnancy hormones. You’ve got to understand, everything feels good right now. In the second trimester, you’re like this gigantic walking endorphin. Every single thing is wonderful. I’m all happy hormones and love right now.”
“I know, but even so,” Delaney says, keeping on point, “what are you going to do?”
I’m a planner. I should have a plan, but I don’t. “I honestly don’t know.”
Delaney tries to provide one for me. “If you guys are spending time together, don’t you think that might mean he wants to be involved with the kid?”
I flash back to Ryder’s reaction to the heartbeat. To the magic I saw in his eyes. To his care and concern for the baby. And it hits me. He’s falling for his child.
Talk about endorphins.
I’m made of nothing else right now. I float to the ceiling of the store, and I don’t even need a bouquet of balloons to hold on to.
But I drop back down with Penny’s next words. “Are you going to amend your agreement?”
Right. We have a contract. We have no expectations. He has no parental rights.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ll see how it goes.”
And later that night, it goes like this.
I slide into my new black, lacy bra. It makes my breasts rise even higher. The swells of flesh are visible against the lace. I take aim, snapping a few shots.
I send one to him.
His reply is instantaneous.
Ryder: You’re an angel. And I want to bury my face between those beauties.
More replies rain down, rapid fire, ping after ping on my phone.
Ryder: Kiss them, suck them, pinch them.
* * *
Ryder: Worship them.
* * *
Ryder: Kiss you everywhere.
* * *
Ryder: I want my tongue everywhere on you.
Flames lick my body, and I do the next logical thing. He doesn’t even ask for it. But I take off the bra. And I snap another photo. No nipples. But plenty of flesh. I hit send.
Ryder: If you don’t hear from me, assume I’ve died and gone to heaven.
And so have I, because minutes later, I’m starfished on my bed, my new vibrator playing his role, as I call out Ryder’s name when I come.
Attraction has always been the easy part. I’ll figure out the hard stuff some other night.
Thirty-One
Ryder
Time slows and speeds at once.
The trip is both amazing and frustrating.
I finally feel as if I have my groove back when it comes to work. The show is a blast, and the events Hanky Panky Love has set up in cities around the country energize me. We’re not talking Tony Robbins stadium-sized crowds, but a couple-dozen attendees soon turns into fifty, which turns into a cool grand. I do the radio shows live from the stage, taking questions from the audience, and everyone has a blast. Cal even sends an email telling me he’s pleased.
That’s all he says. Literally.
* * *
From: Cal Tomkin
To: Ryder Lockhart
Re: Your work
* * *
I’m pleased.
* * *
Honestly, that’s all a man needs from the guy who signs his paychecks. The next thing I know, my lit agent sends an email, too, and tells me sales for my book ticked up, and Got Your Back is going into another print run. It’s been ages since that’s happened. I tell my agent I’m thrilled, but we need to change the bio on the jacket. It takes me forever to write a new one, which is slightly embarrassing since it’s so short.
* * *
Ryder Lockhart loves his family, his dog, and spending time with good friends and good people.
* * *
It’s the truth, and it’s also true that my life now doesn't hurt like it used to.
One night in San Francisco, after a workout at the hotel gym and a hot shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and stride across the room to grab my buzzing cell phone.
A bead of water slides down my chest as I open a text from Nicole. Nerves tighten my gut. There’s this ever-present worry now that any message from her could bring bad news. I’m not a pessimist by nature, but I’ve accepted this worry.
I want good news from her. She had a doctor’s appointment at the end of her day, and I asked her to tell me how it went.
* * *
Nicole: Everything is good! The doctor says I’m officially fat.
* * *
Ryder: Ha. You’re not.
* * *
Nicole: No, I am. It’s the medical definition. She also said it’s totally normal that I ate spicy pumpkin curry, a jar of artichoke hearts, and a whole pineapple for dinner last night.
* * *
I laugh as I sink onto the edge of the mattress.
* * *
Ryder: Calling your bluff. You did not eat an entire pineapple.
* * *
Nicole: But a jar of artichoke hearts is plausible?
* * *
Ryder: Fair point. Plus, pineapples are delicious. I’ll believe your tropical fruit tales after all.
* * *
Nicole: I might also have fruit on the brain. She said the baby is the size of a papaya.
* * *
Ryder: How do they come up with this stuff? Anyway, got pics of the papaya?
* * *
Nicole: You really want to see them?
* * *
I’m smiling as I answer. How can she think I don’t want to see them?
* * *
Ryder: Yes. Show me the papaya. Please.
* * *
My knee bounces as I wait. I’m an addict, craving a hit. A minute later, an image loads in my text messages, and I slide my finger against it, clicking it open. My chest does funny things, like a jig. I stare at the grainy black-and-white image. I can see the shape of a nose, the jut of a chin, and perfect tiny hands with matchstick fingers. That's all I can make out, and it blows my mind that a doctor or ultrasound technician can actually identify the gender, so I decide to tease her.
* * *
Ryder: So it’s a boy? I see his penis.
* * *
Nicole: What??? You cannot tell if the papaya has a penis. No way.
* * *
Ryder: So it’s a girl papaya?
* * *
Nicole: I’m not finding out the sex. I’ve told you!
* * *
Ryder: That’s definitely a penis.
* * *
Nicole: I’m giving you a side-eye glare right now like you’ve never had before. You. Can’t. Tell. I was in the exam room, studying the machine, and I have stared at the photos for hours. You can’t tell the gender unless you’re the doctor, and she knows not to tell me.
* * *
Ryder: You really don’t want to find out?
* * *
Nicole: This is one of the last true surprises in life. You don’t like surprises?
* * *
The word is like a kick in the gut. Surprise! I fucked seven men. Surprise! I’m a sex addict. Surprise! Our marriage was a complete sham.
* * *
Ryder: No. I’m not into surprises.
* * *
I hold the phone, waiting for a response. But it doesn’t come quickly, so I set the cell down and return to the bathroom to rub the towel over my hair. I leave and pull on a pair of boxer briefs. The phone buzzes again.
* * *
Nicole: I can find out the sex for you. Do you want me to?
* * *
I close my eyes, inhale, and let my breath fill me. She is utterly wonderful. She is so good to me. This woman is everything I want, and everything I don’t want to lose again.
* * *
Ryder: I want you to have your surprise.
Ten short and long, miserable and wonderful days later, I’m on a flight back to New York.
I plug in my earbuds, buckle my seatbelt, and toggle through my podcast app. I download the latest episode from Nicole’s radio show, hit play, and close my eyes.
“Who wants to talk about the best positions for sex when you’re pregnant?” Her bold, pretty voice fills my ears. “Anyone? Oh wait. It’s just me. Look, ladies. I know I’m not the only one sporting a belly. With the amount of lovemaking my listeners are doing with their significant others, I’m surprised the whole lot of you aren’t pregnant. But I’ve heard from enough, and it seems my pregnant ladies want to know the best positions for getting busy when they’ve already gotten the busiest.”
I sit up straight, my interest 100 percent piqued.
She’s talking about sex, and this is precisely what our boss wants. Because there’s no mention of getting laid. No talk of hookups. It’s all about intimacy, all about pleasure, and I’m all about how very much I want to give that to her tonight.
I want her to experience an overdose of pleasure.
Especially when a caller says, “Do you find that you’re just constantly horny? The second I walk in the door from work, I pretty much tackle my husband. Oh, and yes, edge of the bed works wonders.”
Nicole laughs. “Edge of the bed. Make a note, ladies. And to answer your first question, yes. A big fat yes.”
Yes. She’s going to be saying that very soon.
Thirty-Two
Nicole
* * *
A text arrives when I know Ryder’s flight is landing.
* * *
Ryder: Listened to your show. I’ll be taking care of that issue for you tonight.
* * *
Nicole: What issue would that be?
* * *
Ryder: The one involving constant horniness.
* * *
I’m aroused from the text. I’m aroused from the thought. I’m aroused from being alive. I don’t know if I can wait until he comes over. I try valiantly, knowing how good it’ll be. Sex with Ryd
er was mind-blowing. I flop down on the couch and let my mind return to memories of hot, sweaty sex. His hands all over me. His mouth everywhere. His gorgeous, glorious cock sliding into me.
And that’s it.
I can’t wait. On the couch, I take matters into my own hands, sliding my fingers up my skirt and inside my panties.
It never takes long these days. I’m on the edge all the time. Four minutes later, I’m there, with his name on my lips and his face in my mind.
Later, my phone rings, letting me know he’s here. I buzz him in. When he reaches my door, I’m ready to jump him. To hump him. To mount him for the rest of the night. I don’t know how we went from no sex since he knocked me up to the certainty that we’re screwing tonight, but it is a fait accompli. I’ll think about what it means later. Right now, it means I’m having him again.
The Knocked Up Plan Page 18