We are surrounded by clapping. Loud, ear-splitting whistles. But nothing could tear my gaze away from her. “I love you, and I love Papaya, and I want us to be a family. Do you?”
I hold a breath as I wait, but she doesn’t take more than a second to answer. Her shoulders rise, and she gasps. “So much, Ryder. So much. I want that more than anything.”
“Kiss her!”
The command comes from Cal, and as I glance briefly away from Nicole, I see my geometric boss, whose face is a circle of satisfaction amid the crowd. Seems everyone in the office heard what was going on, and the hallway by the studio is packed with our co-workers. They hoot, holler, and cheer us on.
As I dip my mouth to hers, someone else shouts, “It was you who knocked her up?”
I kiss Nicole, and give a thumbs-up affirmative to whoever asked.
As our lips touch, everyone else fades away. I have all I want right here in my arms. Sometimes you get more than you get, and you don’t stop kissing the girl.
Eventually we do, though. When I finally wrench apart from her, nearly everyone’s gone, but Cal’s still here.
He claps my back then extends a hand. “Congratulations. Nothing could make me happier than seeing this transformation in you.”
Nicole wraps her arm around me possessively. “He’s like a new man in some ways. But, if you ask me, he was always pretty amazing.”
I kiss her cheek, and a final thumbs-up from Cal is the last I see of him before he retreats down the hall.
We’re alone and she hands me a small box, like the one she gave me the day she told me she was pregnant.
“What’s this?”
“It’s what I was planning to give to you this morning, to tell you I feel the same. But you beat me to it.” She swats my shoulder.
“I still like your gifts.” I open the box and tug out a silver key chain. A sexy silhouette of a woman dangles from it.
She reaches for my hand and threads her fingers through mine. “The other week, I thought you had only fallen in love with the baby, and I wanted you to be part of his or her life so badly. I’m so glad you want that. But I came in here today, determined to ask for more. Because I’m greedy, and I want all of you. You made my knees weak the first time you kissed me, and you still do,” she says, and I feel ten feet tall. “When I’m with you, I feel that zing. That zing that I’ve never felt before.” She reaches for my hand and tugs it to her heart. “I feel it all the time with you. And I bought you this gift because I want you to have the baby and the woman.”
I slide my hand down her chest, splaying my palm over her belly. “You’re a package deal, Nicole. I want the whole package. And I want to spend the rest of my life making sure you always feel that zing.”
Her eyes shine with happiness, then they spark with mischief. “I kind of want to skip work the rest of the day.”
“Now, Nicole,” I say, playfully chiding her, “I’ve got a woman and a child to provide for. I can’t just go around skipping out on my responsibilities.”
“Such an upstanding man.” She brings her mouth to my ear. “It makes me want you even more.”
I’m honestly not sure how I make it through the next few hours until her doctor’s appointment. But somehow, I manage, and we both leave early.
Inside the exam room, the doctor blinks when she sees me. “Hello, I’m Dr. Robinson. And you are?”
I shake her hand. “I’m the one who made her your patient.”
Nicole laughs. “This is Ryder. He belongs to me.”
I look at my pregnant woman. “I’m hers.”
The doctor gives us a nod. “All righty, then. Let’s see how everything’s going with the mango.”
And the mango is just fine.
Epilogue
Nicole
We have epic sex that night.
Obviously.
A man doesn’t just tell a woman he’s wildly in love with her and then not send her soaring to the heavens.
Ryder sends me flying, all right.
I go off the cliff three or four times. Honestly, I lose track of how many orgasms I have, and that’s fine with me. The first time, he puts me on my hands and knees, and it’s to die for.
Next, he bends me over the edge of the bed, biting my ass before he drives into me again. Then, in the middle of the night, I wake up to find his traveling hands all over me, and with my skin sizzling, I beg him to kiss me between my legs.
He heeds the call. And after I scream his name, he moves behind me like we’re spoons, and we do it slow and tender, like the night I knew I’d fallen in love with the father of my child.
But it’s even better because he whispers in my ear as he makes love to me. He tells me he loves me. Tells me he’s crazy for me. Tells me he’ll always take care of me.
And really, that’s better than an orgasm.
But I still have one more.
Like I said, the second trimester rocks.
The next night, we have a ceremony of sorts. We take the baby contract, and we rip it up. At my living room table, we tear it into as many shreds as possible, and we toss it in the trash can.
“I’m all in,” Ryder says.
“You better be.” I tug his shirt, pulling him close to me.
“That’s a promise. In fact,” he says, lacing his fingers through mine, “what do you say we go shopping?”
“Shopping? Now? It’s late.”
He shakes his head then strokes my ring finger. “This weekend. Katherine’s. You got me two key chains. Seems I’m due to get you a ring.”
I shriek.
That weekend, I cry happy tears as I pick out a gorgeous diamond solitaire.
“It looks great with my two key chains.”
“A tadpole, a woman, and a ring,” I say.
He sweeps one hand over my stomach. “Good things come in threes.”
The third trimester, though?
It’s rough going.
I’m bigger, more tired, and a little grumpier.
But I’m also less cranky, since I have help. He helps me walk my dog. When I feel like I can barely bend to feed Ruby anymore, he takes over and gives her kibble. He cooks for me, and he makes sure I don’t just eat jars of artichoke hearts.
Oh, and he handles the entire move to our new apartment.
I don’t need to redo the closet since my mom finds us a new place, suitable for a new family and two medium dogs. Ryder insists I spend the entire moving day at the spa, getting pampered with my best friends.
If this isn’t love, I don’t know what is.
I wear a white dress that billows over the pumpkin inside me one month before I’m due to pop. As Pachelbel’s Canon in D plays, I walk down the aisle at a small church in Manhattan. I’m barefoot and loving it.
Ryder wears a charcoal-gray suit, a pressed white shirt, and a sky-blue tie that I gave him. On the tie is a silver pin in the shape of a papaya. I gave him that, too.
I hold a bouquet of yellow daffodils, and when I reach the groom I’m struck once more by the realization of how lucky I am. This wonderful, witty, handsome man is mine.
We say our vows, and before God, my mom, my brother, Delaney and Tyler, Penny and Gabriel, Ryder’s parents, his sister Claire, his brother Devon and his husband Paul, their daughter Simone, and Ryder’s friend Flynn, I promise to love him for the rest of my life.
He pledges to do the same.
When he slides a platinum band on my finger, the baby kicks.
When I give him his ring, the baby does a little jig, and then I kiss my husband. Later, I throw the bouquet, and Simone catches it.
Her dads look terrified.
“Someday,” I say with a wild grin.
“You’re almost there, Nicole. You can do it.”
Dr. Robinson shouts her encouragement, and I’m sweating, panting, and swearing.
Nineteen hours of labor sucks. She was right. Morning sickness is nothing compared to pushing a watermelon out of your body.
“I
can see the head. One more push,” she says, her cheerleader voice ringing in my ears.
Ryder squeezes my hand. “You’re almost there.”
I’m exhausted, and everything hurts, but I want this baby out of me so badly. Machines beep, and nurses encourage me, and Ryder tells me I can do it. I stare at my monster belly, and I imagine that finally, after nine hard, wonderful, amazing months, I will at last get to meet my child.
I bear down and push and push and push until . . .
I hear a wail.
A loud, gorgeous, beautiful cry that fills my heart with joy.
“You did it!”
Tears spill down my cheeks as the doctor announces, “You have a son. And he’s perfect.”
I’m bawling, too, just like my baby boy and my husband. As the doctor hands me my son, I cradle him in my arms for the first time. It is magic and moonlight and all the stars in the sky, and I am flooded with a love that I know is infinite. Tears streak down my husband’s gorgeous face as he plants a sweet daddy kiss on our little boy’s head. “Hi, Papaya.”
I cry and I smile at the same time. “He’s not Papaya anymore.”
“He has a new name.” Ryder’s deep, sexy voice is thick with emotion. We already picked one. He meets my eyes, and then gazes at our baby. “Hey there, Robert Powers Lockhart.”
My father’s and both of ours.
Another Epilogue
Ryder
“Do you want to grab the sage?”
Robert takes a wobbly step across the concrete. He doesn’t actually know what sage is. At least, I don’t think so. But he follows my pointing finger and swipes at the herb with his chubby hand. He misses.
I help my one-year-old son and grab some from the plant.
“Now, what about some thyme? Mommy likes that in her pasta, doesn’t she?”
“Doggie.”
That’s Robert’s answer for nearly everything these days. He can say mommy, daddy, and doggie. Oh, he can say Ruby, too. But Romeo? No way. That name vexes him.
“Where’s the doggie?” I ask.
My blond-haired, blue-eyed son points to my white and brown collie mix. Romeo lounges in the August sun that shines brightly here in the communal rooftop gardens of our apartment building.
“Yes, that’s right. That’s our doggie. Can you say Romeo?”
“Doggie.”
I laugh, then snip some thyme from a miniature potted wheelbarrow where we grow herbs. The mini wheelbarrow was a gift from my wife for my last birthday. We’d tried the Wheelbarrow, and I’m loathe to admit this, but she was right. It didn’t work for far too many reasons. Mostly because she hated being upside down in what she called a ridiculously awkward and uncomfortable position. She rode me like a Crouching Cowgirl instead, and that was fine with me.
The next day, she gave me this ceramic mini wheelbarrow, and we planted some herbs in it.
Win some, lose some.
But honestly, I’m winning at pretty much everything.
I’m still working at Hanky Panky Love with my wife, but I’m there as a freelancer now, and so is she. She cut back her hours and started working from home more, and somehow we make it all fit, taking turns caring for our son. We still do our shows, and she writes her columns, too. I’ve cut back on those since my consulting business picked up. After Aaron, I nabbed a few more guys, and word spread. Now the Consummate Wingman has found a specialty niche in helping divorced guys get back out there.
It makes me feel damn good to give these men strategies that help them build confidence to put their hearts on the line again, especially since I can walk the walk and talk the talk. I’m writing a book on the topic. I don’t have a title yet, but my publisher wants to call it Got Your Back Again. Maybe it’ll stick. The bio, though, was easy to write.
Ryder Lockhart and his lovely wife Nicole have a son, two dogs, and a very happy ever after.
It’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
I also have a date with my wife tonight, so after the little man and I head inside and I mix up a pasta dish for my wife, I answer the door. Her friends are here, since both Penny and Delaney said they’d babysit tonight.
Penny scoops my son into her arms and coos at him. She loves kids and Delaney does, too. Nicole and I have a running bet on who will be the first among her friends to follow in her footsteps. I say Penny, but Nicole says Delaney.
“You are the cutest little guy in the entire universe,” Penny says, then plants a huge kiss on his forehead.
Robert squeals with laughter. “Doggie!”
Penny cracks up. Ruby races over to greet Penny, and my son mixes in another word. “Ruby!”
Delaney leans in to kiss him, too. “Are you ready to go shopping with your aunts?”
I groan. “You’re taking him shopping?”
“We need to train him early to be a good boy when the ladies shop,” Penny says. “Besides, Delaney needs shoes.”
“It’s true,” Delaney says with a straight face. “I do need shoes.”
After they leave, I take my wife for a round of mini golf, since we still try to find interesting dates. After she wins, she suggests we grab a drink at the bar at Grand Central.
But she doesn’t order champagne. She orders lemonade. After she finishes it, I learn why. She takes me to the Whispering Arch, and when she’s on the other side, I hear some of my favorite words from her.
“I’m pregnant.”
And I’m the happiest man on the face of the earth.
Nine months later, we have a girl, and we name her Rosemary.
She is an absolute angel.
* * *
THE END
* * *
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Did you enjoy getting to know Flynn? Stay tuned for his story in COME AS YOU ARE! Also, his twin brother Dylan has a story to tell too in STUD FINDER!
The great thing about masquerade parties is no one knows who I am. I can pretend to be whoever I want. For one evening, I'm not the millionaire everyone wants a piece of.
And when I come across the most intriguing woman I've ever met, and it turns out she likes hot, passionate up-against-the-wall sex as much as I do, there's no need for names or numbers.
It’s a perfect night.
Until the next day when she walks into my office with a proposal I didn’t see coming.
***
Want a sneak peek at my next release? My all-new sexy, sports romance MOST VALUABLE PLAYBOY releases on Sept. 1! Check out the first chapter and preorder now!
Prologue
* * *
Always a bridesmaid.
No Action Armstrong.
Ball cap boy.
Mr. Clean.
The Unused Insurance Plan.
Warmest Butt in the NFL.
Oh wait. Here’s one more, and a personal fave.
Best Butt in the NFL. Those are just some of the nicknames I’ve been given in the last few years. Lest anyone think they bug me, they don’t. Not one bit. They’ve all been true, especially the last one. You should see my ass. You can bounce a quarter off my cheeks if you want.
Here’s the thing — when you spend the first three years of your career warming the bench for the best player in the league, you can’t let a chip on your shoulder develop. You’ve got to stay sharp, and be ready for that moment when your pants finally get dirty, and you swap out a ball cap for a helmet.
My time has finally come this season, and we’re winning so far.
But tonight isn’t about what happens between the opening kickoff and the end of the fourth quarter.
Tonight is about the one game I’ve dominated.
For the last few years, I’ve cleaned up in the players’ annual charity auction, and maybe that’s because the one nickname I’ve relished most doesn’t even belong to me. The guy I’ve backed up has been called a lot of things — a legend, the greatest ever, a titan of the game — but the o
ne I particularly enjoy is the “second-best-looking quarterback on the Renegades.”
Hey, I didn’t give him that name. The media did, deciding the dude who played second string had a prettier face — that’s me. Before this season, I hadn’t seen a grand total of 120 minutes of playing time in those first three years, but I’ve taken home the top honors in the charity auction where some of the loveliest ladies come to bid on the players they want to take out for a night on the town.
Ah, the memories of those dates have warmed my heart, and other parts, on the sidelines when the games were dull. Evenings in limos testing the strength of the leather backseat, nights in hotels that lasted way past dawn, the rule of no physical contact between the winner and the woman blissfully ignored by all parties involved.
Yeah, I’ve enjoyed the fuck out of being paraded on stage in front of hundreds of women, with slender arms raised in the air, and winning bids going my way over all the other guys. It’s been my one chance to shine, even to stand out.
Those days are behind me though, now that I’m finally leading the team down the field every single Sunday.
This time, I won’t be living it up and letting loose after hours since I’ve got a reputation to protect, and a season on the line.
The trouble is, the woman who has her eyes on me at the Most Valuable Playboy charity auction wants my full enchilada, and it’s not on the menu anymore.
Guess that means it’s time for me to call an audible on the line of scrimmage.
* * *
Chapter One
* * *
My hair is sticking up.
In my defense, it’s always sticking up.
I have what’s known as permanent bedhead. Which can be awesome, if it means I look like I just strolled out of a most excellent roll in the hay, complete with hands having been run through my dark brown strands.
The Knocked Up Plan Page 22