Must be over six feet tall…check.
Must have a really nice apartment…check.
Must be sexy as hell…well, I don’t mean to brag but…check.
Each time I check an item off her list, I make sure to give her an enthusiastic grin, as if there’s nothing more important to me in the entire world right now than fulfilling the items on her wish list.
“Are you finished yet?”
She puts on a brave front, but her cheeks give her away with a flush of embarrassment. I’m totally fucking getting to her.
“Not quite,” I tell her as another fresh idea comes to me. “Very close, though,” I say teasingly.
“Well, good, because now I need to begin planning my funeral for next week,” Rose mutters.
Ah, so she has a sense of humor about this after all. I like it. A whole fucking lot.
“Oh, come on,” I retort. “I think your list is very reasonable. Practical, even. This day and age, you need to make sure you get what you want before you seal a deal.”
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Whatever. It’s not like I’m buying a couch.” She attempts to play it nonchalantly, but she’s too fucking adorable to pull it off.
Ignoring her, I jot down my name and phone number in my neatest handwriting at the end of the list.
Standing up, I finally relent, much to her relief, and hand her back the beloved piece of paper. “Call me if you ever want to talk more or make any negotiations.”
She stares up at me blankly. “Huh?”
I point to my name and number and she blushes again.
“Oh…okay…” She trails off and continues to stare at the paper.
I throw some cash on the table to pay my bill and walk out, back to the loud streets outside. I can’t help but smile as I climb into the waiting town car.
At the very least, I’ve extended a mode of direct communication―a lifeline that won’t exactly guarantee that I’ll ever see her again, but that gives me hopes she’ll take up my offer and give me a call.
At the most…well.
The truth is, it’s not like I really need a heir―but at the same time, it’s not a bad idea to keep my options open, either.
Much as I hate to admit that my mother is right, I’d rather have a child to raise as my own heir to the company than pass the torch begrudgingly to one of my wild siblings—no way will Prada or Fendi or Chanel take care of the family fortune like they should.
Jesus, just the thought of their names and passing the torch in the same sentence makes me want to tell my driver to turn the car around, just so I can jump that girl right there in the shop and bang her brains out on the table—all for an heir, of course.
So yeah, okay, I gave her my number―so what?
Just like Rose, I’d rather keep my options wide open, too.
Rose
So yeah, I’m still trying to process exactly what happened at the tea shop. I didn’t dream that shit up, did I?
Throwing my Fendi clutch down on my kitchen counter, I smile like a kid in a candy store because for once in my life, things look like they could be going my way.
No, wait.
Ugh.
Okay, Rose, it’s time to climb back down from the clouds to your regular, boring, single life, I scold myself.
I can’t seriously be taking that guy for real, right? That list was made in fun, but oh my god, when he started making those checks next to every item…I mean ten inches? Really?
My mouth is suddenly dry, and my body feels on fire in a way I’m totally unfamiliar with.
Walking over to the window, I pull open the shades. The afternoon sun is warm and inviting. I live in a trendy, up-and-coming district by Battery Park, and if I can attest to anything magical in my life, it’s this view of the Hudson and East Rivers right from my twenty-second-floor apartment.
Daniel…
My laugh stuns even me, but I can’t help myself. Who the hell does that guy think he is?
Sure, he’s sexy in an obvious kind of way. Sure, he seems charming enough. But looks can be deceiving.
I mean, he could be part of some type of sex trafficking ring or something, sent on a very important and secret mission to abduct me in plain sight, while I remain in my giddy, foolishly delusional, and clouded mind. I’ve seen Dateline reports on that shit!
Or worse, what if he’s a serial killer? Or a member of the mafia?
I had a friend once who had a friend of a friend whose brother’s uncle’s nephew was in the mafia. I’m totally not making that up, either.
Am I that naïve? I should be scoffing at the idea of even thinking I could have a relationship with a stranger. Especially thinking of letting him knock me up.
I must be crazy.
Of course he’s in the mafia. I’m staring out at the East River right now, and the universe couldn’t hit me in the face with a brick to be more obvious about that fact.
Well, okay, there I go again, rationalizing things until they become outlandish and blown out of proportion.
He really fucking hot, though…and I’m lonely…and I want a baby now more than I ever realized. Seeing my cousins today really drove that home. It’s like I’m clearly seeing for the first time what’s been missing in my life.
I take a deep breath and skirt away from the window, running a hand through my hair. I plop down on the couch and grab the remote, but thinking better of it, I reach for my laptop instead.
Thanks to the wonderful array of information up for display on the fine tool we call the internet, there are a million ways I can research this guy and find out who he truly is. Then I’ll know just how crazy I am for even entertaining this idea.
I’m sure I’ll find a huge picture of him on Google or something wearing a Bruce Wayne tuxedo while he smiles deliciously with six-foot-tall gorgeous models and blonde celebrities crooked under each arm.
I gulp when I my worst fears come true, and he is all over fucking social media. Daniel practically owns the damn thing. His name is sprawled out everywhere for the world―and, unfortunately, me―to see.
I laugh as I scroll through blogs, forums, and even Twitter, quickly becoming addicted to learning more about him.
Seriously though…this is the guy who wants to knock me up? This can’t be real. Is there a team with cameras going to pop out of my closet and say ‘Gotcha!’ any minute now?
Yeah, this is the kind of shit you only see on hidden camera shows.
Daniel appears to have quite a selection of notable yet creepy admirers. Some hoe-bag on a forum actually says that his hair is insured for four million dollars.
What the fuck?
I scroll through pages and pages of evidence of past relationships that he’s had and can’t believe this is splashed out there for public viewing pleasure.
Apparently, he has an ex-girlfriend named Maggie, and, well, let me tell you, she’s wildly unpopular on most of these websites.
Of course, hate is a strong word, so let’s go with loathe instead.
To me, though, it’s all comically suitable reading material, and I’m entertained, to say the very least. Hey, it’s gotten me to stop wallowing in my own lonely, barren-uterus abyss of self-pity, hasn’t it?
I shut my laptop and take a deep breath. What the hell am I getting myself into? Am I actually considering this?
He seemed so mellow, so…I don’t know…down-to-earth in the tea shop, like he would never be the player type.
Ha! That sentence alone should never be uttered. Of course, all men are players to a certain extent.
They want the pussy when they want it, and nothing is going to stand in their way.
What makes this guy any different?
He seemed so sweet and charming, though…in a crazy sexy kind of way that has me suddenly fanning myself.
Here I go again, playing devil’s advocate with my own mind. I’m starting to wonder if I should look into therapy or something.
I walk back over to my Fendi bag and p
ull out the phone number that’s scribbled on my outrageous list of baby daddy criteria.
I grin from ear to ear, giddy at the thought of this gorgeous, mysterious stranger.
I pick up my cell phone and punch his number in, then quickly delete it and forcefully place the phone back down on the counter.
Then I do what any other reasonable woman facing a dilemma would do. I toss my phone on top of my armoire―out of reach so that I can’t easily access it.
You know, just in case I decide to do something crazy like actually call the guy.
I’m frustrated with myself as I groan and pull over a chair to climb up and retrieve my phone off the top of the armoire.
God, I’m ridiculous. I’m acting totally insane right now.
It’s just a phone call. I know how to talk to people, right?
Well, I guess only time will tell―if he actually answers the phone.
Telling myself not to do it while simultaneously tapping the number out again on my phone, I bite my lip.
I hope he doesn’t answer.
I mean, I hope he does.
I don’t know what I want, to be honest. Maybe this could be a fantastic little experiment I can test out on myself to see how far I’ll go. I mean, what if it is a good idea?
It’s not like I have to marry the guy tomorrow, or at all, but it would be nice to have some male companionship for once in my life. And if we can have a little baby-making fun in the process? Even better.
All my best friends and family members are getting married and popping out kids faster than I can say the words ‘baby bump’.
I owe it to myself to have some fun and live a little, right? I can always be adamant that I’m not looking for him to bury his little swimmers into my uterus just yet.
I mean, I think we both deserve the opportunity to get to know each other slightly better first. Then we go from there. If anything, we can have a good time for a while.
I bite the bullet and hit the call button before I can give myself the chance to think anymore and hang up.
He answers on the second ring.
“Hello?”
Shit! I have to say something or else this will end with me having a meltdown where I sob in the tub over a glass—no, a bottle—of red wine.
I clear my throat. Okay, Rose, form words and spit them out. Now!
Holy shit, this is the longest any person has not talked, like, ever.
“Um, hi, Daniel,” I finally blurt out, chuckling nervously and praying that he hasn’t already hung up on me, thinking I’m a prank caller or something. “It’s Rose, you know, from the tea shop?”
“Hi, Rose from the tea shop,” he greets me back, his voice deliciously deep and teasing. I can feel him smiling.
Okay, so we’re off to a good start here. I don’t need to go hang myself from my shower rod just yet.
“I’m just calling to say…hi.”
What the hell am I talking about? God, I’m fucking cringing on the inside. Thank God this conversation isn’t taking place face to face.
“Hi back.” He chuckles into the phone, sending a delicious shiver through my already tightly wound body. He sounds just like a sexy, rich billionaire should.
“I um, was thinking about…you know…taking you up on your offer.” I wince and bite my nail.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and my heart collapses.
“That’s wonderful to hear,” Daniel finally says on the other end, and I can breathe once again.
“Really?” I laugh with relief.
“Yes, I’d love to see you again. Any excuse I can get.”
“You don’t even know me.” I giggle, toying with him as we banter back and forth.
“There’s always time for that,” he says casually.
“Yeah…I suppose you’re right,” I say and pace the floor of my apartment because I’m fucking stir-crazy now, and the adrenaline pumping through my veins is giving me enough of a turbo charge to turn into Wonder Woman at this point.
I’m thankful he still sounds approachable and enthusiastic.
“Do you think that we could, like, you know, get to know each other first before we decide on anything too, um, serious?” Like knocking me up?
I pray with every fiber of my being that he’ll agree to this suggestion.
“Sure,” he responds. “Absolutely. That sounds fair and reasonable to me.”
“Great,” I say and exhale a year’s worth of pent up sexual frustration and tension.
“So, when is the beautiful Rose Flower free?” Daniel asks.
Rose Flower? Well, that’s a new one…
I pretend to be glancing at an invisible, nonexistent calendar. The sooner the better, honestly, but I can’t exactly admit that to him.
“Let’s see here…” I trail off. “How about this weekend? Will that work for you?”
“It sure will,” he replies with another of those sexy as fuck chuckles. “What’s your address? I can have a car pick you up.”
“Really?” I don’t know why I should sound so surprised. He’s a ridiculously rich guy, after all.
I give him my address, and we say goodbye, the usual polite endings to a phone call where you tell someone you can’t wait to see them and blah, blah, blah.
When I hang up, my heart is racing with excitement. I can’t believe I just did that. I’m never this bold.
I’m seriously going on a date with a guy who could be a potential sperm donor? This is straight out of some movie where the heroine has some harebrained idea that ends in ridiculous shenanigans.
I mean, let’s be real, I’m probably not going to let some random stranger knock me up. But maybe I’ll have fun with Daniel. Maybe I’ll end up having at least some of my life goals fulfilled.
We’ll see.
Daniel
This has to be my eight-trillionth time to check my gold wrist-watch―a Rolex, of course, and a vintage one at that―and yes, I bought the present for myself after scoring a major―and I’m talking major―business deal with a marketing firm for my hotels.
I must be crazy for agreeing to this meeting―uh, I mean dinner―with the beautiful and charming Rose Makin. I was actually a bit surprised she called me. I mean, yeah, I’d hoped she would, but even I have to admit the circumstances were pretty outrageous.
Oh, what the hell. She’s cute, and I’m horny.
I’m not one to shy away from my primal instincts, and she’s a tasty dish I can’t wait to taste later on, if I’m successful in seducing her.
I’m not a jerk or a womanizer. Let me set the record straight. I just fucking love the female body: the curves, the softness, the fleshy pink places between a ripe woman’s legs…
Fuck.
Speaking of tantalizing curves, my date for the evening is walking, or should I say strutting, into the restaurant. She’s moving effortlessly, with deliciously swinging hips and voluptuous cleavage that leaves little to my wild and vivid imagination.
Fuck, I have to shift uncomfortably in my seat and picture my grandmother just so I can hide the massive throbbing hard-on that’s already bulging in my pants. The last thing I want to do is freak her out and send her running for the bustling Manhattan streets once she meets the creep with a boner poking out in plain sight.
Before she arrives at the table, let me just set the scene here.
We agreed to meet up at one of the exclusive restaurants in one of my finest, and most luxurious hotels in all of the tri-state area, possibly in the world.
I’ve arranged a private dinner. I’m talking white tablecloths with white candles flickering in the center, rose petals scattered romantically (and blissfully fragrantly, I might add) all over the table.
I have an order for the most expensive bottle of champagne to be sent to the table as soon Rose walks over here. I stand to greet her, pasting on one of my sexiest smiles, the one that does it every time. She finally reaches me, and I try to tame my wildly beating heart.
What the fu
ck is that about? I always, I mean I always keep my cool, and I always have the upper hand with women. But there’s something about Rose…
I swallow hard and take a deep breath. Fuck, she looks amazing―and I plan to tell her so, over and over again, until she’s putty in my hands. I mean, I’m still not totally sure about this whole baby thing, but at the very least, I’m going to enjoy this date with her.
She’s wearing a peach-colored tube dress that accentuates her fucking gorgeous cinnamon-colored eyes.
Her hair is long, wavy, and sandy blonde, flowing halfway down her back.
As I lean in to give her a hug, I notice her hair smells like coconuts―but not before I intentionally press my chest against her overflowingly ample tits first.
Yeah, yeah, I know. But I can’t fucking help it.
“Thank you for joining me tonight,” I grin as I pull her chair out for her with a flourish.
“Wow, aren’t you the proper gentleman?” She laughs lightly, and I hope that gesture’s a score of brownie points in my favor.
Her voice is like honey dripping all over me on a tropical oasis in the middle of the Caribbean.
I’m not in love, but I’m sure as fuck climbing the Mount Everest of lust.
I grin at her as I hold my tie to my chest while taking a seat across from her.
She takes her napkin from the table and places it delicately in her lap, raising her eyebrows, her eyes shining with a hint of naughtiness.
Perfect.
“Rose, I think you’re in for a treat you’d never expect to get from here. This is one of my favorite restaurants.”
“Oh?” She raises her eyebrow in mischief. “Well, please, sir, enlighten me. I just love juicy dishes.”
The irony of this situation is that I’m captivated by the two juicy dishes on her chest that are practically fucking spilling out of her dress.
The secret I want to disclose to her is the fact that I want to rest my head on her pillow-like tits, but instead, I flash my perfect white teeth and lay on the charm nice and thick.
4 Men Of The House with correct Also By page Page 58