The Match - A Baby Daddy Donor Romance

by Winter Renshaw

  Half-distracted, I place the Air Pods and charger in a bag with the man’s receipt. He leaves before I can wish him a lovely afternoon.

  From my periphery, I experience their exchange with voyeuristic curiosity. Adriana, forever oblivious, leads him to a display case of phones, plucking the most expensive model from its resting place and handing it off for August to inspect.

  “I’ll take it in black,” he says, his voice carrying across the store. They discuss storage for a second before Adriana disappears into the stock room.

  Our gazes catch again, and he won’t let mine go. I’m not sure whether or not to care that he saw me naked less than twelve hours ago. I’m sure he’s seen a million naked girls before. At some point, they all probably blend together.

  I pull myself out of my own head and wave over the next customer in line. “Ma’am, I can help you over here, if you’re ready.”

  Heat creeps up the back of my neck. I don’t have to glance over to know he’s staring at me with that piercing cold glare.

  I ring up a purple car charger for a middle-aged woman in leopard-print Lululemons and a melting Starbucks iced latte in her hand. When we’re finished, Adriana makes her way to my register, August in tow.

  “Can you start his ticket, Sher? I just have to activate this. I’ll be right back.” Adriana brushes her hand against his arm. “You’re in good hands. I’ll just be a sec.”

  The silence is profound. Awkward. Intense. It’s everything heavy, all at once, anchoring me to the floor and shortening my breath.

  No one has ever done this to me before …

  I scan the empty box of his new phone and straighten my shoulders. “Can I have your number, please? To pull up your account?”

  He shifts, jaw set as if he’s attempting to stifle what he truly wants to say.

  “Okay, I think we’re good now.” Adriana emerges after an endless moment and hands August his new phone. “Should just take a minute to load.”

  “Your number?” I ask again, fingers hovering over the keypad with the slightest tremble.

  He hasn’t taken his attention off of me for one second.

  “Your brother is Gannon, right?” Adriana asks after he finally tells me his digits.

  August arches a brow. “Maybe.”

  “He went to school with my cousin. I think they used to hang out back in the day,” she says. To some people around here, running around with a Monreaux gives you bragging rights. “They got busted at a party out at the gravel pit off Highway 50.”

  “That doesn’t sound anything like my brother,” he says, monotone.

  “Well maybe not now.” Adriana’s overfilled lips curl. “But back in the day, I hear he was quite the wild child.”

  August sniffs, gaze still trained on me. “Depends on your definition of wild.”

  “What’s he up to these days, anyway?” Adriana continues, oblivious to the fact that he isn’t interested in shooting the breeze about his older brother. “I see him riding around town in that electric sports car of his. The matte black one with the gunmetal-gray wheels.”

  I know the one. I’ve seen it dozens of times. But the windows have always been too dark to see who was seated behind the steering wheel.

  Now I know.

  “It’s a piece of shit,” he says, emotionless. “Pretty to look at. Nothing under the hood worth writing home about.”

  Damn. Bad blood?

  I’d always heard Monreaux were thick as thieves, but I’d never considered they’d have an ounce of inner turmoil. Perhaps they’re competitive with one another? Most brothers are.

  Adriana and I exchange looks, and she gives an awkward chuckle. “Um, okay. So … your total today is thirteen hundred dollars and fifty-two cents.”

  He slides a black card across the counter, equidistant between Adriana and me. We both reach at the same time, hands colliding.

  “Sorry, go ahead,” I say to her. If ever there was a time to pray for a customer rush, it’s now. But the store is dead. It’s just the three of us now. The assistant manager is hiding in the back somewhere, as per usual.

  She swipes the card, tapping her fingers to the beat of the pop song playing from ceiling speakers while we wait. “I heard your brother used to throw the most bomb parties at your house. My cousin has, like, the craziest stories.” The register spits out a receipt and Adriana hands him a pen. “I think he said this one time, you brother—”

  “—my brother’s parties sucked,” he says. “All those rumors you’ve heard, he probably started those himself. No one fucking likes Gannon.”

  Adriana bites her lip. “Damn. Okay.”

  “Speaking of parties, I’m having one this weekend. Friday.” He signs his receipt, his silvery gaze flicking to mine. “You two should stop by.”

  My heart slams to my feet.

  I’m not sure what his end game is here, but I have no desire to be part of it. Last night was a mistake. The kind of thing you do when you’re young and dumb and delirious from a mild case of heat stroke.

  My “no thanks” intersects with Adriana’s “oh-my-god-yes.”

  She elbows me.

  “I’m sorry,” August says, turning to me. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

  “I can’t. But thank you,” I say.

  His head cocks, eyes narrowing into an incredulous squint. “You can’t? Or you don’t want to?”

  “Sher, come on. It’ll be fun,” Adriana says. “Just tell your parents you’re staying at my place.”

  August studies me.

  “Seriously, it’s not a big deal. And you don’t even have to drink or anything … I’ve always wanted to see the Monreaux mansion … could be pretty epic …” Adriana continues to try to sell me on something I refuse to buy. If working with her the past six months has taught me anything, it’s that she’s relentless when it comes to getting what she wants. It’s why she’s our top salesperson. She could convince the most discerning soul that the sky is glittering olive green, and they wouldn’t bat a lash when she’s done. “It would be a dream come true for me.”

  August smirks.

  I’m glad he finds this entertaining.

  “I will literally die if you don’t go, Sher,” Adriana continues. Half joking. Half not.

  “You don’t want that on your conscience, do you … Sher?” August interjects. My name on his tongue is velvet smooth, sending shivers down my arm.

  Ripping a piece of paper from a nearby notepad, August scribbles five numbers. “Party starts at nine. Here’s the gate code for the night.”

  “Awesome.” Adriana folds the note and places it in her back pocket like it’s the most precious thing in the world. “We’ll definitely see you then …”

  August gives me a lingering glance before showing himself out, and the moment he’s gone, I exhale the longest, hardest breath.

  “Okay, what’s up with you?” Adriana asks when we’re alone. “Why are you acting so weird?”

  “I was up late last night.” I grab a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels and wipe the already flawless display case behind us. “Just … tired.”

  “Too tired to realize we just got invited to the freaking Monreaux mansion?” If her brows were any higher they’d be in her hairline. “Do you realize how huge that is? And how epic that night will be? I mean, I’ve only heard stories, but, like … all-you-can-drink-booze, weed, hot guys, good music, a pool … it’s the perfect summer party.”

  I toss a used paper towel in the trash. “Yeah, but that’s not really my thing.”

  “Which is exactly why you should go.”

  “Feel free to go without me. Seriously. Go and have a good time. You can tell me all about it at work next weekend.”

  Lifting a hand to her hip, she exhales. “Okay, fine. I know it’s not your scene, but will you at least go for me? This is literally a once-in-a-lifetime invite, and I want to have the time of my life. I want to get stupid wasted. And if I don’t know anyone … I need a safety buddy. Or s
omething.”

  “A safety buddy?” I laugh.

  “Someone to make sure no one slips me a roofie or whatever. Just follow me around like a shadow and make sure I don’t do anything I’m going to regret the next day.”

  “No offense, but that sounds like a terrible time to me.”

  “Okay, then just go with me, and we’ll grab a couple drinks, sit by the pool, and stare at all the hot people doing stupid shit.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Just to be able to say we’ve been there, even if it’s for an hour, would be amazing. It’s literally on my bucket list.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “It is now.”

  I chuckle, shaking my head and returning the Windex to the cabinet beneath the register. “Can I think about it?”

  “No because I know you, and this is your way of buying time and hoping I drop it or forget about it or let it go,” she speaks so fast I can hardly keep up. “But that’s not going to happen.”

  “What about your friend … what’s her name? Molly? Can she go with you?”

  “Molly’s in Indiana this week visiting her grandma or some shit like that. And before you bring up anyone else, Christa’s working Friday night, Harper’s going to be with her boyfriend like she is every second of every freaking day, and Lydia and I are no longer on speaking terms as of last Thursday. Sorry, chica, but you’re my only option.”

  “Adriana.” I tuck my chin. “Please don’t put this on me.”

  She clasps her hands. “I will get on my knees and beg if that’s what it takes. I’ll take any weekend shift you want. I’ll pay you. I will give you my next paycheck in full.”

  “I don’t want your money. And I need my shifts.”

  “Then what’s the issue? Are you worried about what you’re going to wear? Just come to my place and we’ll get ready together. We can walk there, and I’ll have my sister pick us up when she gets off work.”

  “Your sister who bartends?”

  “Yeah.”

  I lift a brow. “Doesn’t she work until three AM?”

  “Fine. I’ll see if my cousin can come get us. And if she can’t, I’ll get us an Uber. Is that better? Then we can leave any time you want.”

  “Adriana …”

  She places her hands on my arms and gives them a gentle squeeze. “Please, Sher. Please. One hour of your life, that’s all I ask for. I’ll never ask you for anything else so long as I live. Promise.”

  The front door swings open, bells jingling, and a boisterous family of four barges in, ending our conversation.

  “Please?” she mouths to me as she walks toward the customers.

  She won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. At the end of the day, I’m fighting a battle I won’t win. As soon as we close up shop today, she’ll start blowing up my phone. She’s a little bit psychotic at times, but I also kind of love her. In the short time we’ve worked together, she’s become one of my closest friends.

  Maybe one hour wouldn’t kill me …

  Lord knows she’d do anything for me.

  I leave for college in six weeks. I’ve spent the last eighteen years trapped in the rusted cage my parents built for me the second I came into this world. If last night taught me anything, it’s that freedom has a strange kick to it. Kind of like stepping into a foreign land for the first time. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at the same time.

  My stomach furls at the thought of lying to my parents, but they can’t keep me trapped inside their protective bubble forever.

  Besides, I’m a responsible adult.

  I can handle myself at a party.

  Sucking in a long breath, I hold it. And then I let it go before settling on my decision. As soon as Adriana’s finished, I’ll share the good news … if one can call it that.

  It’s one hour of one night of my life—what could possibly go wrong?

  AVAILABLE NOW!

  Also available and FREE in Kindle Unlimited: THE BEST OF WINTER RENSHAW, an 8-book collection!

  About the Author

  Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s living the American Dream with her husband, three kids, the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi, and a busy pug pup that officially owes her three pairs of shoes, one lamp cord, and an office chair.

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  Winter also writes psychological suspense under the pseudonym of Minka Kent. Her debut novel, THE MEMORY WATCHER, was optioned by NBC Universal in January 2018 and her book, THE THINNEST AIR, was a #1 Amazon Kindle bestseller and a Washington Post best seller five weeks in a row.

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  Winter is represented by Jill Marsal of Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.

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