The Baby Clause: A Christmas Romance

by Tara Wylde

  And that’s it—one breathy whisper, and I’m catapulting over the top, barely holding back a harsh shout. I’m positive she can hear me anyway: I’m panting like a dog, choking on strangled groans.

  A quiet few moments tick by. The silence is just starting to get uncomfortable when she breaks it, bless her. “So... What’s the usual post-phone-sex etiquette? I mean, do you hang up, or... Or is phone pillow talk a thing?”

  Even my laugh comes out shaky. “Still catching my breath.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t just hang up, though. That would’ve been—I don’t know. Too...buck-ninety-nine a minute, cum and go?”

  “Oh? You don’t like cheap and dirty?”

  I have to think about that for a moment. “Only during. Not after. I like...something rough and hard and spontaneous, but then...cuddling? Maybe give you a bath, brush your hair...take care of you somehow.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” I can hear her doing something on the other end of the line, rustling around. “I’d probably fall asleep if you started brushing my hair, though. Not that I’d mind drifting off in your arms, but it might be a bit boring for you.”

  On the contrary. “Actually, I love the idea of you trusting me enough to doze off like that.”

  “Maybe I’m just tired....” I hear the tapping of a spoon on the other end, running water, the sound of a switch clicking on. Coffee—she’s making coffee.

  “I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?”

  “No.” I hear a soft flump, like she’s plopped down on the couch or her bed. “I’ve got...kind of a DIY project I’m working on, but I’m not exactly in a rush to get back outside.”

  “What kind of project?” Maybe I can help: I’m pretty good with repairs.

  She laughs. “It’s silly...found my old bike in the back of my mama’s garage. I’m restoring it to its former glory. Or close enough.” I hear the faint bubbling of a kettle in the background. Maybe it’s tea she’s making. Tea, or—horror of horrors—instant coffee. “I’m mostly done. Just need to fix the brakes. It’s got those backpedal ones. Hate those.”

  “What kind of bike is it?”

  “Your basic Schwinn three-speed, cherry red. Took me forever to find the exact shade of paint.”

  Sounds like a kid’s bike. Wonder if she’s fixing it up for a little boy or girl—that would explain why she doesn’t stay out late. I could ask her, but... Probably best to let her tell me in her own time. I’ve pushed enough these last few days. “Always wanted one of those,” I say, instead.

  “Don’t tell me you never had a bike, growing up?”

  “Never had one till college.”

  “Feels like I spent my entire childhood on mine.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Didn’t even care it was a boy’s bike—it was my cousin Yuri’s, before mine.”

  “I had a skateboard for a while. But I—“ I don’t want to tell her how I saved for it for months, pocketing my lunch money, picking up change off the street, only to lose it somewhere between foster homes. “But I... Y’know, I’m not sure what happened to that.” It’s not exactly a lie.

  We debate the relative merits of boards and bikes for a while. Just when rollerskates edge their way into the conversation, I hear her kettle start to whistle. Moments later, there’s the trickle of water being poured.

  “So, I have to know—coffee or tea?”

  “What?”

  “I heard your kettle. So, you a coffee person or a tea person?”

  She chuckles. “Both. But right now it’s coffee. Thin, bitter Folger’s instant.”

  “Sacrilege.”

  “I know. But I can’t go to sleep.” Lina stirs her coffee. I can hear the spoon clinking on her mug. “Got the bike to deal with, and then I’ve got ironing piled to the ceiling. Sort of been putting it off.”

  “And here I am wasting your time, pulling mine off.”

  A snort, from her end. “Oh, I wouldn’t call that time ill-spent. You were very...stern.”

  “You liked that?”

  “You have to ask?”

  Guess I don’t.

  I hear a distant ding: my private elevator. Got to be Katie. My face goes hot—I’m smack bang in the middle of the living room couch, fly wide open, probably smelling of sex. Not appropriate. “So, I... I’d better let you get to that coffee while it’s hot.” I’m still doing up my pants, peering into the kitchen cabinet—where the fuck’s the Febreze?

  “Yeah. If I don’t get going soon, I’m never going to get through all this. Thanks for the... Thanks for tonight, though.” Her voice drops almost to a whisper—I can practically see the bashful way she dips her head. “I enjoyed it.”

  I finally locate the Febreze, hiding behind a stack of Swiffer pads. We say our goodbyes while I spray the kitchen and living room. I don’t stop till the place looks like a misty morning and smells like a car freshener.

  Turns out I needn’t have bothered. Katie shows up with a bag of Thai food, fragrant enough to obscure anything less savory. “Knew you’d forget to eat,” she says, thrusting it into my arms. I think about protesting that I had a sandwich from the deli, but that was hours ago, and I can’t deny I’m starving.

  I need to get someone in to cook, or learn to do it myself. Teaching my kid to live on takeout seems like a failure in parenting.

  If I did walk away from the firm, I’d have more time for that sort of thing.

  Something to think about....

  146

  Elina

  Nick’s got his music organized by mood—and very specifically, at that. Got to laugh at some of his playlist titles: thrash metal for getting out of bed; creepy dungeon shit; warm-blanket nostalgia; goddammit tension; fuck it all. It’s kind of jarring when Whiskey in the Jar blares on right after Memories of You, on the nostalgia list, but it makes a weird kind of sense. They are basically two different takes on regret.

  I went in planning to listen according to how my day happened to be going, but it soon became clear I’d be yo-yoing between goddammit tension and need to sleep forever, if I did that. So I’m listening to how I wish I was feeling, which right now would be....

  I scroll through the menu.

  Which right now would be...anticipation. I can’t help but smile as Buddy Holly comes on, singing Everyday. A little on the nose, but... Can’t say it doesn’t fit.

  In truth, I’m a little nervous. Nick told me to meet him here, but... If the hostess hadn’t directed me straight to a table, when I said I was meeting Nick Carter, I’d have sworn I had the wrong address. This place is to McDonald’s as the Hope Diamond is to a rhinestone. Hope he subscribes to the “whoever asks, pays” rule, because I don’t think I can afford a breadstick in this place, let alone an entire dinner.

  I must stick out like a sore thumb. A quick survey of the dining room tells me no one’s looking my way, but I still feel ridiculously underdressed in my cable knit sweater and plain black skirt. If I’d known we were coming to a place like this, I’d at least have dug out that one Nicole Miller I hung onto from my previous life.

  I sip at my water. Dancing Queen fades in over Everyday. I can’t help but smile. I would so not have pegged him for an ABBA fan. But it’s setting the right mood. I feel a swell of excitement starting to overtake my nerves. Nick’s a good guy. Joe might’ve brought me to a place like this to humiliate me, to make me feel dowdy, out of my element—but Nick doesn’t seem the type. Maybe he doesn’t even know it’s this fancy. All his text said was that he’d been wanting to try it for a while.

  It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking when he walks in: he’s dressed pretty much the same as always—shirt and tie, jacket, all slightly rumpled. He spots me, and his face lights up. I feel my anxiety draining away.

  Moments later, he’s plopping down across from me. “Sorry I’m late. Lost a cufflink.” He holds up his arm. One of his cuffs is, indeed, hanging open.

  “You’re a disaster.”

  “Oh? I think I’m p
retty adorable. Y’know, in a bad-boy kind of way.”

  “More like an absent-minded boy.” I tug his sleeve down over his cuff. “Where’d you lose it, anyway?”

  “In my back seat. Thought I had a spare pair of shoes back there, but...maybe not.”

  I’ve seen the state of his back seat. He’s never getting that cufflink back. Still, I definitely feel better about my own downmarket outfit.

  He leans in conspiratorially when the menus come out. “I’d never be so gauche as to order for you, but might I make a recommendation?”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t start with a salad. I have it on good authority the salads are the most boring thing here.”

  It’s too cold for salad, anyway. I’ve been craving soup since I sat down. But the only soup on the menu’s some kind of pheasant and thyme concoction for twenty-three dollars a cup. The only cheaper option’s the eighteen-buck house salad. I peek over the top of my menu, and catch Nick fixing me with an unexpectedly intense stare.

  He shifts in his seat. “Listen, I didn’t just bring you here to eat. That is, we are going to eat, but first, I was hoping to boot another elephant out of the room.”

  Shit. What now? Maybe he knows about Joey, somehow. So help me, if he’s referring to my son as an elephant in the room, he’s getting such a kick under the table. “And what elephant would that be?”

  “Money.”

  Oh. That elephant. “I’m sure you’re aware I don’t have any.”

  “And I’m sure you’re just as aware I do.”

  I open my mouth to say something. He holds up his hand: not yet.

  “Truth is, I’ve amassed enough wealth that I’ll never have to think about it again. Money hasn’t meant much to me since I realized there was nothing left that I needed. But I’m not arrogant or oblivious enough to think it doesn’t mean anything to anyone else, doesn’t make things awkward.” He takes a deep breath. “And if you’re uncomfortable with this kind of place, we don’t have to do it again. I mean that. We can make every date a day-at-the-park followed by fast food sort of affair. I’d be content with that. But....” He smiles—somewhat hesitantly, to my eye. “There were a few things I was hoping we could do together. Things that are better with company.”

  I can’t help but be intrigued. The whole “help me spend my money; you’ll be doing me a favor” line is eyeroll-worthy, but I don’t think that’s where he’s going. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, next week—I know your carriage usually turns back to a pumpkin around seven o’clock, but if you could stay out late one night....” He slides a printout across the table. It’s a Metropolitan Opera schedule. I feel my heart leap. It’s been forever since I’ve seen a live performance, and never at the Met.

  “Given you’ve spent the better part of a week with my iPod, you know I’d have a hard time saying no to this.”

  “So say yes. They’re doing Les Troyens on Monday. I hear good things.”

  I bite back a laugh. “That one runs about five hours. Not sure my carriage can stay un-pumpkined that late.” Even if I could get Maria to stay into the wee hours, I’ve got a morning shift Tuesday. I scan the performance dates. “How about Wednesday, Lucia di Lammermoor?”

  “Can I make a confession?”

  “Go for it.”

  “Pick whichever one you like—I wouldn’t know the difference. This’ll be my first time.”

  “Seriously? I thought all you rich guys had subscriptions—isn’t it part of the lifestyle?”

  He looks mildly embarrassed at that. “Well, uh... You’re not wrong—a lot of people do; a lot of them go to be seen. But that’s sort of...exactly why I’ve never been.”

  “How so?”

  “I have this vision of running into someone I know, and they’d look at me like ‘aw, how quaint—look who’s here!’ And they’d ask what I thought, only they wouldn’t really be asking my opinion. They’d be laying some kind of trap, like... Like ‘Wasn’t so-and-so’s performance divine?’—only they’d be talking about the worst singer, like...the Nicholas Cage of opera singers... And it’d be more grist for the ‘Nick Carter’s such a bumpkin’ mill.”

  I can’t keep from laughing at that. “The Nicholas Cage of opera singers?” I press my lips together, and somehow get my giggles under control. “Sorry—I’m not laughing at you.”

  He shakes his head. “In case it’s not painfully obvious, I wasn’t exactly born into the whole...opera and Hamptons and champagne brunch world. There’s a few things I’ve wanted to try, but it’d be more fun with someone who won’t disavow me if I don’t know which fork goes with which course, or...or how to address the Duke of Cumberland.”

  “There is no Duke of Cumberland, so you’re safe with him. And on the cutlery front, you work from the outside in.” I wink. “Griboyedov Café’s my stepfather’s restaurant. Anything you need to know about table settings, I’ve got you.”

  “So the guy who yelled at me on the phone that time—that was your stepdad?”

  “Yep. Probably.” I think about it for a moment. “Definitely. He’d have thought you were Joe. He was calling back-to-back enough to block out legit reservations, for a while.”

  “Shit.”

  I’m spared the awkwardness of that can of worms bursting back open by the arrival of the waiter. I go for the soup; Nick gets some kind of squash-and-truffle ravioli.

  Fortunately, Nick doesn’t seem interested in bringing my past to the table. “So,” he says, “you wouldn’t mind me treating you to something slightly extravagant once in a while?”

  “As long as it’s something for both our entertainment, not....” I bite my lip. There’s no polite way to talk about money. “Just don’t...don’t....” And now, I’m completely tongue-tied. There’s no way to say don’t make me feel indebted without sounding like I think he wants to buy me.

  “Not without asking?”

  I nod.

  “So, that’d be a no to a dress for the opera...?”

  That gets me laughing again. “Actually, I’ve already got one.” I let my foot barely brush his under the table. “One I can’t wait for you to see me in.”

  His answering shiver is quite, quite gratifying. “Describe it.”

  I drop my voice to the low half-whisper he seemed to enjoy so much on the phone. “Black and gold. Floor-length. Clingy. Tiny stars cascading from bodice to hem, sparkling when I move.”

  “Think I’ll be able to restrain myself long enough to sit through the opera?”

  I make a show of looking him up and down. He’s slightly flushed, and that intent, predatory look’s back in his eye, the same one that had me dropping my pants the first night we met. Instead of answering him directly, I let a slow smile spread over my lips. “You know, I forgot to mention, it’s so form-fitting I can’t wear a thing underneath.”

  “Oh, who’s cruel now?”

  I lean back in my chair and tip him a wink. The waiter’s heading our way—I should let him compose himself. But teasing’s far more fun. I turn my head to the side and trail my fingertips down the line of my throat, to a point just below my collarbone. Nick’s sharp intake of breath sends a thrill singing through me.

  “I’m so going to—“

  And...perfect timing. The waiter sets Nick’s plate down with a gentle ahem. Nick turns red as a brick. I flash my most innocent smile.

  The instant the waiter clears off, Nick leans forward. “If it weren’t so crowded, I’d take you to the ladies’ room and spank you over the sink.”

  Something compels me to egg him on. I stir my soup, affecting indifference. “Would you, now?”

  “I’d hold your head up with my free hand, so you’d have to look my reflection in the eye, the whole time.”

  It’s my turn to shiver. Can’t quite hide the way my spoon rattles on the porcelain. “The whole time.... And how long—how many spanks would that be?”

  “Ten. And you’d count them out loud.” His eyes narrow. “And we’d wal
k out together, with my hand on your ass. You’d have to eat the rest of your dinner knowing everyone was looking this way, speculating on what we just did.”

  “I’d want to be much better dressed for that.”

  “You’d be worse dressed.” His grin turns wolfish. “And less dressed. I’d rip your skirt, and put your panties in my pocket.”

  “And then you’d forget you had them, and whoever does your laundry would sit in silent judgment. And your butler would hand them to you, all fluffed and folded, like—” I stick my nose in the air, and assume a nasal British accent. “’—Your knickers, sir.’”

  He chuckles. “I don’t have a butler, but... Yeah. You’ve got me there.”

  The conversation drifts to other things after that, but he keeps looking at me, in a way that’s very distracting. I barely notice what I’m eating—even the thoroughly decadent chocolate dessert hardly registers. Especially when he squeezes my hand tenderly and tells me my behavior hasn’t been excused: my punishment’s only delayed. Does he really mean to spank me? Surely not in a public place. That would be....

  I flash back to the way he pinned me against the door, that night at the hotel. For a moment, I was sure he’d tear my clothes off right there. He seemed almost intoxicated, drunk on the risk of getting caught. I hadn’t thought about it before, but I think... I think I might’ve let him, if he’d tried something in the hallway. I wouldn’t have let it go too far, but a bit of hanky-panky.... Maybe?

  When we kiss goodnight, he gives me a warning bite, just hard enough to startle. Maybe it’s only my imagination, but I feel it all the way home, a delicate throb in my lower lip.

  Of course, some shocks are more pleasant than others. I’d take a nipping kiss any day over the scene that greets me at home. I can hear Joey wailing and drumming his feet all the way from the stairwell. When I walk in, he’s in full-on throwdown mode, bright red and snotty, shrieking his little heart out. I scoop him up quick: the downstairs neighbors will be banging their broom on the ceiling any second.

  “What happened?”

  Maria’s hovering helplessly. “I don’t know, Lina! He asked if he could get some milk. I said yeah, and two seconds later, he starts screaming!”