by Mary Campisi
“Sure. You live right next to C.C.’s old place.”
When they’d been working on getting C.C. and Ian together back in the day, she’d plopped herself at his place, spread out on his couch. He’d never been to her condo, not that there would have been a reason for her to invite him over at that time, but now there was... “Okay then.”
“Okay then.” He smiled. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Don’t you need the address?” If he planned to follow her, she’d have to watch her speed so he could keep up and so he didn’t comment about her inability to follow rules. But his next words said he didn’t need her help or the address.
“No thanks. I already know it. See you there.”
And then he nodded and headed toward his fancy car, leaving her with a whole lot of questions and zero answers. The man was a mystery and a curious puzzle, but no worries. Roxie loved mysteries and puzzles and had never come across one she couldn’t solve. Of course, this puzzle was a living, breathing mathematical equation with numerous variables she couldn’t identify or quantify. It was those darn variables that posed a particular challenge. If she could just relax and get him to relax, maybe the answers would slip out and the jitters she felt whenever he was near would settle down.
Or not.
Eighteen minutes later, Roxie arrived at her condo with Rhyder close behind. She tried to maintain the speed limit, but it was difficult, especially when he seemed more than willing and definitely able to keep up with her.
“You’re a crazy driver,” he said, stepping out of his BMW and making his way toward her. “Anybody ever tell you that?”
She laughed. “All the time. It’s called city driving.”
He sighed. “It’s called need to slow down.”
Roxie shot him a look, caught him watching her. “I noticed you didn’t have a hard time keeping up with me.”
He laughed. “I wasn’t even warmed up.” Another laugh. “Just remember that when you think you’re going to leave me in the dust.”
It was her turn to laugh. “I will, but it works both ways.” She fitted the key into the lock, opened the door, and stepped inside. They were both hinting at a lot more than driver performance. Was he teasing her? Rhyder Remington, the man she’d once believed incapable of making a joke? Another bit of humanity poked out from his armor. Roxie flipped on lights as she made her way to the kitchen with Rhyder close behind.
“Well, well, who would have thought?”
“What?”
She caught him checking out the kitchen: the red-and-white-striped walls, shiny black appliances, the small table and two chairs with striped seat cushions...the spice rack on the counter, a juicer, and a coffee pot. No dishes in the sink. No drainboard overflowing with pots and pans. He moved toward the spice rack, leaned close, smiled. “They’re organized in alphabetical order.”
Roxie let out a tiny huff. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to invite the man to her place. There was too much for him to see here, too much of her. “And? How should I have organized them? According to their origin?”
He rubbed his jaw, straightened and turned to her. “No, not at all. In fact, this is exactly how I’ve organized mine.”
Oh. Well. The intensity of that gaze unsettled her, made her open her mouth and spit out the first thing that landed in her brain. “I guess that means tomorrow we pick out the china pattern.” She meant it as a joke, thought he’d find humor in how unlikely a match they were, but he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. Just continued to stare at her.
“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be.”
That stare burned into her as if he could see way too much. She thought of trying another joke, but it lodged in her throat and the truth slipped past it. “Neither are you.” Why had her voice turned all soft and breathy like she couldn’t get enough oxygen in her lungs or her brain? Stop, right now. Get yourself together and toss out another joke or a sarcasm. You’ve got a closet full of them. But she couldn’t think of a single one, not with those dark eyes on her and an expression that sure looked like desire. How would it be to be wanted by Rhyder Remington? Heat scorched her senses, torched the logic she’d received critical recognition for in magazines, newspapers, even radio.
He reached out, adjusted the collar of her shirt, his fingers brushing her neck, lingering on her shoulders...
Roxie leaned forward...placed her hands on his chest...waited...eyes fluttering shut...
Rhyder cleared his throat and her eyes popped open seconds before he stepped back well out of reach and mumbled something about late nights, sleep deprivation, and caffeinated beverages, and then he was gone.
Chapter 8
Roxie had been avoiding him for two days, ever since the night he visited her condo and spotted that damn alphabetized spice rack and realized they were more alike than he cared to think about. Of course, he wanted to kiss her, wanted to do a lot more than that, which was why he’d rushed out of there. He wasn’t going to stop with a kiss and he knew it, even if she didn’t. She could say it didn’t matter because it was all part of the plan. Well, maybe it was part of her plan, but being out of control and unable to anticipate his next move was not part of his plan. Especially where a woman was involved.
She’d talked about spreadsheets and rules regarding the agreement, also referred to as the arrangement, but he still hadn’t seen a thing. How did she think this was going to work? Were they just going to talk about it for another five months? Maybe at some point she’d decide he wasn’t the right one and would pick another man to father her child. Someone more agreeable, like Anson Welliver. Not likely. He’d gotten used to the idea of having a child with her, even warmed to the co-parenting concept. How difficult could that really be? They could move on with their lives, sit together at recitals, ball games, swim meets, and whatnot. Whatever parents did, he wanted to be a part of it, wanted to give his child everything he had missed and had only imagined possible.
It was a chance to do something that was much bigger than a home or a bank account, and he was going to experience this with Roxie. If he could get her to return his phone calls. The more he was around her, the more she intrigued him. And the almost kiss the other night? That wasn’t about a baby or an agreement or the fact that it had been a while since he’d been with a woman. No, it was about that woman. Roxie, the one who’d taken up residence in his brain, the one who’d offered him the very best of both worlds—a child without the burden of a marriage or a wife—who wouldn’t want that?
Of course, Ian had once believed that was exactly what he wanted. Until he got together with C.C. Then it all changed. Rhyder maintained that if the man had only stuck to the pregnancy spreadsheet he’d created for his best friend, Ian would have been able to leave the emotion out of the equation. Except now he’d begun to think maybe he’d been wrong and that bothered him. Could he have miscalculated what happened between a man and a woman if circumstances aligned and opportunities presented themselves? Had he miscalculated the possibility that there were certain people who were not immune to one another? When that man or woman entered their world, life changed, beliefs shifted like tectonic plates or seismic waves?
And what a person believed to be true and accurate information was no longer reliable? Of course, that was not going to happen with him and Roxie, not even if they organized their spice racks the same way, not even if he found himself thinking about her too many times during the day, not even if he imagined her in his bed…in his life…in his heart.
No, definitely not.
It was time for a discussion about whether or not they were going to continue past the talking stage of the child. If they were, then they were going to formulate a plan and work the plan, including the revelation of her sex-chart spreadsheet. That he wanted to see.
Rhyder called and when she didn’t pick up, he left a message. We need to talk. If you still want me to be part of this agreement, call me back within the hour. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’
ll assume you’ve made other plans. Fifty-two minutes later his phone rang and while he’d expected a litany of excuses as to why she hadn’t returned his other phone calls, she offered none.
“I’m still interested.”
Something he would later recognize as relief inched through him as he eased back in his chair and said, “Come to my place tonight, seven o’clock, and bring the spreadsheet.”
Pause, a clearing of throat followed by “I’ll see you then.” Click.
He’d like to pretend he didn’t think about their meeting tonight but that would be a grand fabrication and he wasn’t known for those. He’d thought of nothing but the meeting, wondering what she’d say, how she’d say it, if she’d throw in a jab or two, or worse, ask him what had almost happened the other night. Right, what would he say about that?
Roxie arrived twenty minutes late, which was what she called “in the window” of punctuality. Not even close, but they had bigger issues to discuss and he didn’t want the distractions of a debate on what tardiness said about a person. Of course, they would not agree.
“So, you wanted to talk?” She stood in the middle of his living room, hands on hips, and eyed him. “Well, so do I.”
Interesting. The woman had been avoiding him for two days and now she wanted to talk? What tactic was she employing? And why? Rhyder sank into his recliner, nodded. “You go first.”
“I don’t like the way you’ve been playing me.”
Had she actually stomped her foot? “Playing you? I’m not the one who’s been playing.” He rubbed his jaw, held her gaze. “You, however...”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Another stomp, a huff, a snarl. “The other night you asked if I wanted to get a drink and I was fool enough to invite you to my place.” Pause, another snarl. “For tea. But then you proceeded to investigate my kitchen, including my alphabetized spice rack, which, by the way, makes perfect sense to me and apparently you as well. And then...you left.”
Well, she’d just excluded the most important part of the night, such as the touch, the almost kiss, the desire on her face. “Is that what you remember? Because I remember a whole different scenario and I’m wondering if there was another woman in the kitchen that night instead of you.”
Those tiny nostrils flared and she spat out, “It was me and I remember every second. What did and didn’t happen and what almost happened.”
So, she’d known what was going to happen and was okay with it? Rhyder dragged a hand through his hair, rubbed his temple. “You knew where that was heading, right?”
A frown. More foot tapping. “Of course, I knew where it was heading. We were going to have tea, a conversation, review the spreadsheet… “
“Roxie.” His voice dipped. “We were going to have sex.”
She looked away. “Says you.”
Oh, Roxie. “Yes, says me.”
She shot him a look, those green eyes burning him. “It takes two, Rhyder. It wasn’t going to happen unless I wanted it to happen. And I invited you over for tea and—”
“I know what your intentions were, but I also know that when I touched you and you looked up at me, put your hands on my chest…if I didn’t get out of there fast, I wasn’t leaving until morning.” She bit her bottom lip, eyes bright. “Roxie?”
Her voice trembled. “And? If that had happened, isn’t that our goal? For me to get pregnant?”
It was his turn to try and determine the meaning behind her words. Had she wanted him to stay? Had she been thinking about a baby because he hadn’t been and that was a problem. Sleeping with Roxie right then had nothing to do with procreation and everything to do with pleasure and filling a need that had been building for a long while now. “Yes, that’s the goal, but it appears my brain forgot that part.” He forced a smile, tried not to think about sliding those neon-green tights over her slim hips, easing off her T-shirt...
“Rhyder! Pay attention.”
“What?” He snuffed out visions of tights and T-shirts and skin...lots of skin. “Pardon my momentary lapse as a man with a singular mission.” His smile this time wasn’t forced, but real. Honest. “You’ve distracted me.” And that was all he planned to say on that subject. “Now where’s this spreadsheet you’ve been telling me about?”
Roxie stared at him, dark brows pinched together. “I...distracted you?”
That seemed to surprise her. Well, it surprised him, too. He shrugged. “It happens, even to cold-blooded amphibians like me,” he said, referencing the term she’d used for him more than once.
Her cheeks turned pink. “You weren’t supposed to hear about that. Does Ian tell you everything?”
Rhyder laughed. “I should hope not. He does tend to let me know when I’m being called a cold-blooded creature.” He sighed, shook his head. “Ian took offense, but I thought of it as a compliment.”
Her lips twitched. “You would.”
His silliness was merely an attempt to get her to relax, and it appeared to be working. “Now why don’t you let this cold-blooded creature have a look at the spreadsheet?”
A quick nod before she grabbed her handbag, pulled out two spiral-bound documents, and handed him one. Interesting. Bound documents. She slid onto the couch next to his recliner, kicked off her shoes and waited.
“Do you need a pen?”
He’d just flipped through the table of contents and had begun reading the mission statement. Mission statement?
“Rhyder?” She tossed a pen at him. “Here. Mark up any questions, suggestions, or issues you have in the margins.”
He grabbed the pen, tapped it against his chin, and turned the page. Ah, the much-awaited spreadsheet. He studied the chart and the headings. Basal temperature? Frequency? Positions? Duration? This spreadsheet for pregnancy was much more invasive than the one he’d created for Ian and C.C. And she’d provided notations, along with their respective footnotes to popular theories. This was ridiculous. “Duration?” He homed in on Roxie, who sat cross-legged on his couch, studying him. “Duration?” he repeated. “Please tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it does.”
The bright pink smearing her face said it meant exactly what he thought it did. Roxie looked away, picked at a cuticle, a telltale sign she was clearly uncomfortable with the subject. “It’s all part of the process of analysis. If we aren’t successful on month one, we’ll have to adjust.”
“Adjust? Roxie, we are not bringing a team of researchers into the bedroom or wherever we land so they can monitor our patterns or the duration of anything. Got that?” The tiny dip of her head indicated she did, but her next words said she might not agree.
“We have to have guidelines and measurements and—”
“No. We are not doing that.” How had he ever thought this would be acceptable for Ian and C.C.? It was invasive, appalling, and disgusting. “We are not in a lab and we are not test studies. We are flesh-and-blood people: a man and a woman with a common goal. We’ll achieve that goal, but not this way. Do you really want to think back on this baby’s conception and be reminded of flowcharts and footnotes and theories? Would you not prefer to recall the smallest bit of pleasure, even if I’m the other half of that pleasure?”
She gnawed on her lower lip. “I’m trying to make this easier on both of us. Trying to insert the clinical aspects so we’re reminded this is an arrangement and nothing more…personal.”
He stared at her. That comment annoyed him almost as much as the gut-punch realization that he didn’t like it, didn’t want it to be clinical. He wanted personal. What was wrong with him? Had he spent too much time around Roxie and lost his ability to reason in her presence? Had she become the logical one?
He rubbed both temples, blinked hard in an attempt to wash that possibility from his brain, but there it was, lodged front and center with no indication it would disappear. Now what? Rhyder tossed the document on the coffee table. “Nice job; you certainly considered everything. But have you consid
ered that with this many specifications and requirements, it will kill my libido and smother any chance of a baby with me?” That might not be the worst possibility for her because she could just go find another DNA donor, like Anson Welliver, so Rhyder added, “I was your first choice, remember that. I should be your only choice. You can tell yourself whatever you want and keep factoring in variables to those damnable spreadsheets, but you’re interested in me.”
She balled her small hands into fists, spat out, “I’m interested in you as a sperm donor. I’ve been very clear about that from—”
“Save it, Roxie. We both know the truth. Do you think I like it any more than you do? Do you think I want to be attracted to you in ways that have nothing to do procreation or a damn spreadsheet?”
“You’re attracted to me?”
He sighed, shook his head. “Would I act like such a fool if I weren’t? Would I stumble over my words and run out on you like a schoolboy so I wouldn’t touch you? Do you think I wanted this to happen? That I even once considered it could happen?” He scowled, wished his damn brain would shut down and his mouth would stop running. “It is what it is, Roxie. We’re going to be together and we’re going to create a child, and I’m through trying to pretend I won’t enjoy it and not just a little,” he bit out. “A lot.”
“Okay.”
Okay? He gripped the arms of his recliner. “That’s not exactly the response I expected.”
“Rhyder?”
He was an idiot. A fool. He fixed his gaze on the pregnancy document lying face down on the edge of the coffee table. “Yes?” She hadn’t said she felt the same way, looked forward to it as much as he did. No indeed, she had not, which meant this really was all about the clinical aspect of getting her pregnant and nothing about the attraction or the anticipated pleasure of it.
“I’m scared.”
He stared at her, tried to comprehend her words. “What?” Had he heard her right? Why would Roxie be scared? She had complete and total control over everything—including him. But her next words said maybe she didn’t.