by Kendall Ryan
“Wait.” My fingers feel around in the zippered compartment, and I locate a mini-sized candy bar. “Ta-da!”
“Wow. Not bad. Except for the fact that nobody likes Three Musketeers. It’s all nougat. And it’s squished. Seriously, how long have you carried that around in there?”
I frown at him. “I happen to like nougat, and beggars shouldn’t be choosy. If this were a real crisis, you’d be begging me for some.”
With that, he glances up at me and raises his right brow, a silent innuendo unspoken between us . . . one that doesn’t involve chocolate or nougat but rather something deliciously more sinful. Jesus, why is my mind immediately going to the gutter here?
He sighs with a knowing smile. “And here I was starting to think you were totally normal and might like a little begging.”
Needing to change the subject again, I snatch my candy bar from the pile, bumping our knees together. “I was going to share it with you, but never mind.”
Emmett gives me another of those playful megawatt grins, then absently picks up the tubes of lipstick, opening each one in turn and raising the stick to inspect the color. “Which is your favorite?”
I shrug. “Depends on my mood.”
Emmett looks at a soft pink, almost nude-colored lipstick, raising a brow.
“That’s an everyday color. I usually wear it to work.”
“Or to doctor's appointments at the fertility clinic.”
He’s observant. I’m wearing that shade now. “Yes.”
“I like it.” His voice is deeper, huskier somehow, and he’s still looking at my mouth.
The tension and chemistry that have been building between us rise to a new all-time high. An image of me climbing on top of him flashes through my mind, and I have to look away. This feels an awful lot like flirting, and a little bit like foreplay. Plucking my favorite tube from the pile, I show him the bright hue that’s between a pink and a red.
“This one is made more for evening, and it’s typically the one I’d wear on a date.”
Why did I just tell him that? God, what is it about this man that makes me prone to spill my secrets? It’s official. I’m truly pathetic.
At this, he stops fidgeting and his eyes meet mine, an intensity to them that I haven’t yet seen in our elevator rendezvous. “I like that idea.”
“What idea?” My mind comes to a screeching halt and my shoulders tense.
“Just hear me out for a second.” He recaps the lipstick and hands it to me. “About the whole baby-making thing . . . what would you say to going on a date with me first?”
I blink at him. “Well, I think the first thing I’d say would be, huh? And the second would be, why?”
“What do you mean, why? You’re a gorgeous woman.” He turns his palm up, as if proposing a business deal. “Just think about it. Before you do this, let me take you to dinner and see if you’re interested in trying . . . the old-fashioned way instead.” His eyes smolder.
I immediately do this awkward gasp-choke thing, my breath coming out faster than my lungs will tolerate. I stare wide-eyed at Emmett and immediately think that the oxygen in the elevator must be depleted, causing us both to say and do things we normally wouldn’t.
Once I’ve gotten my breathing under control, I look up at him, my mind reeling with a response. “You want to help me?”
“With my sperm, yes. I mean, we’ll work out the details later. But, what do you have to lose? I have a college education. My family doesn’t have any serious medical issues that we know of. I’m athletic . . . got third place all-state with my high school track team.” His voice is so nonchalant. “Not to mention, I’m pretty damn good in bed.”
My brain crashes and explodes. I stare at him, openmouthed. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? I can’t think of any other way to interpret his words. This smoking-hot man wants to fuck me. He’s offering to put a baby in me.
Holy shit, what? We’ve known each other a whole half hour. Not that I would know any of the men from the binder at the sperm clinic, but still.
Either ignoring or not noticing my internal meltdown, Emmett continues. “And if you decide you’re not feeling it and you’d truly rather use the clinic, then no harm done. Go right ahead. Hell, if you want company, I’ll even hold your hand while they put in the turkey baster and spread the nut butter.”
“Oh my God . . . you know they don’t use a turkey baster,” I say, managing to correct him through my haze of shock and increasingly naughty thoughts, climbing on top of him right now being the tamest. “It’s much more clinical, you know. They catheterize your cervix.”
He winces. “Ouch. A couple of orgasms sounds much more fun to me.” He raises his eyebrows at me insistently. “So, your verdict on dinner?”
My throat has gone bone dry. This man is throwing a major curveball my way, and I’m not sure how to feel about that. I have everything set, but now he’s right here in front of me, offering me more than I could ever hope for, and I’m silently considering it. Like seriously considering it. I’m blaming it on the low oxygen levels for what comes out of my mouth next.
“How about we grab coffee sometime?”
He shakes his head. “Coffee isn’t a real date. Neither is anything else that happens before five p.m. or takes less than an hour. That’s my personal policy.” He looks resolute.
Even if we don’t ever have mind-blowing sex, a date would be nice. I consider, then shrug, his smile coaxing out one of my own. “Sure. Dinner would be nice.”
As if the universe was waiting for me to cave, the elevator groans and shudders to life, heading down as soon as we’re done exchanging phone numbers.
The doors open up to the lobby and an apologetic repair crew. We thank them, then stand there awkwardly, watching each other.
“I’ll look at my calendar and text you later,” he says, his voice low.
I nod. “Okay. Have fun at work.”
Emmett nods and we part ways, him into another elevator and me out to the parking lot. I figure there’s no point in visiting the clinic now. It might not be my fault, but I’m so embarrassed this whole debacle has made me so late, I’ve missed my entire appointment. And even if I hadn’t missed it, I’d be too busy thinking about the crazy deal I just struck with a total stranger in a broken-down elevator to focus on anything the doctor said anyway.
God, I must be nuts. What the hell was I thinking? But somehow, I can’t bring myself to regret agreeing to a date. Emmett calmed me when I would normally be panicking . . . and that damn smirk? I’m certain that smirk has dropped countless panties across the entire state.
Heading back to the bookshop, I try to shake off the strange interlude in the elevator and get back to the real world. The whole thing was so surreal that I almost feel like I dreamed it, yet I know I didn’t.
I don’t have time to ponder this all day; there’s a mountain of work waiting for me at the bookshop. Right now, what I need most is to sit down at my desk and clear my head with purchase orders and invoices. I’ll call the clinic to reschedule my consultation later, after Emmett’s proposal inevitably turns out to be a flop.
At the very least, I’ll still get a nice dinner out with a devastatingly handsome man.
Chapter Two
Emmett
I head out of the elevator and straight to my corner office, no time to lose. At my desk, I catch a glimpse out the window of a familiar tiny figure crossing the parking lot. It’s Jenna, walking back to her car.
A smile tugs at my lips and my dick reminds me how interested it is in her. I’m oddly pleased to see her go. Maybe because it means she’s postponing her visit to the sperm bank until after she’s given me a fair shot. Or maybe it’s just nice to watch those hips sway, even from my distant bird’s-eye view. Despite what little I know about her, the woman is damn ballsy, and I instantly like that about her. Even if she does like disgusting nougat.
And my mind instantly goes to my spreading t
he nougat from a chocolate bar on my dick and then watching her suck it clean. Yes, under those circumstances, I could very well grow to love nougat.
Remembering I’m at the office and certainly can’t walk around with a hard-on, seeing as I have a ton of meetings, I jump into work mode. I don’t get any more time to think about the cute mystery brunette from the elevator, though, because a gaggle of staff flood in, clamoring for my attention. Most of them are senior managers. My lingering good mood from meeting Jenna begins to sour.
I decide to start with the most immediately useful person—my assistant.
“Lisa,” I call out over the babble, and everyone falls silent. “Please call all of this morning’s appointments, apologize for my unexpected absence, and reschedule. And can you grab me some coffee? Thanks.”
Lisa nods and zips out my door. One down, a dozen to go.
I go through the crowd to see what everyone else needs and get them hustling back to their offices to send me reports, fill shipments, consult lawyers, and focus their teams on the most pressing tasks. I can already feel a tension headache stirring behind my eyes.
As I work my way through a couple of emails, I settle on one in particular that makes my pulse pound faster. Lately, the majority of my stress can be pinned on one stubborn target. A tiny uptown bookseller, just across the city, that refuses to let us acquire them.
We desperately need this deal. We’re acquiring as many small bookstores as we can get our hands on, trying to save not only Baxter Books, but the whole business model of big-box bookstore chains from extinction. And yet, despite our best efforts—and what should be a huge leverage difference working in our favor—our opponent won’t budge an inch. They won’t even give us a chance to negotiate.
So, naturally, everything around here is devolving into a clusterfuck.
It takes almost an hour until I’ve put out all the fires. Finally, after my team has gotten everything under control on their end, I have a moment of peace. I take a grateful gulp of coffee, open a report Lisa has printed out and set on my desk, and start reading the financial analyses. But I can’t focus on the dry, dense words. My thoughts keep drifting back to the attractive woman I met in the elevator.
Well, half the morning is already down the tubes . . . I can let this report wait a few minutes longer. I’m the boss, after all. I take a moment to lean my chair back and reflect on the encounter.
Jenna. I don’t even know her last name yet, but I’ve already learned enough to pique my curiosity. I know that I want her—in my bed, under me, on top of me, wherever she’ll let me have her. We hardly exchanged much in the way of useful information or personal history, but mostly because I was so baffled by her situation.
My first impression of her was that she’s a strong, smart, and of course, drop-dead beautiful woman. She can’t possibly lack for dates, and yet there she was, on her way to start a family all by her lonesome. I’m shocked she’s still unattached at all, let alone resorting to a sperm bank and single motherhood. She didn’t seem opposed to dating or men.
What man would let a girl like her slip through their fingers? There has to be a story behind her. And I can’t wait to uncover it . . . among other things. My mind lingers on the memory of her body, her curves and long, shapely legs. The way our knees brushing sent electricity and warmth flying through me. The hint of creamy cleavage peeking from her blouse.
To tell the truth, I barely understand why she wants a baby so badly at all. I’ve always been a once-and-done kind of guy, and I make no apologies for that. I only have room for one “baby” in my life—my company.
I may not love my job, but I have a duty to the family business Dad started, and more importantly, to his employees who are now mine. That will never change. God knows my brother and sister were even less interested in taking over the company than I was. And I would never repeat Dad’s mistake of ignoring his own wife and kids in favor of living at the office. It probably wasn’t a lesson he intended to teach, but I learned from his example that marriage and family don’t mix well with a demanding career. You can’t do both without fucking one of them up. A man has to pick one or the other, and since I’m responsible for Baxter Books, that means staying single. I don’t resent that; it’s just a fact of life. Not to mention that bachelorhood hardly lacks for fun.
The thought of exactly how much fun it can be brings me back to Jenna. I wouldn’t have to be part of all the stressful stuff of parenting, just the fun part. The naked body parts and orgasms part. I don’t have to change my life and she doesn’t have to change hers. There’s a lot of fun to be had with a no-strings-attached relationship. She gets a baby, we both get laid, and everybody wins.
Well, there’s no time like the present. If she’s on my mind and my dick’s perked up in interest, why not get the ball rolling right now? I pull out my phone and text Jenna.
You still up for that date?
I’m halfway through writing a memo before a yes flashes on my screen.
Hmm. Not much hint of her feelings there, but I can work with it. When are you free?
Roughly another ten minutes pass, then: Wednesday night.
That’s the day after tomorrow. I’m pleased that she’s just as uninterested in wasting time as I am. Works for me. You like Mexican food?
This time the reply is immediate. Crazy about it. You have a place in mind?
I chuckle and text back: I was thinking I could pick you up and surprise you.
No sense skimping on playfulness, even for a fuck-buddy arrangement. That stuff’s half the fun of a fling.
A very long pause before she responds: I’d rather meet there, if you don’t mind. Seven okay?
Fair enough. She has no way of knowing I’m not an ax murderer, after all, so only a dick would push for her home address. Sure, that’s cool.
I send her the restaurant’s location, consider this situation for a moment, then add a final line: Looking forward to getting to know you better.
Less than five minutes pass before her reply. You too.
Smiling, I click off my phone. I haven’t been this intrigued in a long time.
Chapter Three
Jenna
I’m nervous.
Despite it being a Wednesday night, all the spots along Twenty-Ninth Street are taken. But I don’t mind parking around the corner and walking a block. The early October evening is crisp, with just a hint of a breeze, and the chatter of the dinnertime crowd sounds light and friendly. I could use a moment to compose myself. My stomach is tied in knots at the thought of having dinner with Emmett.
Well, not just dinner, if I’m being honest. It’s his comment about putting a baby inside me the “old-fashioned way” that has left me on edge for the past two days.
I take a deep breath and click the button on my key fob to lock my car, and focus on the sound of my high-heeled boots clicking along the pavement. I was unsure what to wear to the restaurant—it’s the first date I’ve been on in a long time. A simple oatmeal-colored tunic with leggings and tousled hair was the look I settled on after trying on half my closet in an anxious fit.
I stopped looking for Mr. Right altogether at some point last year. Some well-meaning friends told me that love would find me once I stopped looking. They lied. Fuckers.
But none of that matters right now. I’ve promised myself that no matter what happens, I’m the one in control. If I don’t like Emmett (or the things he has to say), I can just march my behind (and my uterus) right back to the clinic.
I expected Emmett to wait inside the restaurant. Instead, I spot him standing on the sidewalk as I approach, his hands in the pockets of his slate-gray sport coat, the very picture of a cultured, confident big shot.
Damn, he’s even more attractive than I remember. I half hoped to see him in his business suit again, but this five-o’clock-shadowed casual look is just as appealing. More appealing, maybe. His dark gray chinos and blue polo fit close enough that I can’t resist
a quick up-and-down look. He must have gone home to spruce up after work before coming here, and I appreciate the effort almost as much as the view. The man is hot.
Emmett smiles and my eyes snap up to meet his. Oops. Hopefully he didn’t catch me checking out the goods. I’m here to decide whether I want his sperm sample, not to grab his ass. Not to take him home with me. Not to let him fuck the living daylights out of me . . .
Well, at least, not yet.
My stomach flips and I yank the plug out of my imagination. “Uh, hi,” I say, giving him a lame wave.
“Hello, Jenna,” he says, sounding genuinely glad to see me. I feel the weight of his gaze as it travels over me, making me warm. “You didn’t wear the lipstick.”
For a moment, I’m baffled, and then I recall our elevator conversation. The color I told him was my favorite and that I generally saved for dates.
“It’s not a real date.” Is it?
“Right, of course.” Emmett nods. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
“No, I just hit a little traffic. Sorry I’m late.” It’s been a long time since I had a date, and I suddenly feel rusty.
He shrugs. “Only by five minutes, no big deal. Do you want to sit outside?”
“Sure, the weather’s nice.” I let him escort me to the door, through the bustling restaurant and back out to the patio. His hand sits on the small of my back the entire way.
When the waiter comes to our table, we order two bottles of Victoria beer and half a dozen carne asada tacos, and he quickly returns with our drinks. I sip my frosty brew, admiring the sunset in one direction and the traditional-style decor in the other, all adobe and turquoise. “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of this place before.”
“Just wait until our food arrives—I’m convinced they make the best tacos in the city. I come here all the time after a long day.” He winks. “Or a late night.”
A silver-haired man, not our waiter, brings a basket of tortilla chips and stone bowls of fresh salsa and guacamole to the table. As he sets down our appetizers, he says to Emmett, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lady friend?”