by Kendall Ryan
I roll my eyes. “That happened one time, and the test came out negative.”
“Just shut up and listen to me for a second. Whether you want to be a dad or not, you still need paperwork either way, and you need it ASAP. Thank God you said something to me before you fucked her.”
“Would you relax?” I snap. His panic is starting to piss me off, especially the way he talks about Jenna. It’s like he thinks I can’t be trusted—or he thinks she can’t, despite not knowing the first thing about her. “I have this under control.”
He takes a deep breath and lets it whoosh out in a loud sigh. “Okay, okay, I’ll try to chill. But, seriously, what if she changes her mind and comes after you later?”
“I’m telling you she won’t do that,” I grumble. I trust Jenna. She knows what she wants, and it’s not my money.
Jesse still looks completely unconvinced, but he nods. “Well, if you’re sure this is what you want . . . please let me at least draft some contracts to protect you, just in case. You waive your right to custody, she waives your obligation to provide child support, you both agree to mutual nondisclosure, basic stuff like that. I’ll email you everything so you and Jenna can both sign them.”
After taking a sip of my beer, I give him a noncommittal grunt. “Send whatever you want. I’ll take a look at it if it makes you feel better.”
Jesse smirks, knowing he’s won. “They’ll be in your in-box by noon tomorrow.”
I shake my head at him, smiling despite myself. Stubborn bastard . . . There’s a reason why we’ve stayed best friends for so many years. “Enough about all that. Tell me what’s new with Sheri and the kids.”
“Nothing really. It’s all good, though. Most nights by the time I get home, it’s to catch the tail end of Finding Nemo with the kids conked out on the couch, and Sheri almost right behind them. So I bring her a glass of wine and we sit together for a little while before putting everyone to bed.”
“Half-asleep wine-drinking watching Finding Nemo in a pile of rug rats? How romantic,” I say dryly.
Jesse shrugs, grinning. “Parents grab their romance where they can find it.”
We chat for a while longer, catching up on work and other topics while eating stale pretzels, and order a second beer. Jesse is my oldest friend in the world, and it’s relaxing just being in the company of someone who gets you.
Finally, he drains the last of his beer and stands up. “I should probably get going. Thanks for the beer, man. Let’s do this again soon.”
I get up to pull him in for a hearty handshake and a parting pat on the back. “Definitely.”
• • •
I didn’t take our conversation to heart at first. Whatever he sends me tomorrow, I’ll read over and sign. I’m not worried about Jenna wanting anything more from me than what my body can give her. But on the way home, driving alone through dark streets, I start to mull over more deeply how different our lives are.
This isn’t the first time talking to Jesse has made me think about family. He complains a lot about being a father—too many responsibilities, not enough quality time with his wife, the shenanigans his kids get into—but I can tell it’s all just good-natured bitching. He and Sheri are the picture of wedded bliss, smitten since the day they met, and the only things they love more than each other are their two munchkins.
What Jesse has seems to work well for him. But for me . . .
It would never work. I’m all business, all the time—my job demands everything from me. If I ever did marry, it would end up turning into a rerun of my parents’ mistakes. My workaholic, emotionally constipated father left Mom so lonely, she went hunting for affection from any man who’d look twice at her. And when the midlife crisis hit, Dad started having his own affairs too, and eventually traded Mom in for a younger model. It was one big ugly cliché—the CEO fucking his secretary, his wife fucking the pool boy, their three kids left in the lurch—and I don’t care to repeat the cycle.
Even if my hypothetical wife didn’t mind that I worked all the time and didn’t fuck the pool boy, who’s to say that we wouldn’t just tire of each other. Or fight all the time. Or end up hating each other as much as my parents do. It’s just not worth it. I’m not cut out for it.
I would never say this to his face, but deep down, I suspect Jesse and Sheri are a fluke. A freak accident of probability. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, human hearts aren’t strong enough to bear the weight of careers, children, stress, the plain old boring grind of daily life. Love is only a temporary delirium, and sooner or later, reality and its demands will start eating away at the happiness. Cracks will appear and spread in whatever you try to build. And the inevitable collapse of wedded bliss . . . what’s the point of doing that to myself? To anyone I care about?
Better not to begin at all. Better, easier, to just stay alone.
The silence of my darkened penthouse greets me. The large, empty space is a little chilly after my long day out. I walk to the hall thermostat, flipping on lights as I go, and turn up the heat. Then I double back to check the fridge. There’s no real point in cooking for one, especially not at this hour, when I’m already tired. A quick dinner will do. I grab some bread and cold cuts, nudge the fridge door shut with my foot, and throw together a sandwich.
Then I pause, considering the plate in my hand. The food doesn’t look great, to put it mildly. The thought of eating suddenly strikes me as unappealing. Hmm . . . maybe dredging up old childhood memories made me lose my appetite. Fuck it, I’ll just shower and go to sleep. I put plastic wrap on the plate and stick it in the fridge for later.
I undress and step into the steaming spray with a hiss, then a sigh of pleasure. The scalding water is just the thing to relax me. But rather than calm me down like I planned, it gets my blood pumping, and my thoughts turn toward what I have waiting for me tomorrow night.
Jenna . . .
I’m more than ready for a little time with her. Hell, as long as there’s a lot of orgasms, I’m not at all concerned with how long it takes.
My cock twitches with interest. I let my hand drift down, over my chest and abs, following the path of the trickling water. In less than twenty-four hours, Jenna will be the one caressing me like this. Exploring me. And I’ll get to do the same to her, map every inch of that incredible body, find out what pleases her best. I’ll give her screaming orgasms until she melts into a sweaty, satisfied mess.
I can’t fucking wait.
Within a minute, I’m already fully hard, and I stifle a moan at the first stroke. God, I’m so ready for her. What I wouldn’t give to have Jenna in the shower with me right now, naked and wet, her curves flushed with heat. I’d press her up against the tile wall and find out what her pussy tastes like . . .
But all that will happen tomorrow, not now. Not yet. And until then, I shouldn’t blow my load early. Biting my lip, I force myself to drop my hand and ignore the ache of frustrated lust in my groin. I want to save it all for her.
As I shampoo my hair, I smirk. One thing I know for sure . . .
I’m going to rock her world tomorrow.
Chapter Seven
Jenna
The next evening, I left work a little early to prepare. I showered, shaved all the vital regions, blow-dried my hair, and am now pacing around my bedroom wrapped in a towel, trying to figure out what to wear. Balance is crucial. I want to look nice but not overdressed, and definitely not too sexy.
I consider my fanciest underthings—a lacy black lingerie set—then pass them over in favor of plain white cotton. Sensible underwear for a sensible night of making a baby.
Just because Emmett is going to see me naked tonight doesn’t mean I have to put on a whole song and dance for him. No big deal. He’s only the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, and this will be the first time I’ve gotten laid in almost a year, and . . .
Oh my God, stop it, woman. Please, just stop thinking and cover your tits.
As I pull on my panties, I’m car
eful not to brush the small, but sore red welt near my navel. I injected my first hCG trigger shot last night. While it wasn’t a barrel of laughs, it also wasn’t nearly as bad as my mind had built it up to be. As with most scary things in life, I found that the best approach was to just gather my courage and take the leap fast, before I could psych myself out of it. Now if only I could stop overthinking this date too.
No, no, this is not a date. What’s happening tonight is absolutely nothing like a date. It’s just . . . informal sperm donation.
Oh my God, I’m really doing this, aren’t I? Negotiating a stud deal for myself like a horse breeder or something? I stare into my closet like it contains the controls to a jumbo jet instead of the same old wardrobe I should find easy to choose from.
Okay, stop freaking out. Think of it like a business meeting. Just because it’s for knocking me up doesn’t make the rules of engagement any different. Insert penis A into slot B. We stay professional, because anything more will just confuse my heart and blur the lines, and I can’t let that happen.
Sure, Emmett is attractive and funny and kind, and that’s a big part of why I chose him . . . but not in a boyfriend kind of way. This isn’t a romantic audition. It’s just because his traits are good enough that I’d want them passed on to my child, that’s all. Besides, it’s no shame to pick a high-quality partner who also happens to be so good looking it hurts. I might as well have fun while I’m working on getting fertilized.
Yep, totally cool and rational, no complicated feelings allowed. And if he does or says one single thing that makes me uncomfortable, I’m not above telling him to get out of my bedroom and go jack off in that cup. I have a whole binder full of men I could pick from at the sperm bank.
While I’m thinking about it, I grab the plastic specimen jar and toss it in my purse, just in case. In the process, I catch a glimpse at the clock and almost panic because, holy shit, it’s already 5:15. How was I dithering around in my underwear for half an hour?
No more nonsense. I need laser focus. I need to just fucking pick an outfit already.
I go back to the closet. A mulberry peasant blouse, fawn-colored suede ankle boots, and my most flattering pair of dark jeans—sure, that’s fine. I dress as fast as I can while still avoiding the sore spot on my stomach. For a moment, I fret over the question of jewelry, makeup, and perfume, then say out loud, “Oh, for God’s sake, what I wore to work is fine,” and restrain myself to the minimum. Then I’m out the door and on my way to Los Platitos.
Like he did at our last dinner meeting, Emmett is waiting for me outside, looking nothing short of dashing. He flashes me a brilliant smile. “Hey there, beautiful. You hungry?”
The innocent question seems a lot dirtier coming from his full lips. And it’s disarming how he always seems so pleased to see me.
“Starving,” I say truthfully.
We walk together into the warm ambience of Los Platitos, with its amber lighting, dark wood decor, and rich scents of saffron, garlic, and smoke. Even though I only live a couple of blocks away, I haven’t visited in a long time. It’s pretty pricey, and it moved well out of my budget when I opened the Lit Apothecary.
The hostess seats us at a small round table, and a waitress soon appears. “Good evening,” she chirps. “Can I get you two something to drink?”
“I’ll have iced tea,” I reply.
“I’ll have a gin and tonic, pl—” Emmett starts to say, but I quickly interrupt him.
“No. Sorry, he’ll have tonic water with lime.”
He blinks, and the waitress’s brow furrows slightly.
When I realize how rude that sounded, I turn to Emmett. “Remember . . . uh, dear, you’re not supposed to have alcohol.”
He still looks confused but plays along and nods at the waitress. “Right. My mistake; I forgot. She’s right.”
Her expression softens into a smile, as if she finds us endearing. “A close call. All right, one iced tea and one tonic water with lime. I’ll get those drinks right out to you.”
As soon as the waitress is gone, Emmett asks me, “I’m sorry, but since when do I not drink? I’m sure that waitress thinks I’m on my way to an AA meeting as soon as we finish eating.”
I offer him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. It’s just that I want your swimmers to be in top shape tonight.”
He nods slowly, understanding. “Ah. Well, I promise they are . . . dear.”
I answer his teasing smirk by rolling my eyes. “Don’t make fun of me. Would you rather I’d told her the whole story?” Feigning affectionate concern was the easiest way over that little speed bump.
“Fine, I’ll lay off. So, how was your day?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested.
I shrug a little. “Eh, it was okay. I don’t really feel like talking about work.” On dates, I stop myself from finishing.
“Fair enough. I don’t either.” He leans back in his chair and it creaks. “How about . . . do you have any hobbies?”
“Mostly I just read.” Alone in bed at night, sipping a glass of wine. All I need to complete the cozy-but-kind-of-sad picture is a cat on my lap.
“Nice. I wish I had more time to read, myself.” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Or maybe I do have the time and I just waste it on TV. What’s your favorite book?”
“You’re making me choose?” I widen my eyes, pretending to be scandalized. “How could you ever do that to a poor bibliophile?”
He laughs. “Okay, jeez. Can I ask your favorite genre, at least? Mine is crime fiction, if you want to know.”
I shouldn’t want to know. We’re not here to get close. We’re here to eat and hash out the final details of getting a bun in my oven. But even knowing that, I find myself suddenly reluctant to shatter the casual mood. Besides, I love talking about books.
There isn’t any harm in it, is there? We can just enjoy a night out at a nice restaurant right now and save the heavy stuff for later.
I ponder his question. “I like mysteries too. I’m pretty omnivorous when it comes to books. But I think, if I absolutely had to pick . . . ugh, this is so hard. Let’s say satire, gothic romance, and postmodern literature are somewhere in my top five. Oh, and historical nonfiction.”
We’re briefly interrupted by the waitress returning with our drinks. We thank her and order half a dozen different tapas plates.
Emmett sips his lime tonic water. “Hmm . . . this actually isn’t half bad. Anyway, that’s quite a list. I’m going to guess you were an English major?”
“Classics and philosophy, actually,” I reply, stirring sugar into my iced tea. “But I might have added English too if I’d had more time.” Raising me alone, Mom couldn’t afford to contribute much to my college fund, and my scholarships came with a graduation deadline. I was lucky for the four years I got.
Emmett hums appreciatively. “Damn, woman, now I feel out of my league. Did you learn to speak Latin?”
I make an uncertain noise. “I took some basic language classes, but my emphasis was more on art, literature, and history, and I’m sure I’ve lost it all by now anyway.”
“Come on, give it a try,” he says. “Talk nerdy to me.”
Our food arrives and I pop a bacon-wrapped fig into my mouth while I try to think back almost fifteen years. Hmm . . . there’s one quote that should definitely get a laugh out of him, if I can only remember it.
“Well,” I say finally, “I might still know part of a poem by Catullus. I memorized it in college because I thought it’d make a funny party trick.” He’ll see why in a minute.
Haltingly, I start to recite it in all its indecipherable glory. Normally, I’d feel self-conscious reciting a poem in Latin in front of anyone after all these years, but it feels fun.
Emmett raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Wow. What does that mean?”
I try to keep a straight face as I translate, “I will fuck you in the ass and mouth—”
I can’t even get through the firs
t line before Emmett interrupts me by cracking up. “What . . . ha-ha . . . what the hell? So you do have a dirty mind.”
“It’s more a pissed-off poem than a dirty one. But I never claimed my mind was one hundred percent clean,” I retort playfully. “I just don’t advertise dirtiness like you do.”
Then I hesitate. Wait, no, this is way too close to flirting. I should pull back and move to a serious topic.
I fiddle with my napkin in my lap. “Not to kill the mood or anything, but we should talk about . . . what we’re doing later.”
His smile turns devilish. “Oh? I think that’s the opposite of killing the mood.”
I ignore the heat that climbs into my cheeks. “Before we have sex, I need to know for sure that you’ll never try to get involved. I want to raise my child my way—alone. No co-parenting, not even any shared holidays, nada. This is my plan, and if you can’t agree to that—no offense, but I’ll just go back to the sperm bank.”
Emmett’s eyebrow quirks. “Haven’t we already talked about this?”
“Yes, but I wanted to give you one last chance to back out.” I raise my brows urgently, looking him square in the eye. “So if you need to think it over a little longer . . .”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he says. I expected him to be annoyed by my interrogation, but his tone is only reassuring, and maybe a little amused. “My answer hasn’t changed since last week. Trust me . . . as a busy executive, I have no interest in midnight feedings and diaper patrol. That stuff is all you.”
I nod, slightly calmed. “Good, so we’re in agreement.”
Instead of changing the subject to something more fun, Emmett considers me for a moment, then sighs thoughtfully. “Listen . . . I hope you trust me, and I know I trust you, but if it helps ease your mind, my attorney friend drafted some contracts. Practically shoved them down my throat, in fact. You want to look them over now?”
“Really?” I blink. “Um . . . yeah, actually, I would like that.”
He pulls out his phone and forwards me an email with three attachments. I read while eating, my phone in one hand and a piece of foie-gras toast in the other. Emmett says nothing, patiently letting me concentrate. I feel a little bad for ignoring him . . . but then again, I remind myself, we’re having a business meeting, not a date. Discussing this agreement is the entire point of us coming here.