by Kendall Ryan
Which means I’m currently sitting alone in my apartment waiting for him to arrive. It’s Friday night and the sun has just set. My mood is a bit melancholy, and I feel so unsure about everything. As excited as I’ve been about the pregnancy, my feelings for the man who put the bun in my oven have only grown stronger with each passing week.
Finally, a gentle knock on my door interrupts my sullen thoughts. I pull it open and find my baby daddy standing outside with a huge bunch of daisies wrapped in yellow paper in his hands.
Yellow. The color for friendship. Why does that sting so bad?
I take a deep breath and usher him inside. “Those are beautiful.”
He hands me the bouquet. “I thought your place could use some cheering up.”
He’s right. The weather has gotten cold and gray, and there’s snow in the forecast. Maybe that’s the reason I’ve been down.
“Thank you. That was sweet. And they certainly are cheery.” I head to the kitchen to fill a vase, and Emmett follows. I’d forgotten how much I’ve missed his warm presence, his scent.
As I place the flowers in some water, I can feel him watching me.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go out and get crazy? Go to a bar, maybe? I can’t even drink. I’m totally boring.”
“You’re my kind of boring.” Emmett’s mouth curves into a smile and he leans in to press a soft kiss to my lips.
I level him with a serious look. “Seriously, Emmett.”
He takes my hands. “I’m not some twenty-one-year-old looking to get boozed up and laid. Actually, that last part was a lie. If sex is on the table, I’m all in.” This earns him a laugh. “But, seriously, I’m almost forty. An evening in with some good company is my idea of heaven right now.”
I turn from the kitchen, heading to the hall. I need a moment. It’s not helpful for him to be so sweet, so sensitive, so attentive. It’s not helpful for anyone. I might be fun now—but what happens when I’m nine months pregnant and huge, complete with hemorrhoids and leaky breasts? Is Emmett still going to be around then? Yeah, no. I didn’t think so.
“Come here. I want to show you something,” I say as he follows me.
I lead him back to what will be the baby’s room. It was a home office before I rearranged everything this past week. Right now, it’s little more than a dresser, boxes, and a few overfilled shopping bags. But what I really want to show him is the paint color I selected.
“What’s all this?”
A drop cloth covers the wooden floor, and two gallons of paint along with an assortment of rollers and brushes are scattered about.
“The color I chose for the nursery. It reminds me of the flowers you brought.” When Emmett frowns, I ask, “You don’t like the color?”
He shakes his head. “It’s not that. It’s just, you shouldn’t be painting by yourself, Jenna. The fumes . . .”
I hold up one hand. “There’s a lot I’m going to have to learn to do by myself, Emmett. Single mom, remember.”
His frown relaxes and he nods again. “Right. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interfere. But maybe I can lend a hand and help you paint this weekend.”
“Sure.”
Emmett peeks inside one of the shopping bags piled on the dresser. “You went with the gray and white.” He’s smiling again.
I nod. “I thought I’d decorate with gray and yellow. It’s safe for either gender, and if it’s a girl, I can always throw in a couple splashes of pink.”
“It’s going to look great.” He nods to the box containing the crib that needs assembling. “I’ll get that put together for you too.”
I open my mouth to tell him that’s not necessary, but Emmett shakes his head.
“I figure I have at least, what, seven, eight more months before you kick me out of your life. At least let me be useful till then.” He chuckles like this absence in my life is funny instead of overwhelmingly heartbreaking.
God, why can’t we want the same things?
On our way back down the hall, I stop in the kitchen and pick up a bottle of red wine from the shelf as Emmett enters the kitchen behind me.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“For you.”
He shakes his head. “You’re enough, Jenna. I don’t need anything but your company.”
His smile makes my knees feel weak. God, why can’t he be an asshole? This would be so much easier.
“Okay, then,” I say, setting the bottle back onto the shelf. “So, what do you want to do?”
“Watch a movie?” he suggests.
I nod. “Actually, that sounds perfect.”
We’ve never done something so casual, so domestic before, and I like the idea of it immediately.
We settle together side by side on my oversized sofa, cuddling together as the romantic comedy he let me pick begins.
It’s only a few minutes into the movie before I’m nestling closer to Emmett, increasingly distracted by the way he looks in his dark jeans and gray sweater, by the traces of his crisp, masculine cologne.
Pressing my cheek to his firm chest, I let my hand wander to his flat stomach. My heart begins hammering away, and I hope Emmett can’t tell that my thoughts have strayed from the screen and are now focused on the front of his jeans and the delightful bulge there.
If I can’t give my heart what it wants, at least I can give my body what it needs—and that’s more of Emmett.
I let my hand drift lower as I rub the soft material of his sweater. I venture lower still until I’m brushing the waistband of his jeans.
Emmett tenses under my touch. “Want something?”
I can’t help the giggle that escapes. “Jeez. Sorry, I swear I’m not normally like a fourteen-year-old boy.”
Emmett holds up both hands. “Hey, I’m not complaining.”
I smile at him, feeling slightly embarrassed.
“It’s true about the increased libido, huh?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
“I should get you pregnant more often. Who knew there would be so many perks in it for me.”
It’s the first time Emmett’s mentioned continuing our relationship beyond this pregnancy, and for a moment my heart jumps into my throat. Then I have to tell my pregnancy brain to calm down, because it takes me a second to realize he was totally kidding.
Continuing with the task at hand, I pop open the button on his jeans and push my hand inside to find him firm and ready for me.
“Damn, sweetheart.” He grunts as my hand moves up and down, and I love watching his gaze darken with lust. “Missed this,” he murmurs as he watches me slowly jack him off.
“Me too,” I whisper. We kiss for a long time as I enjoy the solid feel of him in my hand.
“Tender?” Emmett asks. He cups my full breasts, rubbing his thumbs over my nipples experimentally.
I suck in a sharp inhale. “Just a little.”
My body is changing. My breasts are fuller, and my clothes fit just a little differently. But so far, they are all welcome changes. The increased libido is a side effect I didn’t know to expect. And the reason my—my what? Sperm donor? Friend? Baby daddy, I finally settle on—is here in the first place.
After releasing the little buttons between my breasts, Emmett draws the top off over my head as though he’s unwrapping a much-anticipated Christmas present. My bra comes off next, joining my shirt on the floor beside the couch. The movie continues to play on low volume, now completely forgotten.
“Jesus, you’re sexy.” He brings his mouth to my breasts, cupping them in his large palms and teasing me with his tongue. “I’ll be careful. Go slow. Whatever you want. But please, God, I need to fuck you.”
“Yes,” I murmur.
While he strips off his sweater, I stand and push down my leggings and panties so I can step out of them. It’s impossible not to notice the way his gaze darkens with lust at the sight of my bare skin. He shoves his jeans and boxers down just enough to free
his cock.
“You sure?” he asks, his dark eyes meeting mine.
He’s always this way, checking in and making sure I’m okay, but for the first time it grates on me rather than making me feel safe. How can I tell him that no, I’m definitely not okay? I begged him for this—to put a baby inside me, and he did—but now I want things we both promised weren’t in the cards for us. A relationship. Monogamy. Commitment.
“I want you,” I say instead, because I do.
He brings his hand between us, teasing me and no doubt finding I’m already wet for him. Then he kisses my lips . . . deep, drugging kisses, sucking on my tongue, nipping at my neck as he continues to tease little circles over my clit.
I reach down and find his cock resting on his belly. Using both hands to stroke his generous length, I return his kisses, teasing him just like he’s teasing me.
“Enough,” he says finally. “Ride me? I want to see those gorgeous tits bounce while you fuck yourself on my cock.”
God, yes.
Shoving my feelings aside, I angle my hips while he brings himself to the needy spot between my thighs. When did I develop so many big, messy feelings? Maybe being emotional is just another by-product of pregnancy. Because right now? Gazing into Emmett’s eyes, watching him let out a low groan as I impale myself on his thick length, I’m struck by All. The. Feels.
His fingers grip my hips as he rocks into me. “You feel . . .”
I suck in a deep breath, waiting. I feel what? “Different?” I ask on a moan.
“Tighter.” He grunts, pressing himself deeper inside.
Oh, right, because that’s exactly what you want to hear when you’re months away from squeezing a human being through your vagina.
Soon I’m rocking up and down on Emmett’s stiff length, losing myself to the pleasure.
His hands on my hips guide me—slower than I would like. Normally we’re frantic and hard and fast, but not tonight. He’s being gentle, almost tender with me, and I’m not sure how to feel about that.
“Kiss me,” I beg.
He does. And it’s everything.
We make love for a long time, until he’s coaxed two orgasms from me and finally reaches his own climax with a groan.
“That was perfect.” He presses a final kiss to my lips as I climb from his lap.
Once we’ve dressed again, we make popcorn and restart our movie.
We spend the whole weekend like that—painting the nursery, cooking, watching movies, cuddling, and making love. But we don’t do the one thing I wish we could do—talk about our future. I wish I had the courage to bring it up, but the truth is, I just don’t. Not when everything has been so perfect. Every part of me wishes this could be real, but the coward inside me is fine settling for the scraps.
On Sunday evening, we make homemade pasta and play a game of Scrabble. But when night falls, Emmett rises to his feet and kisses my cheek.
“I better get going,” he says.
I watch his eyes, waiting to see them fill with longing or reluctance or regret. But I don’t see any of those things. Instead, he pats my butt and tells me to get some sleep.
After I shut and lock the door behind him, I head to my bedroom where I promptly collapse onto my bed and sob. Wrapping my arms around myself, I lay my head on the pillow and cry for so long and hard that my breath comes in gasps and starts.
Eventually, I cry myself to sleep, something I haven’t done since the night my dad left when I was a little girl.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jenna
After my weekend spent with Emmett, it’s back to reality. My eyes are only slightly puffy from my sob-fest last night, and thankfully Britt doesn’t seem to notice. I’ve been staring at my computer screen for the last hour, trying to work up the courage for what I know I need to do.
Slowly, my stomach churning, I dial the number that that prick Ronald left me at the bottom of all his relentless emails and letters. After months of refusing to dignify his offer with a response, I can’t deny the truth any longer. My little store is failing. It’s been two years and I’ve barely kept my head above water, let alone grown the Lit Apothecary into a successful business.
In another universe, I might keep fighting until my last dollar evaporates. But here and now, with a baby on the way, I have no choice but to grow up. I won’t watch my savings dwindle much lower, and I have to make the responsible decision and go back to my old unfulfilling-but-reliable job. My future family will need a steady income . . . no matter how much it hurts to give up the dream I’ve cherished for over a decade.
I tamp down my wounded pride and press the Call button.
“Baxter Books acquisitions department, this is Cheryl, how may I help you?” chirps a young female voice.
“Hi,” I reply, wishing I was doing literally anything else. Like maybe getting poked in the eye with a sharp stick. “Can I speak to Mr. Ronald Hollenbeck?”
“Who may I say is calling?” she asks.
“Jenna Porter. I want to talk to him about . . .” I swallow the knot in my throat. “Selling the Lit Apothecary.”
After a brief pause, she says, “I’ll transfer your call.”
“Thanks, Cheryl.” As miserable as I am, I can’t hold this against her.
“You’re very welcome. Have a nice day.” A click follows as she puts me on hold.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I mutter into the brief interval of empty static. I wonder if Cheryl even knows who I am. I don’t know which is worse—my pain being common knowledge at their office, or the thought that I might be just one insignificant drop in a sea of faceless deals.
Soon, a nasally male voice answers with, “Ronald Hollenbeck speaking.”
God, he sounds even more obnoxious than I imagined. I repeat my reason for the call, each word a fresh little stab in the gut. At least his tone isn’t too smug when he says, “I can set up a meeting as soon as tomorrow at nine. Does that time work for you?”
None of this bullshit works for me, but I guess it’s better to rip the bandage off as quickly as possible and get it over with. “Yes, I can do that,” I reply. I make a mental note to call Britt and ask her to watch the store . . . while I sell it out from under us. Fuck.
“Great,” Ronald says. “I’ll reserve a conference room for us to discuss the sales contract. Just stop by my secretary in the morning and she’ll direct you.”
“Okay, thanks. See you tomorrow.” I hang up and grab a pint of butter pecan ice cream from the freezer in the break room to try drowning my sorrows in sugar.
• • •
As I turn in to the parking lot the next morning, I realize that this is the same office building as the sperm bank. I got the address off Baxter’s website at the last minute, and I didn’t notice that the addresses were identical except for the suite number. But I’m in too much turmoil to care about the odd coincidence. I park and walk to the entrance, then pause, trying to will myself to step through those imposing glass doors.
God, I hate this. I don’t want it, I can’t . . .
I steel myself with monumental effort. There’s no other way. I have to make this sacrifice for my baby’s sake. I will not run away. I will not cry. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I walk inside to sell off a piece of my heart.
I take the elevator up to the top floor and greet Cheryl, who tells me that Ronald, some lawyers, and the CEO will meet me in conference room four. I go down the hallway she points toward and find it after only a few wrong turns. As I open the door, I scan the room, looking for a free seat while taking the measure of my negotiation opponents. A bunch of pasty old men, like I expected, except for—
My heart freezes solid. No. No fucking way.
At the head of the long, polished oak table sits Emmett.
I almost stumble backward out of my heels. This has to be some cruel joke. Emmett’s eyes have gone wide too. What’s he doing here? What the hell is going on?
&nbs
p; Before I can speak or run like hell out of there or do anything, a jowly man with salt-and-pepper hair walks through the door behind me, blocking my escape route.
“Ah, Mrs. Porter, you’re here,” he says.
I spin around. “Uh . . .”
“I’m Ronald. It’s nice to finally meet you in person. I admit, you’re even prettier than your voice suggested!” He chuckles as if he said something incredibly clever.
I finally fight off my discombobulation enough to mumble, “It’s Miss, actually.”
“Really? I find that surprising. Anyway, let me introduce you to our fine legal team, and of course our CEO, Emmett Smith.” He gestures to a very surprised-looking Emmett.
Our CEO. No . . . this isn’t a nightmare. I don’t know how this is happening, but it’s real. After all the sweet days and passionate nights we’ve spent together, now I discover we’ve been mortal enemies the whole time. The father of my child—the man I’ve fallen in love with—runs the company that’s been trying to pick over the carcass of my fondest dream, and I somehow had no fucking idea. Am I an idiot? Am I insane?
Ronald waits for a second, then realizes I’m not going to respond and clears his throat. “Ah, we have a fine offer for you. We’re willing to offer you a very generous price.” One of the other men slides a sheaf of papers across the table. “Please let us know what you think.”
Numb, I stare blankly at the contract. The insultingly low figure on its front page slaps my eyes again and again. I glance toward Emmett, who just sits there in total fucking silence.
Why isn’t he saying anything? Why is he even here?
I’m going to scream and jump out the window. No, I’m going to keel over and die right where I stand. No, I’m going to puke—
Oh shit. I really am going to puke.
Without sparing a glance at the cluster of shocked businessmen, I bolt out into the hall and barely make it to a bathroom before I’m throwing up. Hollowed out, I cling to the cold toilet, trembling.
Someone knocks on the door. “Jenna?” Emmett calls.