The Knocked Up Plan Page 10

  Cal sighs heavily as if acknowledging my point is a burden. “Yes, admittedly, you did.” He claps his hand on my shoulder. It’s not a friendly clap. “But this is the issue, Ryder. You’re attracting this type of listener in the first place thanks to the attitude you’ve had for the last several months. The advertisers aren’t marketing body spray. This is a show about love and intimacy. That is the company mission. We aren’t trying to provide hookup tips, and our advertisers don’t want to be associated with that sort of content. We have higher-end advertisers who want a show that reflects classier content.”

  “And I’m working on changing it,” I say, trying to keep my cool.

  “Work harder. Work faster.”

  “I said the trapeze was fun.” I clench my fists tight at my sides. The more he breathes fire at me, the more I miss the olden days as the Consummate Wingman, when I set my own hours, focused on the clients, and worked on my own terms. I delivered the goods and didn’t have to convince a boxed-in boss that I had his sponsors’ best interests at heart.

  “Yes, you did mention the fun,” Cal concedes, then straightens his pastel pink tie. “But why not talk about how the trapeze and the catch and the acrobatics helped you and the woman connect? That’s what our advertisers are backing; that’s the content they want to support. Talk about the romance. Talk about how you got to know her better.” He arches one salt-and-pepper brow. “Did you get to know her better?”

  The question is pointed, inquisitive, and none of his fucking business.

  And yet, it’s precisely his business.

  Literally, because I charged the trapeze lessons to my corporate card, and figuratively, because the success of these dates is the only thing between me and keeping my fucking job.

  Images snap before my eyes—a half-empty exercise room, my book in the bargain bin at the bookstore, a phone that doesn’t ring with client inquiries anymore. Good thing I socked plenty of royalties and fat paydays away in the bank, untouched by Maggie. Still, the cushion is thinning.

  “Did you?” he asks again, waiting.

  I rub my hand over the back of my neck, remembering the way Nicole flirted on the platform, how she announced to Callie I was going to knock her up, how she so willingly took on each challenge on the swing. But I learned, too, that she’s not balls-to-the-wall all the time. The neighbor nearly killed her drive. But even when she was embarrassed that night, she was unafraid to speak her mind.

  And once she let go, boy, did she ever let go.

  The woman is everything you’d think a dating and sex columnist would be—uninhibited. Goddamn, it was hot. It was hot on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday night, too.

  Yes, we’ve been practicing baby-making every night. It’s not a tough job, and hell, am I glad I get to do it.

  “Yes, I got to know her,” I tell Cal.

  “And did you like her?”

  Now he’s really getting personal. “We had a great time.”

  He beams and drops a hand on my shoulder, squeezing in a paternal way. “Now, talk more about that next time. You set the agenda for the show. The callers will follow your lead. I have faith you’ll get there.”

  He turns and walks the other way, and I briefly contemplate finding the nearest boxing gym and signing up for lessons right the fuck now. I blow out a long, frustrated stream of air that does nothing to release the coiled tension in my body.

  When I spin around to head to my office, Nicole is walking toward me. She looks good enough to eat in her tight jeans and a pink sweater that hugs her breasts deliciously. My eyes shamelessly tour her body—her curvy hips, her long legs, her gorgeous face.

  The tension in me unwinds, and I breathe again.

  But it’s short-lived when an unpleasant notion touches down. I hope to God Nicole didn’t hear that exchange. I don’t want her to know exactly how short a leash I’m on. It doesn’t exactly cast me in the best light.

  “Hey,” she says, her blue eyes soft. “You okay?”

  I try to school my expression, to erase any residue of annoyance. “Definitely.”

  She shoots me a skeptical look. “Are you sure?”

  I’m not going to air my dirty laundry with her. She didn’t ask me to knock her up so she could hear about my shitty encounters with my boss. I change the subject. I let my gaze drift purposefully down her body. “Have we got a date with your uterus tonight?” I ask in my best dirty tone, even though there’s nothing sensual about the word uterus. “If memory serves, we were going to try position number three, so we don’t get addicted to position one.”

  “Ooh,” she says with a naughty edge to her voice. “But position one is so good.” She inches closer. “I love getting on my hands and knees for you.”

  A groan rumbles up my chest, and my dick springs to attention. “And now you’ve made it virtually impossible for me to work the rest of the day.”

  She wiggles an eyebrow. “But before we try position three, I think we should tackle something from your list.”

  “Cupcake tasting?” Cal will like that. I’ll talk about cupcakes on air like a goddamn boy scout.

  “I have something else in mind. Can you be ready by seven?”

  Color me intrigued.

  I say yes.

  I lunge to the right, skidding across the court as I reach for the racquetball, slamming it to the wall. The blue orb screams back at Flynn. He grunts as he attacks it with a ferocity that sends it spiraling to the wall once more.

  I huff and scramble for it.

  We keep up a relentless pace, serving and slamming, slamming and serving, until finally, fucking finally, my friend misses.

  “At last,” I say, breathing hard as I reach out to clasp his hand.

  “Damn it.” Flynn stares daggers at me through his racquetball goggles. He’s wildly competitive, which is all the more amusing because he was never a high school athlete, nor a college one.

  Flynn is a former nerd.

  Actually, he’s still a nerd, and like many of them, he’s a rich one. If you believe the magazines, he’s a rich, hot, available nerd, making him one of New York’s most eligible bachelors or something, thanks to the lady-killer grin, black glasses, stubble beard, athletic build and fat bank account.

  He’s a member at this racquetball club, and I’m his guest. Rich, hot, available, and generous. I don’t mind that I’m the recipient of his guest pass largesse.

  Flynn points the racquet at me. “One more game?” The man is intense, determined, and pretty much addicted to both exercise and competition.

  I shake my head as I grab my gym bag from the corner of the court, pulling off the goggles. “I need to call it a night, man. I’ve got a date.”

  That piques his interest as he takes off his goggles. “Who’s the lady?”

  “Someone from work. She’s my Ping-Pong partner.”

  “That sounds vaguely dirty. Does she play with your—”

  I slice a hand through the air. “Nope. Cutting you off. Don’t go there.”

  He sighs in frustration. “Seriously? I can’t make a ball joke?”

  I clap his shoulder. “Love you, man. But I’ve told you a million times. We need to send you back to humor school.”

  “You don’t want to hear my new knock-knock joke?” he asks as I push open the door and we head into the hall.

  “What have I told you about knock-knock jokes?”

  “But I think you’re wrong. Just try this one. Knock, knock.”

  I groan as the tread of our sneakers echoes in the hallway. “Did you try it on Dylan first?”

  Flynn scoffs at the mention of his brother, who’s the co-founder of the company they run. “No way. This is solid gold knock-knock shit. I’m not wasting it on my twin brother.”

  “Fine. I’ll bite. Who’s there?” I ask reluctantly.

  “A pencil.”

  “A pencil who?”

  “Never mind. It’s pointless.”

  His delivery is one hundred percent dry. When his joke fully
registers, I laugh lightly. “That’s your first not terrible joke.”

  He pumps a fist. “Progress. See? I can learn.” He clears his throat as we head down the steps. “Listen, I need to ask you for advice.”

  “Sure. My advice is if you’re going to be addicted to knock-knock jokes, find more of that kind.”

  “I have a date tonight, and since you’re the dating king . . .” He scratches his jaw as we near the first floor of the club. “Listen, I’m going to sound like a gigantic douche for this.”

  “You’d have to try pretty hard to sound like a gigantic douche with me. Trust me—you’ve no idea the level of douchery I’ve heard in my job.”

  He smiles faintly. “Here’s the deal. I don’t know how to tell if a woman is into me for my huge dick or my huge wallet.”

  I nod. “Ah, the dilemma of the twenty-seven-year-old tech millionaire.”

  He shrugs. “Told you. It sounds douchey. Except the dick part. That’s just true.”

  I laugh as we stop at the door. “I don’t want to talk about your dick. But the rest is fair game, and I get it. You want to know if a woman likes you for you and not because your company is the hottest shit around.”

  “Yeah,” he says, vulnerability etched in his green eyes. “It’s not like I have a problem meeting ladies or scoring dates. But once I sit down with a woman and she finds out what I do, her interest shoots up exponentially. And I don’t know if it’s me or my money. Dylan has the same issue, so he’s going to use a matchmaker. But that’s not my bag.”

  “You’ve got a date tonight, you said?”

  He nods.

  I clap his shoulder. “You’re good at assessing risk and opportunity in business, right?”

  He nods, giving me a duh look. He didn’t get to where he is now without being fucking awesome at it. “I rock at that.”

  “Think of her like some new tech app or algorithm.”

  He blinks, confused. “A woman is like an algorithm?”

  I nod. “I honestly have no idea what an algorithm truly is. No one does except tech geniuses like you. The rest of us use algorithm as this catch-all term to refer to something behind-the-scenes that makes the Internet do its magic.” I pretend to type numbers into a keypad as I make beeping sounds. “The point is,” I say, rapping my knuckles on his forehead, “use that portion of your head. Try to analyze her interest in you like it’s a business problem someone brought to you. If one of your engineers came to you and said, ‘Boss, does this algorithm make my app run faster?’ you could tell, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tonight, when the woman says, ‘That’s so interesting that you graduated summa cum laude from Yale,’ or ‘So you say you live in a brownstone in the Village?’ as she bats her eyes, ask yourself if those questions make the algorithm work better, or if they tell you a Trojan horse virus is trying to fry the whole fucking system.”

  Flynn laughs. “Now you’re talking my language.”

  “And if all else fails, just take it slow.”

  “Because if she wants my money then she also wants to ride my ride?” he asks, pretending to grab his crotch, as he does a dirty grind.

  I shake my head. “No. What I’m saying is if you take it slow, then you can make sure she likes you for you. I know that might sound contrary to every piece of advice given to men these days. But for you, since you want to make sure the woman wants your heart,” I say, tapping his chest, “you take it nice and easy.”

  “Nice and easy,” he repeats, as if he’s hearing the words for the first time. “I can do that. Riding my ride can wait.”

  “Exactly. Romance her. Get to know her. Let her get to know you. Think of it more like a courtship.” Funny, Cal would be proud of me, since I gave advice that’s love-related. And I actually enjoyed it, too. I didn’t feel quite the same bitter aftertaste I experienced at the session with the Tinder-loving dickheads a few weeks ago. More than that, the advice feels spot-on for my friend.

  “What about you?” Flynn asks, raising his chin. “You taking it slow tonight?”

  I scoff. “Not in the motherfucking least. But my situation is completely different.”

  “Because you’re not looking to settle down?”

  I tap my nose. “Bingo.”

  It’s close enough to the truth, I reason, as I head home to shower before I see Nicole. I’ve got to smell nice so she’ll want to ride this ride tonight, even if I’m a sure thing.

  Seventeen

  Nicole

  Ryder grabs his hair. He’s so worked up I’m surprised he doesn’t yank it out.

  “Are you crazy? That was totally a foul!” he barks into the sea of screaming fans as he reprimands the refs. Along with nearly twenty thousand others doing the same at this preseason game.

  Ryder is one of those obsessive sports guys who get riled up, and I can completely relate.

  “Are you kidding me?” I shout down to the court. “That was so foul it should be in the garbage.”

  He snaps his gaze to me and raises his eyebrows approvingly. “Excellent trash talk. I had no idea you had it in you.”

  I suppose that’s the point of dating—to learn these things. Or, in our case, let’s call it practical dating. He parks himself in his seat, and I plop down next to him as the game resumes with an ear-splitting whistle.

  “That was highway robbery,” he says over the stomping of feet in the stands as the Knicks run up the court.

  “It was a bald-faced crime.”

  “Theft, I tell you.” He holds up a hand and we high-five. “By the way, when you said something on my list, I thought you meant the list of dates for the dating guide. But this is way better.”

  I point at him. “Your list of ideal dates. The ones you told me about when you asked for mine.”

  “And you remembered.”

  I’d sensed he’d had a shitty day at work. Even if he doesn’t want to talk about it, I don’t need to be a rocket scientist to know. Our boss is tough as nails, and while I’m Cal’s golden child right now, it’s because of my show’s ratings and the column’s popularity. If Cal’s riding someone hard, it means he needs more from them to please the sponsors. That’s not a fun position to be in, so I called in a favor. Delaney’s boyfriend is a big-deal entertainment lawyer with contacts all over the city, and he snagged last-minute tickets for tonight.

  Since Ryder’s whisking me around Manhattan on my most favorite dates, I can try to do the same for him. Now, I’ve a happy man by my side, which is exactly how you want the man tasked with knocking you up to feel.

  After the Knicks score again, we stand and cheer. Ryder wraps his arms around me and plants a PDA kiss on my lips. “What if the kiss cam caught us?” he whispers.

  “How scandalous,” I joke.

  “If the kiss cam was on, I’d give you one of those kisses where I bend you back and you have to rope your arms around me and hold on tight so you don’t fall.”

  I lick my lips, inviting him.

  His eyebrows rise, and he pretends to talk to himself. “And then I said to myself, why am I not doing that now, anyway?”

  He loops a hand around my back, dips me as far as he can without bumping the people next to us, and kisses the hell out of me. We’re in the midst of thousands of raucous fans, and he kisses me like he knows my body. Like he knows how I like it.

  Slow and tender at first. A teasing slide of lips—just enough so I can taste his spearmint breath. Once I’m under his kissing spell, he parts my lips, opens my mouth, and tangles his tongue with mine. Softly, I moan into his mouth. A shudder runs through my body, and everything goes hazy. My brain sends the message to swoon, just swoon.

  That’s how he kisses me.

  But he doesn’t stop there. For the second act, he kisses deeper, harder, with a hint of what he’ll do to me later. A little rough. A little greedy.

  All manly.

  My knees go weak.

  It’s the strangest thing, because I’m in public and the roar o
f the crowd and the sound of the buzzer should be a turnoff. But he’s such a turn-on that all I want is to grab his hand, tug him out of the stands, and yank him into the bathroom next to the nacho stand.

  And, honestly, I think bathroom sex is way overrated.

  Sure, sometimes it works out with Os for everyone. But that’s mostly in fiction. In the pages of a book, you never hear about the smells in the restroom. Who wants to screw when it stinks like urine? Not this girl.

  That’s why I break the kiss—so I don’t yank him into a public restroom. I breathe out hard, finger the collar of his soft T-shirt, and whisper, “If you kept doing that I was going to tackle you and hump you right here.”

  He laughs, the sound mingling with the noise of the crowd, the thump of shoes, the jeers and cheers. As we sit, he says, “I probably wouldn’t object.”

  I run my hand up his arm, feeling his bicep. “What the hell do you do to get these guns?”

  “Weights.”

  “No.” I pretend to be shocked. “Don’t tell me that. You’re naturally perfect. You’re naturally toned.”

  “Ha. If only.”

  I lift my chin haughtily. “I refuse to believe you’re anything but a perfect specimen of DNA.”

  His smile disappears. When it registers what I said, I wince. Have I insulted him by making him think all I want is his perfect DNA?

  Well, that kind of is all I want.

  Why, then, does it feel as if I’ve said the wrong thing?

  The Knicks win, and we cheer outrageously for their victory, but something feels off. I know it’s what I said earlier about his DNA, except the hustle and bustle of Madison Square Garden is not the time or place to make it right. Even though Ryder isn’t a man to hold grudges, I want to clear the air, to let him know I don’t just view him in this one-track way. Even though I suppose it would seem like I do.

  We reach his building after a short ride, and we head up the steps to his small one-bedroom. As soon as the door shuts, Romeo leaps up and slathers his master in kisses.

  “Hey, boy, were you good while I was gone?” The dog answers with a wag and a long sloppy kiss. The master responds with a chin-scratching. There’s such affection between them, and I wonder if Ryder was always this sweet with his pup, or if he poured more love into the dog after his marriage ended. Do we have a finite amount of love inside us that we allocate to the people and animals we fall madly for? And if someone breaks our heart, can we simply siphon off that love toward another creature? As the dog rubs his white and brown snout against Ryder’s leg, I suspect this creature helped his best friend through heartbreak. I’d like to give the dog a biscuit. I’d like to give him a whole pack as a thank-you.