The Knocked Up Plan Page 4

  “He’s gorgeous. Just the other day I found myself cataloging his features. He really does have it going on. Plus, he’s smart and funny and good to animals.”

  Penny hums mournfully. “Too bad he’s not a donor.”

  “Ha. Yeah, it’s a bummer he hasn’t made a deposit at this sperm bank.” I tap the screen. “I’d order up one serving ASAP. Get that turkey baster inside me stat,” I bark as if I’d be saying that to the nurses while I tell them to shoot me up with Ryder Lockhart’s DNA.

  Wait.

  Ryder Lockhart’s DNA.

  The clouds part. The sun rises. The bells ring. Never have three words sounded more like a perfect solution to a problem.

  I straighten my shoulders. A zip of electricity buzzes through me. “Girls,” I say in a hushed voice, motioning for them to come closer. They scoot in, eyes eager.

  “He has everything I could want in a donor. Should I . . .?” I trail off, leaving the unasked question hanging between us.

  “Should you ask him?” Delaney supplies, like she wants to be 100 percent certain of my meaning.

  I fiddle with my napkin. “Should I ask him to be my donor?” It comes out like a croak.

  “You’re seriously considering him?” Penny asks, taking a deep breath.

  “Am I?” But I know the answer. I am. I really am, and now my stomach is parachuting and loop-de-looping with some wild combination of nerves and possibility. “Yes. I literally didn’t even think about it until this very second. But now that the idea is in my head, it sounds like the perfect solution. Is that the craziest thing I’ve ever said?”

  Normally, Delaney and Penny would tease me about all the crazy things I’ve said about dating, or the ultimate deal-breakers in dating profiles (submissive men need not apply at the house of Nicole), unexpected uses for oranges (guess . . .), and what number of battery-operated friends is too many (for the record, there is no such thing as too many).

  But my question isn’t in the same camp. It’s vastly different, and we all know it.

  A hush falls over the table.

  “If you’re asking if he has good DNA, I’d have to say yes,” Delaney says, taking her time with each word.

  “He’s certainly handsome,” Penny says.

  “He’s clearly smart,” Delaney adds.

  “He’s a perfect gentleman,” Penny points out. “At your office Christmas party last year, he offered you his coat. Remember how cold you were?”

  “Frozen,” I answer quickly. I’d dressed for fashion, not for weather, and the sleek red sweater felt like it was made of cobwebs that wintry night. When we all left the party together and the arctic tundra air slapped my face, Ryder gave me his jacket until the girls and I could hail a taxi. Confession: I wanted to keep that coat. It smelled like him. Like cedar and sexiness and total class. Its warmth and weight made me feel like I was enveloped in his arms.

  I wonder if those sorts of traits are passed on genetically – chivalry. In this case, I bet nurture won out over nature, since manners are usually taught, but why not give a man points for chivalry when it comes to rating his DNA, even though there’s no chromosome for it.

  And he earns lots of points for DNA. A flash of images pops before my eyes: framed photos I’ve seen on his desk of his niece, the times he’s helped his brother with his kid.

  “He’s a family man, too,” I say, penciling more tally marks in his column of pros. “He has a brother and a sister, and he helps his brother with his little girl. He’s picked her up after school a few times, and they’ve gone on little adventures around the city.” He has frequently updated me the next day in the break room about excursions to their favorite bakery, jaunts to gymnastics classes, or trips to the art supply store for the budding little painter.

  “Those are definitely attributes you won’t find in a sperm bank scorecard, but they’ve got to rate high,” Penny says.

  I nod, taking in the full scope of his potential, adding up all the little moments I’ve experienced with him as a friend and colleague in the year since he joined the company. Everything I know about him affirms that he’s both a good guy and a deeply good-looking guy. Sure, his show has taken on a sexier slant lately, but since my kid will have a dating guru as a mom, I’m not bothered that the rest of the DNA would come from another sexpert, too.

  Silence spreads as we all stare at each other, a tableau of three best friends deep in thought. Here we are considering something that has the potential to be amazing, but also incredibly complicated. I’ll need to have paperwork drawn up outlining expectations (just a small cup, please), as well as involvement (no need to send a birthday card), as well as compensation (how exactly do you put a price tag on that kind of prized DNA?).

  What would it be like for my friend and colleague to be the fa—

  But I don’t bring myself to say the F-word, even in my head. Because this isn’t a choice about how a baby makes three. Ryder and I aren’t a one and two, and that’s just fine. This is a choice I’m making to be a single mother, and I don’t need a father for my child.

  I just need the other half of the baking mix.

  As co-workers, the situation might be awkward. As human beings, it might simply be odd, too.

  But life is a string of uncomfortable moments, and our job as adults is to navigate through them with the least harm and most love. Asking him to donate sperm is awkward as hell, but it’s also precisely the sort of thing that professionals like us, skilled at discussing the ins and outs of the most bizarre requests men and women make to each other, could manage.

  That is if he says yes.

  Another nosedive.

  Oh God, I hope he says yes.

  He might say no.

  He’ll probably say no.

  But I’ll never know if I don’t ask.

  “Soooooo,” Delaney says, her eyes wide.

  “Soooooo,” I repeat. “I should ask him?”

  They wait for me to answer my own question.

  “I should?” It comes out tentative at first. I say it again, stronger this time. “I should.” It sounds right. I absolutely should ask him to be my donor.

  Penny and Delaney look at each other, then me. They say in unison, “You should.”

  “It’s so much better to know the donor,” Penny adds.

  “He’s the total package,” Delaney reiterates.

  “He really is,” I say, and it feels crazy, but incredibly right, too. It makes me nervous, but it excites me. I set my hand on my stomach, quelling the nerves. I look at the time on my phone. “There’s no time like the present. I’ll ask him tonight.”

  After all, this potential donor is as handsome as a girl can dream up and more. He’s got a little bit of everything a girl could want, and he has that extra something special that I especially need.

  He won’t want to be involved beyond the deposit.

  Six

  Ryder

  I slam the white plastic ball across the table, imagining it’s Cal, it’s Maggie, it’s the institution of marriage.

  What it is, though, is a perfect shot.

  However, our opponents are tough as nails, even with Steve’s crazy-ass swing.

  It’s down to the final serve. Do or die. The wiry guy is a determined mofo. He extends his left arm so far to the middle of the table that his teammate actually jumps out of the line of fire, like a frog skittering away from the street. But Steve’s backhand is so vicious he grunts as he returns the ball with astonishing power, sending it screaming in Nicole’s direction.

  Tension threads through me. No way can she get this. No way anyone can dive the way she needs to. But somehow, the woman stretches across the corner of the table and saves the ball before it rattles to the floor. In a split second, she hits it with a perfect return.

  Perfect because Steve’s teammate misses, since he’s still scrambling to get back into position.

  I thrust my arms in the air. Nicole hoots.

  “We are the champions,” she says, and t
hat calls for scooping her up. I lift her in my arms. “We absolutely are.”

  Buoyed by the thrill of victory, I squeeze her tight, and for a second her breasts are pressed flush to my pecs. Naturally, I have no choice but to swing my eyes downward, and hot damn. They are highly bitable. But then, this isn’t the first time I’ve noticed Nicole’s rocking body. She’s lush. Curvy hips, a delicious ass, lean legs. On top of that, she has that long red hair, those fantastic lips, and these light blue eyes that make you do a double take and wonder if they’re contacts, because how can anyone have eyes that shade of blue? I even asked her once, and she got in my face, opened her eyes wide, and said, “See anything less than real?”

  “Nothing but blue skies ahead,” I’d said.

  Also, it should be mentioned her ass is something I’d like to worship. I’ve checked out her backside pretty much every time she’s ever bent down to pick up a Ping-Pong ball from the floor. If I ever strip her to nothing, I’ll spend ample time nibbling it, no doubt. Then I remind myself to stop objectifying her. Besides, I need her advice and input. I’ve got to sell her on helping me with Cal’s do-or-die project. She’s the perfect companion to test these dates with me, and I need to find the right moment tonight to ask for her help.

  “Hey, superstar, want to get a glass of champagne and toast to our victory?” I say as we break the embrace.

  “I would love nothing more,” she says brightly, since the bar that hosts our games—the Lucky Spot—is known for its champagne and Ping-Pong nights.

  We shake hands with Wide Swing Steve as well as his teammate, congratulating them on a game well played.

  “Good job, guys,” I say.

  “You, too.” Steve shakes his head in frustration. “You two are a tough team to beat.”

  “Why, thank you,” Nicole says. “So are you.”

  When we reach the counter, I ask the bartender for the bubbly special—since, when in Rome—but Nicole declines and says she’ll have an iced tea instead.

  I arch a brow. She’s not a lush by any means, but we’ve had plenty of happy hours and Ping-Pong tournaments where we’ve toasted with wine, beer, or cocktails. A mojito is usually her poison. I’m about to ask why she’s going virgin, when she says, “What’s the strangest thing someone has ever asked you to do?”

  I blink but quickly find the answer. “A girl once asked me to meow till she came.”

  Nicole laughs. “I didn’t actually mean in bed.”

  “Ah, my misunderstanding. I took that as a natural baseline with you when you asked for strange.” I flash her my trademark grin. “Pillow talk and all.”

  She shrugs in a way that says natural mistake. “But did you turn on the pussycat charm?”

  “I’m all for making the woman happy. If she’d asked me to purr I’d have done that, too,” I say, as the bartender sets our drinks on the counter.

  Nicole strokes my hair. “Good, kitty-boy.”

  I reward her with a purr. Because her hand in my hair is purr-worthy.

  Her blue eyes sparkle in excitement. She lowers her hand to my ear, dragging her fingertip over the earlobe. Damn, this woman. One peek at the swell of her breasts, and I’m thinking of her sexually. “Can I scratch your ears, too?” she asks in a sexy, smoky voice.

  I lean into her touch, pretending to be a cat rubbing up against her, then laugh. “You’re right. This is getting strange.”

  She laughs, too. “Oh, sweetheart. I don’t think we’ve even skirted the surface of weird.” She reaches for her iced tea. After she takes a drink, she raises her chin and clears her throat. “What I meant is what’s the strangest thing someone’s asked you to do outside of the bedroom?”

  Her voice is different, more serious than usual.

  I stare at the ceiling for a moment. “I suppose it would be the time one of my clients wanted me to help him find a double-jointed woman.”

  Her eyes pop. “Did you?”

  “Nope. I wasn’t a matchmaker. I was always the lubricant,” I say, as music from the bar’s sound system switches to a pop tune.

  “Was being the operative word?”

  We don’t talk much about my fall from grace, but it’s no secret. “Was indeed. I suppose my days as romance K-Y are behind me,” I say curtly, then finish the champagne and set it down. “All right. Time to switch to something stronger.”

  I signal the bartender and order a Jack Daniels. When he leaves, I meet Nicole’s gaze. “It’s my turn now.”

  “Ooh, are you going to ask me a weirdest-thing type question?”

  “Not entirely. Mine is simpler,” I say, using this as a chance to feel her out about my ten-dates-to-love mission. “Would you be happy if a man took you on a trapeze-lesson date?”

  She smiles widely. “If I liked him, yes. I actually think it’s a great idea for a date. It’s fun, and it’s different. It’s daring, and it’s challenging.”

  “What else?”

  Her brows knit. “My ideal dates?”

  “Yes. What would float your boat after a trapeze lesson? A night at the museum? A boat ride around the city? A tour of cupcake shops?” I ask as the bartender returns with my glass of whiskey. I swallow some of it.

  “Tell me yours, and then I’ll tell you mine.”

  “Fair enough. I’d like to go to a Knicks game. Maybe a barbecue on a rooftop. She could hijack me and take me to a hotel.”

  She mimes writing in a notebook. “Taking this all down for posterity. Also, major points for hotel hijacking. That’s awesome.”

  “Your turn now.”

  “I do love cupcakes. Being female and all.” She taps her chin then snaps her fingers. “Geocaching,” she says, her eyes lighting up as she mentions the GPS-led outdoor treasure hunts. “I love big old scavenger hunts. I’m quite good at finding things, too.”

  I hold up a hand and count off on my fingers. “We have trapeze lessons, cupcake tasting, and a scavenger hunt. What else do you think a man could do to facilitate a woman falling in love with him?”

  “Besides not being boring? Not being an asshole? Not sticking his dick elsewhere? And not being totally focused on himself, but instead making her the center of his world because she drives him as wild as he drives her, leaving her weak in the knees from his kisses and vice versa?”

  I whistle, impressed. “Damn, woman. You just laid it all out.”

  She takes a deep breath and straightens her spine. “Speaking of laying it out, there’s something I would like to ask you. And this might qualify as the new strangest thing you’ve heard.”

  Her tone is stripped free of teasing and flirting. It’s earnest and honest, as if she’s about to ask me something serious, not something of the can you make me meow variety.

  “Hit me up,” I say.

  She glances around. Her voice is thin and nervous. “Mind if we go someplace quieter?”

  I’ve never heard Nicole speak with anything but brass-balls confidence. The sound concerns me, makes me want to ensure she’s okay. “Sure thing,” I say, as I set a hand on her lower back and guide her through the crowds at the Lucky Spot. “And wouldn’t you know, I’ve got something to ask you, too.”

  “You do?”

  “I sure do.”

  We leave the bar and head to the diner around the corner.

  She slides into a booth. “Do you want to go first?”

  I shake my head as I sit across from her. “Ladies first.”

  “You’re such a gentleman.” She places her shaking hands on the table.

  Before she can speak the waitress arrives. I order a burger and fries, and expect her to do the same, but Nicole opts for a salad and water.

  “Salad, water, iced tea?” I point at her, making a circle with my index finger. “Are you on a diet? Because you don’t need to be. You know that, right? Your body is spectacular.”

  She blushes then shakes her head. “Thank you,” she says, and I’ve never known her to be shy about a compliment. But then, I suppose I’ve never blurted out preci
sely what I think of her physical appearance. For a second, I hope I haven’t said something inappropriate. But then, this is Nicole. I told her the meow tale. We’ve long since done away with pretenses.

  “But I’m not on a diet.”

  “Good. Because the burgers want you to eat them, and you’d look sexy eating a burger,” I add, since evidently I’ve become a fire hose of compliments now that I’ve unleashed the spectacular body one.

  She tells me she’s trying to eat healthier. When she tells me why, I freeze.

  Seven

  Nicole

  I was raised by a single mother.

  Amanda Powers is absolutely kick-ass amazing.

  After my father died when I was young, she didn’t remarry, but in the last few years she’s met a widower named James who romanced her like I suppose only a silver fox can do—dancing, dinners at expensive restaurants, nights out at the ballet.

  When I’ve asked if she plans to marry him, she simply laughs and in her husky Faye Dunaway voice says, “I prefer to have a gentleman caller.”

  But she loves her gentleman caller, and he loves her, too.

  Her grief over my father was intense but not debilitating. A police officer, Robert Powers died a quarter century ago in the line of duty. One night when my father responded to an armed robbery, he didn’t come home.

  My mother was devastated. My brother and I were, too.

  But I don’t remember how much or for how long. That’s the thing about being five. My dad died when I was too young to have memories of him. My mother’s told me stories of my father, too, her high school sweetheart, a brave, honest, and handsome man.

  Faced with raising two kids alone, my mother remade herself. She took real estate classes, learned the ins and outs, and started selling apartments in New York City to support her family.

  After several years, she became one of the top brokers in this town, and she still is. That’s what she focused on as we grew up—mastering her trade and raising her kids. She did it with grace, confidence, and an unwavering faith in her ability to soldier on after the love of her life was killed.