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 precisely 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.
7
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.
&
nbsp; 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.
That’s why my plan seems perfectly reasonable.
I don’t need to wait for Mr. Right when I have a model from my childhood for how to be Mrs. and Mr. Mom, all in one.
But lest anyone think it’s easy-peasy lemon squeezy to ask a man to whack off in a small room for your future mommy dreams, it is most assuredly not.
I am a cyclone of emotions right now. They storm and bluster inside me, nerves and fear and excitement all at once. But I batten down the hatches and march on. We Powers ladies know how to get shit done.
I square my shoulders, take a steadying breath, and confess.
“Here’s the thing. I’m suffering from a case of baby fever,” I say, and holy shit, my voice sounds borderline normal.
Ryder furrows his brow. “Say that again?”
“Baby fever. You know this thing women get sometimes?” I say, going for humor. That’s our shared language, Ryder and me. We joke, we tease, we play. “Apparently, I have a very serious case of wanting to have a baby, and it can only be cured by getting knocked up.”
He blinks, and yup, I’ve won.
I’ve now officially become the person who’s asked him the strangest thing ever.
And I’m messing it up.
That was the wrong approach. I grab the controls and try to steer the plane out of this impending crash. I wave my hands in front of my face, the universal sign for I need a do-over on account of being a ding-dong. I drag my fingers through my hair and breathe. Breathe again. Holy shit, when did inhaling air become so hard? Oh, right. When I had the harebrained idea to ask my coworker for a cup of baby batter.
When I raise my face and meet his eyes, I see the same confusion etched in them as a few seconds ago. But there’s kindness and patience, too, in his sky-blue irises. He’s waiting for me to keep going. He gives an easy nod that says it’s okay, I’m listening, even if I don’t get it yet.
“What I’m trying to say is that I want to have a baby. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time now, and I’m ready to become a mom. A single mom.” Once I’ve said those last two words, I feel emboldened. Bravado surges through me. This is my calling in life. The heart knows what the heart wants, and mine craves the pitter-patter of little feet. “I’ve been researching all the options, from adoption to sperm donation, and this might seem crazy, but I hope it sounds like the compliment I absolutely mean it to be.” I clasp my hand to my heart as the balding man in the booth behind Ryder raises a bottle of ketchup to pour some on his plate. “Would you help me?”
Ryder freezes.
The bald man does, too.
The bottle of the red condiment hovers behind Ryder’s handsome head.
I’ve shocked even the patrons surrounding us at Wendy’s Diner.
The enormity of the question I’ve asked expands between us. It is a balloon being filled with air. With each passing second, it grows larger.
Ryder doesn’t move. He stares at me with a quizzical gaze. His hands are in his lap. He’s a statue.
I let the air out of the balloon, releasing it abruptly. “What I mean is, would you be my donor?”
The balloon races across the diner, squealing and squeaking, landing splat on the table, the rubber a limp, pathetic mess.
Ryder’s brows knit together. He makes a sound. I’m not sure what noise it is. I’ve rendered him speechless. He swallows. Opens his lips. Tries to talk. He drags his hand over his jaw. His square jaw that I want for my baby. His genes are so fine, and now I’m wantonly coveting the DNA that made his face.
“Nicole.”
I try to read his tone, but it’s impossible. For several interminable seconds, I’m sure I’ve ruined our friendship and our working relationship.
I need words. I need to talk my way back to normal. I adopt a bright, cheery smile. “Hey, don’t worry about it. We can totally pretend I never said that. Let’s bring on the milkshakes and talk about Steve’s insane swing.”
His lips twitch, and he lifts his arm, stretches it across the table. He sets his hand on my right hand. “Nicole,” he says again, and this time his voice is strong, reassuring. “You caught me off guard. I never in a million years expected to be asked that.”
“It’s not exactly an everyday request,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “It’s not.”
“More like something from a sitcom, huh?” I say with a little we’re all good shrug.
“I don’t think it’s a sitcom,” he says, and I want to thank him a thousand times over for not bantering back with me. He seems to realize that now’s not the time for jokes. “Let’s talk about what you have in mind.”
My lungs inflate with oxygen again. I recalibrate, since I was sure he wasn’t going to be open to it, based on his initial reaction. But as I regard his kind eyes and his palm on mine, my pulse settles. His hand is warm, and it calms my nerves. It gives me the courage to begin.
“I looked into adoption, and while I think it’s amazing, I want to try first to have and carry a baby. I’m completely ready to do it on my own, so I’ve been looking into sperm banks.” I stop to roll my eyes in a self-deprecating way. “Believe me, I know it’s the height of irony that the gal who usually has open browser tabs full of the latest and greatest in vibrators and sexual positions now spends more time perusing the offerings at sperm banks.”
He smiles, and that’s another feature I can add to the list. The man has a great smile. It’s warm and exhilarating at the same time. “Some women are checking out Plenty of Fish. You’re checking out plenty of tadpoles,” he says, then makes a keep-talking gesture with his free hand. “Go on.”
“And the reality is pretty stark.”
“You mean the pickings are slim? Or there’s no one you want to bring home to mama?”
“Let me tell you all about sperm banks.”
A soft flurry of laughter falls from his lips. “Words I never thought I’d hear tonight. Or any night,” he says, and oddly enough, this conversation is going better than I expected.
8
Ryder
Before she can utter a word, the waitress returns with Nicole’s chopped salad and my burger. We say thank you, then I eye the lettuce, tomatoes, and carrots in Nicole’s dish with suspicion. “You sure about the burger thing?” I lift the top bun on mine. “Eat me. I taste soooo good,” I say in a cartoon character voice.
She laughs and shakes her head. “Thank you for the offer. But I’m cutting back on food that talks.”
“Tell me everything I ever wanted to know about sperm banks. But wait. First, can we just agree that the word sperm is up there with moist, pucker, and slacks?”
“It so is. We should call it cupcakes instead of sperm,” she says, and I’m glad we’re keeping it as light as we can, because this is such a serious topic. I meant it when I said never in a million years did I expect her to hit me up for some of my swimmers. I figured she had a crazy column in mind, too, or that she’d also been slapped with a new assignment from Cal—we’ve heard from a sexual researcher in Indonesia about five newly discovered sexual positions. Can you test them out and report back on their pleasure potential, please?
But this? She’s given me a bona fide, certified case of complete flabbergastedness.
I’ve no intention of becoming a dad, considering I don’t have a wife nor do I want one, since wives—in my experience—have a habit of spreading their legs when you’re not home.
Mine did at least.
With several men.
Yeah, that’s Maggie for you. The sweet little pastry chef had quite a secret life.
The woman who stood next to me in a church and took a vow before God and all our friends and family to be faithful wasn’t loyal at all. To top it off, she
was unfaithful in spectacular fashion. That’s how she did everything. With panache. With exclamation marks. When Maggie made a decision, she was all-in. She didn’t just cheat. She cheated seven times. With seven men.
But she was sorry. She was so very sorry. She didn’t realize she had a problem. She didn’t know she was addicted. Would I please stand by her while she sought treatment for sex addiction? Because she wanted nothing more than to conquer her addictive behavior, change, and remain my wife.
As if that was ever going to happen.
Look, I’m sympathetic to addiction. I have a cousin who has battled the demons of alcoholism. I get that addiction is a beast, and it can wrap a person in its clutches. I understand the painful toll it can inflict on a family.
But as a man, I couldn’t bring myself to look beyond what Maggie did to us. She admitted everything one evening in our living room after I’d just finished a report for a client.
“Honey, I need to tell you something.”
She kneeled beside my chair, clasped my hand, and then spewed forth her confession like vomit as she came clean and begged for forgiveness.
I was shocked. I was hurt, and I was, frankly, disgusted. “Whatever forgiveness you seek, you’ll need to find it with God. It’s not coming from your soon-to-be ex-husband,” I told her, and then I kicked her out.
Two years of marriage, nine months of engagement, three months of courtship. That’s 1095 days of my life flushed down the drain.
All of them a lie.
In retrospect, the signs of her extracurricular activities were there all along. Too much time on her phone, too many unexplained hours away, too many distracted moments. I’d chosen to look the other way because I’d loved her. But it’s amazing how quickly you can fall out of love with someone when they smash the vows of marriage and fidelity, stomping on them with steel-toed boots.
It didn’t take long to get over her. The ending of our marriage was like a crash course in how to un-love someone. I don’t have any feelings left for her except perhaps . . . mild pity. I’m also so damn grateful she chose to cheat early on—before we had kids.
The One Love Collection Page 40
