Baby Fever

by Landish, Lauren

  Brad shakes his head, sipping his wine again. “So do something crazy! You don’t need a guy to have a baby. Tackle both goals at once. Have a whole ‘I am woman . . . hear me roar’ moment and do it the turkey baster way. You’d be a great mom.”

  My jaw drops in shock, and I double-check my glass just to make sure I have downed only one. “Turkey baster way? What the hell are you talking about? Like get inseminated? I don’t think I could do that.”

  Brad lifts an eyebrow and drains his first glass. “Of course you can. Single moms are all the rage now . . . well, really, I think they’ve always been a thing, considering my mom raised me alone, and look how fabulous I turned out. But there’s no stigma these days, just one of many ways families are made. You could totally do it.”

  Brad judges my reaction, his grin widening. “You’re thinking about it! You are! Where’s your laptop . . . give it to me, bitch!”

  “Well . . . I guess there’s no harm in just looking. But that’s all it is, okay? I don’t think wine and artificial insemination mix.”

  “Nope,” Brad says while doing a quick Google search. “Wine tends to help with the natural way though. That’s been going on for thousands of years.”

  The dry humor helps, and in moments, we’re on a website full of the dos and don’ts of artificial insemination. It’s not trashy or desperate, as I thought it could be, and Brad nods.

  A few more clicks and he’s in a database of sperm donors, all available for purchase for artificial insemination. “Okay, hocus pocus, tell me your dream baby daddy and we’ll cook him up right here.”

  There’s a series of drop-down fields, and I answer them in turn. “Tall, over six foot for sure . . . dark hair, brown or black. I don’t care about his eyes. Teeth . . . well, I don’t want anyone snaggletoothed, I guess, but I mean, who cares, right?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Brad says, clicking away. “Education level?”

  I think, but it’s really not that hard. “I don’t care if he’s a doctor or anything, but I want him to be smart.”

  Brad nods and clicks a few times. “And here . . . we . . . go.”

  Admittedly, I’m shocked when multiple options come back for my criteria. I mean seriously, where are all these tall, dark, handsome, smart guys in my life? There have to be some around here if I actually got out a little, but here I am, looking at a website full of men who match all of my boxes. We click around at the different listings, some with pictures and some anonymous.

  As we start going through the profiles, Brad chuckles. “What about Tyler here? Says he makes soap.”

  “Does not!” I giggle. “It says he’s a plastic surgeon.”

  “Which means those dimples for damn sure aren’t natural.” Brad laughs. “Hmm . . . Michael?”

  “Looks like he’d be a lumberjack,” I protest. “Beards might be in fashion with some guys, but he most certainly needs a trim.”

  “Good point. What about Rex?”

  I pretend to gag, shaking my head. “Oh, hell to the no. He looks like Pee Wee Herman!”

  Brad throws up a hand and gives me a look. “Fine, you tell me. Who’s your type here?”

  I look up and down the list and point out one with piercing green eyes and a clean-shaven jaw that looks strong enough to slice through steel. “Here’s one. Whoa, that Superman could save me any day!”

  Brad hums, nodding as we pull up the profile. “Six-four, two twenty-five? Too bad for me he’s straight.”

  “How can you tell?” I ask. “It’s just a picture.”

  “Trust me,” Brad says. “I’ve got an eye for it. Now Don, here . . . just no,” Brad hisses, shaking his head with distaste. “Jesus, girl, he looks like Jeffrey Dahmer and Charles Manson had a baby!”

  “Lord have mercy,” I say with a laugh, almost thinking the same thing as I see one scary-looking dude with a mullet.

  Brad lets out a harrumph, turning the picture to the side. “Well . . . I don’t know, girl, from this angle he does look kinda cute . . .”

  “Don’t even start,” I say dangerously, cutting my eyes.

  We both stare at each other for a moment before erupting into gales of laughter.

  After an hour of looking and the rest of the bottle of wine, Brad leaves, but not before one last parting shot. “Figure out what you really want and go get it. If it’s a man, you’ve gotta get out there. But if it’s the baby, just get yourself some baby batter and call it done.”

  I know he’s right, but I’m not really sure which of those options is what I want. Instead, I crawl into bed, not even bothering to clean up the dishes or brush my teeth.

  It can wait.

  Rose

  “Psst!”

  I look up from my laptop to see Hillary Youngman, one of my youngest customers even if she’s normally just in for costume jewelry, giving me huge eyes.

  “Yeah, Hillary?” I ask, minimizing my browser where I’m shopping for some new dresses to stock. “Why are you whispering?”

  “Is that . . . you know?” she says, tilting her head slightly to her left. I glance over to the tall, leggy raven-haired woman who’s currently looking through racks of coats. “From Westworld?”

  I nod. “She’s staying up at the resort,” I comment. “Just taking a break from filming.”

  “You mean,” Hillary says, her eyes going wild, “she talked to you?”

  My celebrity customer glances over at Hillary, whose voice went up a bit too high at the last comment, and smirks. I get it. I’ve had enough celebrity customers in the boutique over the past six months that I’ve gotten used to it. Some want to live the celebrity lifestyle. They want their asses kissed, but only in the ways they want them kissed.

  Thankfully, most of those avoid my boutique. I get the others, who are either normal people who work a rather unique job, or better yet, those who understand that their public persona means people might go nuts like Hillary is and are happy to interact with fans.

  In this case, my customer is the best kind. “Excuse me,” she says in that lilting British accent that I find charming, “I could use some help.”

  “I’d be happy to,” I reply, but I see her shake her head slightly. I get the message. “But . . . Hillary, would you mind helping me out? I think you might understand what she needs more than I do.”

  Hillary goes over, and I know I should be excited. She’s going to have a great story to tell, and probably a little bit of gossip to share later. Win-win for the boutique. Instead, my brain has swirled on Brad’s parting words last night over and over, and I’ve been perusing the sperm donor site every time there’s a lull in the shop. Thank God for multiple tabs in a browser.

  I’ve been looking at it so much that I’m actually starting to think it might be a good idea.

  God help me.

  I’ve picked out a couple, but one is really the front-runner. The guy that Brad and I both agreed looked like Superman just keeps popping up in my mind, and I checked the website. They’ll deliver nationwide. During lunch today, I even went down the rabbit hole of a few recipient forums where they talk about the whole process.

  “Hey, Rose?” Hillary calls, submerging herself fully into her role as ‘assistant’. “What’s the price on this one? The tag fell off.”

  I glance over to see her holding up a faux leather jacket that I think is way too thin for when we get into deep winter, but right now, it should look chic and sexy up at the resort in the evenings. “Hundred and seventy-five, but it’s faux leather.”

  “Perfect for me. I’ll take it. And that should be all for now.”

  Hillary brings up the jacket, and I ring up the total—nine hundred dollars. I offered to give a discount because she volunteered to take a selfie with me and Hillary to post on her Instagram and Facebook pages, but she wasn’t having it.

  After they leave, I go back to my browsing, biting my bottom lip. Time to fish or cut bait, I think.

  Closing my eyes as I take a big breath, I make my choice. I’m d
oing this. I’m really going to do this. Tick-tock away, you bastard clock. I’m taking the bull by the horns, controlling my own destiny, and fate had better watch the fuck out because I’m in charge.

  I go to the front door of the boutique, flipping a sign to say Back in Ten Minutes and grab my phone, dialing my doctor. “Dr. Eldrich’s office,” the nurse, Melina, greets me. “How can I help you?”

  “Melina, it’s Rose Samuelson. How’re you doing?”

  “Oh, it’s a good day, Rose. How’s the boutique? Got anything especially cute in?”

  “Check my Facebook later and you’ll see a great selfie I just took,” I reply. “But in the meantime, think Dr. Eldrich can fit me in for a checkup?”

  “Just a checkup?” Melina asks, and I feel a flutter of nervousness. Dammit, Melina, it’s not your business! If I want to do a checkup because I want to do mail-order baby making, that’s my business.

  I swallow back my biting reply, knowing she’s just doing her job. “Yeah, if you don’t mind.”

  Melina hums, and I tap my foot impatiently. A few seconds later, though, she comes back. “Okay, Rose. I looked through Dr. Eldrich’s schedule, but he’s going on vacation next week, so for just a checkup, it might be a little bit. But we’ll see you soon and I can call you if he has any cancellations.”

  “That’s fine,” I reply, knowing that I could sweet talk Brad into covering for me last-minute if they do get a cancellation. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, and if I get a cute outfit in that I think you’ll like, I’ll show you some pics.”

  I hang up, feeling a new lightness. Step one of Project Have My Baby complete.

  This calls for a celebration. To hell with it. The Mountain Rose is closing a bit early today.

  Knowing that Brad and Trey are probably going to be busy making up for their missed date last night, I decide to celebrate on my own. A toast, if you will, to single motherhood.

  Grabbing one of my just-in sexy new dresses off the rack—and enjoying the hell out the employee discount—I slip into the dressing room and change. A glance in the mirror tells me all I need to know. My spun-silk hair hangs sleekly down my back, my not too bad curves are banging in this slim-fitting dress, and my eyes are alight with joy. Sure, I might look a little better with some of Brad’s makeup artistry on my face, but I think I could turn a head or two tonight.

  Grabbing my purse from under the counter, I’m ready to celebrate. I head out to my car, and twenty minutes later, I pull up in front of the Mountain Spirit Resort Hotel, the biggest key in the success of my boutique. Really, I didn’t plan the similarities in our names, and the management here is totally cool with it, especially considering I’d been here for a couple of years before they even laid the resort’s foundation.

  A single woman walking into the bar at the local resort would usually seem like the start to a tasteless joke, but this place is really a gathering spot for locals and tourists alike. Besides, it’s got the best views of the whole valley and great music. While the old Grand Waterways south of us might have a better spread of buffet food, I’m not looking to stuff my face. I’m here to celebrate.

  I perch on a barstool near the wall, ordering a Michelada with an extra twist of lime. Sure, beer and bloody Mary mix might be weird to some people, but it’s good shit and it’s my ‘thing’. When the bartender delivers, I lift it up slightly, closing my eyes momentarily in a silent toast to my future.

  Relaxing as the spicy goodness creeps down my throat, I sigh happily. The music’s just right, real bluesy rock that isn’t quite roadhouse but certainly isn’t pop-rock. Just right for getting my damn groove on, and after finishing off half my drink, I wonder which should come first, dancing or food.

  My question is quickly answered a moment later as a guy approaches and pulls out the stool beside me, resting on the edge of it but facing me.

  “Hey, gorgeous, how’re you doing tonight?” he asks, all swagger and cockiness in his designer jeans and shirt that’s a clear Ralph Lauren knock-off. He’s not too bad, but all of my switches are saying nope.

  “Doing okay,” I reply politely, trying to say with body language that I’m not interested.

  “So . . . you lookin’ for some company? Because I gotta tell you, I would love to see if our companies could merge for the night.”

  Ugh. Really? That’s like nerdy and creepy at the same time. Still, I shake my head and don’t throw my glass at his chest. “Sorry, I’m here to celebrate myself tonight. But thanks for the offer.”

  Luckily, he takes the hint and meanders off, leaving me to enjoy the rest of my drink.

  I’m debating whether to get a second glass when I see a man among men walk around me toward the bar. Tall, dark, and handsome . . . check to the check. He turns, glancing to the side, and I nearly have a heart attack when I see that he’s got a jawline that makes Mr. Superman Sperm Donor look like a total softie.

  He’s been sitting a bit behind me, in my blind spot, so I hadn’t noticed him, but I’m sure noticing him now. I surreptitiously try to look him over more thoroughly, but it’s difficult in the ‘mood lighting’ of the bar. Dark waves flop down over his light olive complexion, just in line with my eyesight, so I can’t even see much more than his fine aquiline nose. But I can see his broad shoulders and a swell to his chest that nearly leaps off his torso in thick slabs of muscle. He’s gotta be ripped as tight as that waistline looks. I can even see the ripple of muscle under his thermal shirt.

  He must feel my eyes on him because he drops his hand after ordering a drink and turns, his eyes meeting mine as soon as he turns. They widen just slightly, and I get to see his face completely.

  He’s even got piercing eyes, a dramatic golden hazel that glimmers in the light. I smile at him, a little flirty but not too forward, and I’m rewarded by a flash of white teeth and a set of dimples deep enough to swim in. I watch, enthralled as he picks up his beer and a yellow tablet from the bar and strides toward me.

  I follow him with my eyes until he’s standing right beside me. His deep voice is smooth as silk as he asks, “Mind if I sit down?”

  My tongue feels thick in my mouth and I’m not sure I can speak just yet, so I make an offering motion with my open hand, my smile growing wider. To hell with it. Celebrating by myself is lame. I can certainly celebrate with a fine looking man like this without any problems.

  He offers a hand, and as soon as I take it, I feel a spark shoot from my hand through my whole body. “I’m Nicolas Broadmoor, Nic for short. And you are . . .?”

  “Rose,” I say, my heart hammering in my chest. I feel like I’ve just dropped into a movie where there should be music playing in the background to tell everyone watching, ‘Hey, big shit’s going down!’ “Rose Samuelson.”

  Nic smiles and sits down. “I would love to say ‘a beautiful name for a beautiful lady’ but I know that sounds like a pretty lame pickup line. It’s not. It’s just the truth.”

  He shrugs as if I’ll never believe him, but he wanted to say it anyway. I laugh a little, caught off-guard that this gorgeous man could possibly be calling me beautiful.

  I mean, I’m pretty enough, I guess. I even thought that about myself when I put on this dress back at the boutique. But it’s not something I hear from a man often, if at all, especially not one like this fine specimen here. Something about the way he calls me beautiful feels like the best compliment I’ll ever receive.

  I decide right here and now to order another drink and see where this goes. “Well, Nic, I suppose everyone’s allowed one bit of corn in a first conversation,” I reply. “So, what brings you to the resort?”

  “Work and pleasure,” Nic admits. “I’m a Vice President of Sales for ADRENALIN Sports.”

  “ADRENALIN?” I ask. They’re not the biggest sporting goods name in our part of the country, but they’re up there, and I’ve checked out their site a time or two. “Thinking of opening a store in town?”

  “No. I handle direct sales,” Nic says. “We don’t have too ma
ny traditional stores. They’re a remnant of a merger we did a while back. The resort’s looking at stocking some stuff they’d rent to guests.”

  I nod, impressed. “You must be into sports yourself.”

  Nic grins, looking boyish as well as handsome as hell. “I’ve done outdoor sports for a long time. Hiking, mountain biking, skiing, kayaking, ATVs. Hell, if I could do it outside, I’ve done it. Of course, they don’t make a lot of college scholarships for being able to do Spartan Races, so I got my MBA and turned my passion into my job. So far, it’s worked out. How about you? What do you do?”

  I blush. I hate trying to talk about myself, but I know it’s part of the dance. “I have a boutique in town. It’s a small place, but I get to be my own boss, which is nice.”

  “That’s very true,” Nic admits. “Except you don’t have anyone to bitch to when the boss makes you work overtime.”

  I laugh, nodding. “I haven’t really thought about it that way.”

  Nic laughs. “So what do you like to do besides work?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I admit with a laugh. “I mean, years ago, I liked doing outdoor stuff, but I’ve been spending almost all of my time indoors. I’m just glad the local gym downtown is open until midnight and has a good set of rowing machines.”

  Nic hums, looking me over again and making my skin tingle. “I’d say your gym deserves credit then. You too.”

  I feel my heart start hammering again. The way he’s looking at me makes me feel like I haven’t felt in a very long time. “So, how did the meeting go?”

  Nic chuckles ruefully and sips his drink. “Not as good as I’d hoped. Let’s just say that I need to talk with the head office to make sure this isn’t just a great tax write-off trip.”

  I laugh. He’s not cocky but confident. “So, drowning your sorrows?”

  “Nope, not that kind of guy,” Nic admits. “I’m going to step back, reformulate my plans, and meet again with the general manager tomorrow afternoon. This time, I’m not going to walk out without a handshake at the least.”