Cowboy Baby Daddy (A Secret Baby Romance Compilation)

by Claire Adams

  “Well, you’re not secretly a fireman, are you?” I ask.

  He’s clearly unsure whether I’m serious or not. It’s pretty hilarious.

  I bring him back to focus easily enough, though.

  “No, I’m not a fireman,” he says, “but I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to get a costume or—”

  “It’s not the uniform so much as it is the fact of being a fireman. If you’re not, you’re not. That’s okay, though,” I tell him.

  The truth is that I’m just trying to avoid answering the question a little longer. My fantasy’s nothing ultra kinky or anything, it’s just not something I really talk about that often.

  “Well,” I say, “if you’re sure you’re not a fireman…”

  “Pretty sure,” he says, placing his hands on my hips, guiding my motion, his light push and tug suggesting a slightly quicker pace.

  “Under a waterfall at sunrise,” I tell him. “But that’s not really something we can do now, is it?”

  “Not really,” he says, and laughs.

  “Well then,” I say, leaning forward once more.

  His hot breath makes the sensitive skin tingle, and the attention of his mouth makes my toes curl.

  “If you’re not a fireman, and we’re not under a waterfall at sunrise,” I say, “I guess there is one thing we could try.”

  He leans his head back into the sofa cushion.

  “Yeah?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “It may sound kind of weird,” I tell him. Now I’m really nervous.

  “That’s okay,” he says.

  “I’ve always wanted to go out to a bar or some other public place,” I start again.

  “Yeah?”

  “Pretend we don’t know each other,” I continue.

  His hands move to the small of my back.

  “Yeah?” he asks, pressing himself into me sweetly.

  “Have an ‘impromptu’ date,” I continue.

  Yes, I make the little bunny ears with my fingers.

  “Then go back to your place and make passionate love, knowing that this is the start of something beyond our wildest imagination.”

  All right, my fantasy’s out there.

  Weird, maybe, but not kinky.

  “One quick question,” he says.

  “What’s that?” I breathe, running my fingers through my hair as I slowly ride him.

  “As your place is kind of my place, too, would that still work?”

  I scoff and lift myself off of him.

  “You have no imagination,” I tell him. “You’d bring me back here, unlock the door, and we’d obviously end up in your room.”

  I kiss him deeply and pat him on the chest.

  “Right now, though,” I tell him. “I really have to pee.”

  * * *

  After my less-than-dignified departure from our lovemaking, I can’t help but feel self-conscious again. It’s a stupid and ridiculous expectation that women can never be assumed to be creatures that use the bathroom, but there it is.

  That said, I came back out to the living room to find Dane missing from the couch.

  I called out to him and he answered from his room.

  Still naked, I asked him what he was doing, and he answered, simply, by saying, “I have a feeling I’m going to meet a beautiful woman in a bar tonight. My psychic senses—which, I certainly have—tell me that her name will be Leila, and that we’re going to have one of those once-in-a-lifetime meetings. I want to make sure I’m prepared.”

  He was laying out a black button-down shirt, black pants, and a red tie.

  Now, I’m sitting at Locus, ordering a tequila sunrise.

  “I’ll buy that drink,” a dashing, if somewhat overdressed, man with a red tie tells the bartender.

  “Thanks,” I say, then quickly turn my attention away from him.

  “Mind if I sit?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Just keep your hands to yourself,” I tell him.

  “That might be a problem,” he says.

  I turn and, mouth agape, ask, “What did you just say?”

  “I said that won’t be a problem,” he rejoins, smiling. “So, where are you from? Are you a born New Yorker?”

  “Not at all,” I tell him. “I’m from a dreary little town where the movie theater only shows movies that came out 10 years ago.” It’s a lie, but tonight is about improvisation.

  “Sounds terrible,” he says.

  “Actually, I really miss it,” I tell him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wondered if you could help me with something.”

  It’s a bit forward, but I’ll allow it. “With what do you need my help?”

  “Fancy,” he teases.

  I roll my eyes.

  At no point did I tell him my fantasy involved me making it easy for him.

  “I’m a chef at l’Iris,” he says, “and I find myself with the night off and nobody to enjoy a nice dinner with me.”

  “l’Iris,” I say. “That’s pretty impressive. I love their confit de canard.”

  “You know, we actually just call it candied duck in the kitchen. The whole overuse of French thing is kind of played, don’t you think?”

  He’s apparently not going to make this easy for me, either.

  Well-played, sir.

  “Losing my lady boner,” I tell him. “Yeah, I really can’t get away with saying that, can I?”

  He laughs.

  “Well, it’s about the last phrase I expected, but it put a smile on my face.”

  “Okay,” I start again, “so you’re a chef at l’Iris with nobody to join you for dinner. Is there anything else, or were you just lamenting?”

  “I was wondering if you might know anyone who’d be interested in a free, very high class dinner.”

  “I might,” I elude, “but I hardly know you, and I haven’t even finished my drink yet.”

  I may have forgotten to mention that torturing him a little was part of the game.

  He takes it in stride, though.

  “Well,” he says, “I can certainly understand that. These days, you can never be too careful. For all you know, I might be one of those corporate types who works for one of those evil investment firms.”

  The statement probably wouldn’t have been near as amusing if I hadn’t just taken a sip of my drink. I cover my mouth and do my best to control my laughter long enough to swallow the liquid.

  “Oh,” he says skeptically, “don’t tell me…”

  “I’ve been an intern at a brokerage in town for a while now, and I just got hired on full-time at Claypool and Lee in Jersey.”

  “Oh, God,” he says. “Not only do you work for those greed mongers, you’re actually moving to New Jersey? The humanity!”

  “Sad to say we can’t all cook for a living,” I rejoin.

  “I know, but can you imagine what a wonderful world that would be? Everyone makes a living making delicious food?”

  “That would be insanely boring,” I tease.

  I’m about to relent and agree to dinner, but he just keeps going.

  “Oh well, I guess you all know what the pinch was like during the recession—oh wait, you’re the only people in the country that profited from it. Isn’t it weird how big businesses tell us that any kind of government aid is socialism, but those same companies are so quick to snatch any bailout money or tax breaks that come their way?”

  “Yeah, we should probably stay away from politics,” I tell him.

  His face goes a little red, and I can only hope it’s from the realization that he just equated what I do with organized crime. I might just end up going home alone tonight.

  “I’m very sorry,” he says. “I was only joking.”

  “Right,” I say, and turn back toward the bartender. “Could I get another tequila sunrise?”

  I turn back toward this handsome, if a bit precocious rogue, wondering if he’s going to pick up the tab for that one as well.

  He doesn’t.

 
“You know,” he says, “I had a roommate once who loved tequila sunrises, too.”

  Oh, watch your step.

  “Yeah?” I ask. “She sounds utterly delightful.”

  “Oh, she is,” he says. “I mean, she was.” He leans in close to me and says, “Do I go present or past tense there?”

  “I really don’t care,” I whisper back.

  For a man so evidently skilled at picking up women, he’s really putting on a lackluster performance. And I was so hoping to find out exactly what it is that he said to those women to get them to go home with him so quickly.

  Then again, I don’t really want to be just another pickup to him.

  I may have unwittingly placed us both in a quagmire.

  We sit awkwardly a moment.

  “You know,” he says, “I think I’m doing you a disservice here.”

  “Are you, now?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I came over here trying to be Mr. Polite while trying to spare you some of my more potent charms.”

  I can’t not laugh.

  “Oh, really?” I ask. “So, you’re telling me that if you were to really turn it on, I’d be sexual putty in your hands. Is that about right?”

  “No about,” he says. “That’s exactly right.”

  “Now this, I have to hear.”

  “All right,” he says, “but it’s probably going to take another approach. If I just keep sitting here and turn it on, it’s going to make this whole conversation lopsided. Therefore—”

  “Therefore, you want to start an entirely new conversation?” I ask.

  “Yep,” he says, getting up from his bar stool. “We’ll give it, say, five minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Either he’s really this clumsy or this is just another part of his play. It doesn’t really matter to me; I’m finding this rather amusing.

  Dane is barely out of my sight when I feel someone tapping me on the shoulder. I turn around, ready to ask how he made it so quickly to the other side of me, but it’s not him standing there.

  “You’re Leila, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, using nearly all of my focus and willpower to prevent my eyes from rolling. “And you’re Wrigley.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I didn’t know if you’d remember me.”

  “Well, seeing a person’s vag before seeing her face has a way of leaving an impression,” I answer.

  She smiles.

  “I just wanted to let you know that I know you and Dane are having a thing right now, but he really dropped the ball with me,” she says. “I’d really prefer to leave you out of it, but I’d keep my head down if I were you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Whatever happens, just stay out of my way: that’s all I wanted to tell you.”

  “Listen, razor burn,” I start, “I don’t know who you think you are, but you don’t get to tell me anything about anything. I get that you and Dane used to be fuck buddies or whatever, but maybe it’s time to open your legs for someone else.”

  I don’t usually talk that way, but I can’t help but feel a bit proud of myself.

  Then it occurs to me that I’d probably lose and lose terribly in a fight with this chick.

  Now, I’m not feeling so well.

  It takes her that long before she reacts. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you for a virgin,” she says. “Anyway, I didn’t come over here to threaten you. I just wanted to let you know that whatever happens to Dane, you might want to keep your distance for a while.”

  “In what way is that not a threat?” I ask. “Just what exactly are you planning to do to him?”

  “Nothing he doesn’t deserve,” she says. “I told him to find out whether his feelings for you meant anything or if he was just hard for the roommate experience. I didn’t tell him to fall in whatever and stop attending his responsibilities.”

  “His responsibilities?” I ask. “And just what in the hell might those be?”

  I’m starting to wonder where Dane is.

  He’d better have a really solid excuse for leaving me to deal with this skank bag.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “He may not take me very seriously, but he will. You should probably start taking me seriously, yourself.”

  “How exactly am I supposed to do that?” I ask. “You were classier when you weren’t wearing pants.”

  She smiles at me again, and I’m thinking seriously about smashing my glass over her stupid head.

  “I think we’re getting off to the wrong foot here,” she says. “After all, I was rooting for you. I just don’t like that Dane thinks he just gets to up and abandon me in the process.”

  “What did you expect?” I ask. “Did you think he’d just start seeing me and not bother breaking up with you?”

  “Oh, we weren’t in a relationship,” she says. “Not really. It doesn’t matter. What we did have was the kind of thing a person only finds a few times in a lifetime if they’re lucky.”

  “And what was that?” I ask.

  “A sexual relationship that didn’t bore me after a couple of weeks,” she answers. “I get that you two are all googly-eyed or whatever, but that’s not what makes a relationship last.”

  “Oh? And what, oh great love guru, does make a relationship last?” I mock.

  “Fucking sexual compatibility,” she says. “Finding someone that knows exactly how to get you off—that’s what makes a relationship last. It’s not something that a person just has with everyone. It’s like emotional compatibility, only less full of the lies and nonsense and all the bullshit expectations. Sex is honest. Emotions are the fucking lies.”

  “I’ll take that under consideration,” I tell her, “but for now, I’d appreciate it if you’d get the hell away from me.”

  She holds up her hands, palms toward me.

  “Calm down,” she says. “I’m not here to ruin your evening.”

  “Bye.”

  She finally stops trying to teach me what’s really important in life and walks away.

  As for me, I’m fuming as I down the rest of my drink. I think about ordering another, but really can’t see the point. Knowing me, I’ll just end up doing something embarrassing and tomorrow I’ll be twice as upset about everything as I am now.

  When Dane walks over, I try to be attentive, to seem interested, but that redheaded idiot has succeeded in ruining my mood.

  He asks me what’s wrong, but I’d just as soon forget that beast ever walked in here. I just tell him that I’m not feeling so well and ask if we can do this another time.

  I’m not mad at him, though, even though that would make my life a little easier in the extreme short-term. Wrigley made it pretty clear that the two of them are no longer seeing one another, and that’s really all I need to know about it.

  Still, I’m not about to forgive her for ruining what was supposed to be a fantastic evening.

  He takes me home, and I tell him that I just need some sleep.

  I don’t close my eyes longer than a blink all night.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Borders

  Dane

  So, last night was a bust.

  I don’t know what happened, but I’m pretty confident it didn’t have anything to do with Leila suddenly becoming ill. For now, though, I’ll just let it slide.

  She’s already off to work by the time I come out of my room—I should really ask her whether she thinks we really need to sleep in separate rooms. With as close as we’ve been over the last few days, it doesn’t make much sense to create that artificial barrier.

  C’est la vie.

  I shower and shave and perform the rest of my morning ablutions. I’ve been doing the purchasing, but today Wilks loses his training wheels.

  I’ve done my best to get him good and nervous for haggling with suppliers, but in reality, so long as he can put on a smile and chat without making a total ass of himself, there’s really nothing to worry about. I’ve already put in a good word with some of my favo
red suppliers, so today should go pretty smoothly.

  I give Wilks a quick call to make sure he’s up, moving, and ready to pee his pants when I tell him that he’ll be taking the lead negotiating prices today. It’s nothing personal; I just love fucking with the guy.

  He’s suitably tense by the time I hang up the phone, and I smile my way to the apartment door.

  When I open it, a small envelope falls to the ground. Curious, I bend down and pick it up.

  The front of the envelope has my first name on it, but no postage. I open it up and find a Polaroid inside with a very familiar redhead, legs spread with the caption “Wish you were here” written on the bottom.

  This might be funny or arousing if it weren’t so sad.

  The idealist in me wants to figure out a way to help her realize there are other things in life worth exploring, but the pragmatist in me realizes that I’m not fucking Superman. She’s been a coitus aficionado long before I ever met her, and while I would love to think that I’m capable of bending women’s wills with my mind, I’m not stupid enough to believe it.

  I didn’t ask for the picture, and I certainly didn’t take it myself, but I’m not about to just toss it on the kitchen counter for Leila to find either, so I put it in my pocket and lock the door as I leave.

  Wilks is waiting outside his building when I come around the corner. He sees me from a distance but still doesn’t have the confidence to just walk up to me.

  This has to be stopped.

  While I am effectively useless at influencing women’s actions, I am a savant when it comes to molding people in a kitchen. Wilks is technically my boss now, although I have a feeling that particular fact might slip my mind while I’m trying to build the guy’s confidence.

  I get within 10 yards of Wilks and stop.

  I know he sees me. After all, the guy’s waving.

  Our destinations lie in the opposite direction, and this is the perfect time to impart lesson number one of having your own staff:

  If you can’t approach

  Someone, you can’t possibly

  Utilize their gifts.

  Yes, lesson one is a haiku.

  Yes, all of the lessons are haikus.

  When I got my first head chef job a few years back, I had to learn all of these lessons the hard way. The haikus just help me remember them ,and I feel, give me the air of a guru whose every word must be followed.