The Baby Maker

by Valente, Lili

  I’m a big proponent of the gut check. I don’t care how good you look on paper, if you trigger a “not safe” signal in my lizard brain, we’re not going to be friends, let alone create a life together. I’m not sure if creepiness is an inheritable trait, but I’m not willing to risk it, at least, not as long as I have other options.

  But do I? And if so, what are they?

  A few minutes later, I guide my bike into the winery’s drive and keep going, past the tasting room where Denver and Neil, my two ruthlessly charming hosts, are pouring wine for three couples who arrived in a stretch limousine.

  Usually I would pop in to say hello and visit for a while, but I need to conserve my energy. Bart, my vineyard manager, told me this morning that the grape sugar levels are right where I want them to be. Which means we’ll be starting our harvest at two a.m. tonight to ensure the fruit doesn’t get warm on the way from the vine to the crush pad.

  That also means an afternoon pleasure ride isn’t in my future. But that doesn’t mean I can’t find a place to enjoy the sights.

  I roll onto the multi-use trail that runs through the heart of the Green Valley wine region. It’s truly a stunning gift to the people of this county, chock-full of rolling hills, vineyards, apple orchards, and adorable Wine Country cottages, with plenty of strategically placed benches for sitting and enjoying the breathtaking views.

  Today, my favorite bench—the one dedicated “To Grandma Mona with All our Love,” with a vista of my own vines—is taken by two women in their mid-twenties, sharing a bottle of wine, a basket full of goodies, and a serious case of the giggles.

  The sight makes me lonesome for my sister, who also happens to give tremendous advice in times of trial.

  Once I’ve parked my bike and settled on my second-favorite bench a few yards away from the other women, I pluck my phone from my basket and pull up Carrie’s contact info. I’m trying to decide whether to text or call, when Giggler Number One says something so interesting, I can’t help but pause to eavesdrop.

  “Seriously. The Hunter men are famous for it. Women stand too close to them, and they end up pregnant. It doesn’t even require penetration. A Hunter man can knock you up with a hug. Even a handshake is dangerous.”

  Her friend laughs. “Stop it. You’re scaring me.”

  “You should be scared,” Giggler One insists, doubling down. “This isn’t an urban legend. This is the real thing, backed up by a family tree with more branches than spokes on my bicycle. Hell, you might be pregnant already just from the intense eye contact you and Rafe had going on.”

  Friend starts giggling again. “Oh my God, it was intense. He’s so incredibly hot.”

  “So hot,” Giggler One agrees.

  “So I don’t care if he’s got super sperm.” Friend swirls the straw-colored liquid in her glass with a jaunty wiggle of her shoulders. “My diaphragm and I are going in, girlfriend. It’s been too long since I’ve been with someone who looks like that in jeans.”

  But Dylan looks even better, I silently add.

  Dylan looks phenomenal in jeans, and he’s also a Hunter, one of these hypermasculine creatures rumored to have legendary fertility. And he’s not a creep, not even close. From everything I’ve heard around town, if you’re not bidding against him for a piece of property, he’s a nice guy. And even though I’m clearly not his favorite person, he’s never been unkind to me.

  He just…doesn’t like me very much.

  Right. He doesn’t like you, psycho, let alone LIKE you. Why on God’s green earth, would he even consider putting a bun in your oven?

  “Because I have something he wants,” I murmur aloud, text and call forgotten.

  I tap the edge of my cell against my lips, heart racing as a plan begins to form.

  Chapter 3

  Emma

  It’s a wild plan.

  A crazy plan.

  But a plan that might have a happy ending for everyone involved.

  Yes, I want Mr. Stroker’s land—it would be the perfect place to plant more cool weather Zinfandel, and it’s right next to property I already own—but I want a baby more. And if I promise Dylan that no one ever has to know, that it will be our secret, just the two of us until the day I die, maybe…

  Just maybe…

  I tell myself crazier things have happened. I tell myself super sperm is worth risking rejection and a mortifying “hell, no,” from a repulsed and outraged Dylan. I tell myself that I am a she-warrior and now isn’t the time to shy away from battle. I left a cushy job in Silicon Valley to run a vineyard with only three community college Ag classes and several years of Custom Crush hobby winemaking under my belt. I sold everything I owned—house and rental property—and sank it all into this dream I’m making come true with long days of hard work and a killer five-year business plan.

  But a dream come true doesn’t amount to much without someone to share it with. Someone to pass it on to…

  Back home, the three couples emerge from the tasting room as I’m biking up the path. The sight of the baby seat one of the women carries cuts through the last of my hesitation, searing away my doubt.

  That baby carrier is a sign.

  Everything that’s happened today, from wanting to jump Dylan’s bones at the coffee shop, to the baby in the buggy, to the little girl hugs and the doctor warning me it’s time to get busy, to the perfectly-pertinent conversation I just happened to overhear—they are all signs. This is my destiny, a challenge from the universe to see if I intend to keep that promise I made as I drove north on the 101 with everything I own in the back of a moving van.

  Am I really going to grab life with both hands and squeeze every bit of joy from it that I can get? Or am I going to be a coward who sits on the sidelines, waiting for someone else to decide if they can spare some happiness to toss my way?

  “No,” I say aloud, rolling my bike into the barn, where I’ve turned the old tack room into bike and kayak storage.

  I’m not going to sit and wait.

  I’m going to act!

  Soon. Very soon.

  * * *

  But I honestly don’t expect it to be that very night. I don’t expect the engine to blow on the rolling overhead lights Bart and I just checked out last week. I don’t expect Bart to run over to the Hunter place to borrow their light cart to ensure the safety of our harvest workers.

  I don’t expect Dylan to tow the light over with his tractor, or stick around to fuss over the broken engine with Bart, agreeing that a bum alternator is to blame. And I certainly don’t expect to be walking him back to his place after he graciously offers to leave his tractor so Bart can tow the light back to him in the morning.

  But here I am, flashlight in hand, soft moonlight overhead, and Dylan so close I can smell the laundry detergent, dust, and healthy male scent of him. He smells good enough to eat, or at least to bite. All over. One sexy inch of flesh at a time.

  Making a baby with him wouldn’t be a hardship, that’s for sure…

  But how to start a conversation like this?

  Where do I even begin?

  “Thank you again,” I say, my voice thin and trembly. I clear my throat, willing myself to woman up as I add, “I really appreciate the help. I can’t believe that light went out. It’s barely a year old, and Bart and I both ran checks on it last week.”

  Dylan shrugs. “It’s no big deal. I know how it is. Something always breaks at the worst possible time. It’s the Murphy’s Law of Harvest.”

  “Oh good,” I say with a laugh. “I mean, not good, but at least it’s not a sign that the wine gods are against me.”

  “No, I think the wine gods like you just fine. Your grapes look great this year.” He hums contemplatively. “Though, the Pumpkin King might have something against you, now that I think about it.”

  I peer up at him in the dim light under the trees. “The Pumpkin King?”

  “Yeah, the spirit who haunts the pumpkin patch.” He jabs a thumb toward Mr. Stroker’s property. “Does
n’t like pretty blond women? Would prefer a man who knows his way around this land to lay claim to his three acres?”

  I stop on the trail, which is abandoned at this time of night, nothing but a winding ribbon of silver and shadow in both directions as far as the eye can see. But the light is better here, giving me a clear view of Dylan’s teasing expression. “So you’re saying the Pumpkin King is a sexist jerk?”

  He grins. “Nah, he just likes guys.”

  “So it’s a sexual preference thing?”

  Dylan winks. “Exactly.”

  My pulse spikes and panic oozes into my bloodstream, cold and shocking.

  Oh my God, does Dylan…?

  Could he… Could I have read him all wrong?

  Unable to stop myself, I blurt out, “And what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  I clear my throat again, aiming for a casual tone. “Do you like guys?”

  “Um, no, not in that way.” He laughs softly, a low rumble that’s warm and lovely.

  “Oh. Good. Thank God.” My breath rushes out as I press my hand to my chest. I’m so relieved that it takes me a second to realize how that must have sounded.

  By the time I do, Dylan’s studying me with a cocked head and arched brows.

  “I mean, I d-don’t have anything against gay people,” I stammer, waving an awkward hand in the air between us. “I like gay people. Love them! I have lots of gay friends back in the city, and Neil, my tasting room host, is gay. I just meant…” I shake my head with a laugh. “I meant I’m, um…” I pat my throat, fighting my nerves as my brain screams to spit it out already and my pride demands that I abort this mission, run home, hide under my bed, and pretend this interaction never happened.

  Dylan nods slowly. “You’re what, Blondie?” His voice is deeper, huskier than it was a moment before.

  My gaze lifts sharply, connecting with Dylan’s. There’s an almost audible sizzle, and my heart gallops faster. It’s been a while for me, but that certainly looks like interest of a more-than-friendly variety flickering across his features.

  Time to go for it. All in. No backing down now.

  I lift my chin, maintaining eye contact as I utter the six terrifying words that have been floating around my head all night. “I have a favor to ask.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “A big favor,” I continue breathlessly, enough adrenaline coursing through my veins to make me feel like I’m chugging uphill on a roller-coaster, headed for one hell of a drop. “But before you say no, I want to promise you that no one ever has to know about this. And when I make a promise, I keep it. Forever. I will take this secret to the grave if that’s what you want. And I’ll withdraw my bid on the Stroker property tomorrow so it will be yours, free and clear.”

  His brow furrows. “You’re a confusing woman, Blondie.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, nibbling on my lip.

  He shakes his head. “It’s fine. I just thought I had an idea where you were going with that, and then you hit one into left field. So what is it you want me to do for you in exchange for withdrawing your bid?”

  “I, uh…” I attempt a deeper breath, but my ribs are in stress-induced lockdown. No more air is getting in, so I had better use what I have left to get the words out. “I want a baby.”

  Dylan’s brows shoot up so high and fast it would be funny if I weren’t so desperate for him to agree to my plan.

  “I know I could use a sperm donor,” I barrel on, figuring if I’m in for a penny I might as well gamble it all. “But I don’t want a stranger’s baby. I want someone I know is a nice guy, and everything I’ve heard about you has been great. People around here love you and respect you. And I know you don’t like me, but we wouldn’t have to be friends. It could just be something we do for a few months to see if it works, and if it doesn’t, then that’s fine.” I wave what I hope is a breezy hand. “No harm, no foul, and you still have what you want. Even if I don’t get pregnant.”

  He makes a strangled sound that it takes me a second to realize is laughter.

  “Don’t laugh, please.” Mortification rises inside me. “I know this may seem like it’s coming out of nowhere, but I heard these two women talking today, about how the men in your family have a reputation for—”

  “I know our reputation,” he cuts in, sobering fast. “That’s why I wrap it up. Every time. I don’t want any part of that reputation. I don’t want to leave a trail of fatherless kids behind me, and I’m not even close to being ready to be a dad.”

  “I totally understand.” I lift my palms, showing him I have nothing to hide. “And I’m not asking you to a be a dad. I would raise the baby on my own. And maybe someday I will marry, and the baby will have a father, but I’m tired of waiting for Mr. Right to make my dreams come true. I’m running out of time. I have to make my own dreams come true, and I want to be a mother more than I’ve ever wanted anything. And I would be a good one. I would love that child enough to make up for not having a father in the picture, I swear I would.”

  “I’m sure you would.” He drags a clawed hand through his hair. “But this isn’t about what kind of mom you would be, Emma. It’s about this being…crazy. I mean, I can’t even get my head around it.”

  I swallow past the lump rising in my throat. “That’s the first time you’ve ever said my name.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sorry about that.” He sounds truly apologetic. “I’m sorry I’ve been giving you shit and being an asshole.”

  “Thanks,” I say, tears rising in my eyes no matter how hard I try to fight them.

  “Seriously, it was nothing personal, I just… Oh God, don’t cry.” He reaches out, laying a warm hand on my shoulder. “Please, don’t cry. There’s no reason to cry.”

  I nod, but my face crumples anyway. “Sorry. I’m just so embarrassed. That was a hard question to ask.”

  “I know. I mean, I can imagine. Hell, come here.” He pulls me in for a hug, and I bury my face in his sweet-smelling flannel while he runs a soothing hand up and down my back.

  It feels so nice it makes me cry even harder.

  It’s been so long since someone touched me in a way that feels nice. I’ve been so lonely since Jeremy and I broke up. Since months before, really, when he started pulling away, distancing himself from our relationship as he started investing heavily in the bank of Jeremy and Veronica.

  “It’s fine,” Dylan murmurs as I continue to sniffle. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. We can pretend this never happened.”

  “Really?” I squeak.

  “Absolutely. I’m good at keeping promises, too. And if I promise to forget this conversation, then it’s forgotten. Word of honor. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I regain control as his hand shifts to a circling motion between my shoulder blades. “But I still won’t be able to look you in the eye for at least six months. Maybe a year.”

  “Well…what if I tell you something embarrassing?” he asks after a beat. “Or at least something I would prefer you didn’t know?”

  I nod with my cheek still pressed against his chest, relishing the powerful feel of his body through the soft fabric, taking my comfort where I can get it since I know it will probably be a long time before I get a hug from anyone else. “Yes, please.”

  His hand goes still as he says, “Every time I run into you when you’re wearing your glasses, I have to spend a good ten minutes fighting off inappropriate thoughts.”

  Surprised, I look up, but all I can see is the bottom of his chin. “What kind of inappropriate thoughts?”

  He glances down. “Thoughts about how much I’d like for you to shush me at the library, then take me back to your librarian’s office and let me apologize in private for being too loud.”

  My eyes widen, shock banishing the last of my sniffles. “You have dirty librarian fantasies about me?”

  His grin is strained, embarrassed, and one of the most charming things I’ve ever seen. “I do. I’m sorry.”

 
; “Don’t be sorry,” I say, lips curving as I confess, “I’ve noticed how nice you look in jeans. Even before I considered the…other thing.”

  “Yeah, the other thing.” His focus shifts from my eyes to my mouth. “You don’t want me for that job, anyway. I’m way too grouchy.”

  “You’re grouchy during sex?”

  His eyes darken. “No. Just in general. Could be something that’s passed down in the DNA, and you don’t want a grouchy kid.”

  “I’m okay with grouchy,” I say, a ribbon of hope threading through me. “Everyone’s grouchy sometimes. I just want a baby, Dylan. Grouchy or sweet, short or tall, boy or girl, I don’t care.” I lean into him, pulse leaping as my breasts press against his chest, and his jaw clenches in response. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but it wouldn’t have to be weird unless we let it be weird. And I’m perfectly willing to play librarian, if that’s something you’re interested in.”

  “Now you’re playing dirty, Blondie,” he says, but the nickname doesn’t sound teasing this time.

  It sounds like a warning, a promise that if I keep pushing, something is going to give.

  But that’s just what I want.

  So I smile and say, “No, not playing dirty yet, but that can be arranged.”

  Dylan pulls in a breath and lets it out long and slow, eyes blazing into mine. I can almost see the devil and angel going at it on his shoulders, each one giving their case everything they’ve got.

  Now all I have to do is make sure the angel is the one that wins. Because this truly would be a mission of mercy, a priceless gift I would be oh-so-thankful for.

  I press onto tiptoe, bringing my mouth closer to Dylan’s as I say, “Don’t answer now. Take your time, think it over, and make the decision that feels right. But just know that I would be so very grateful for your help.”

  I lean in, intending to press a kiss to his cheek, but he shifts his head at the last moment, and my lips brush his. The second we touch—soft skin on soft skin, breath mingling in the air between us—sparks ignite. Lightning flashes. Thunder rolls. And I’m pretty sure a hole is torn in the space-time continuum.