by Kendall Ryan
“Jenna, this is Tomás. His family has owned this restaurant for almost fifty years . . .”
Tomás gives Emmett a look of good-natured exasperation. “Twenty-three years, to be exact,” he says to me. “The gringo comes here whenever he wants real food.”
With a grin, Emmett jumps right into what is clearly a well-worn game. “Aren’t you too old to still be running around waiting tables? You need to settle down, old man.”
“Ah, you wish. Would you listen to this young snot’s nonsense?” Tomás shoots an incredulous look at me, as if inviting me into their sparring match, before firing back at Emmett. “Speak for yourself. When are you going to settle down? I never see you here with the same woman twice.”
My ears perk up despite myself. Really? So he’s a playboy, huh? I guess I’m not shocked to hear that a man with Emmett’s looks gets around some, and really, his private life is none of my business. But it’s oddly disappointing to have his escapades confirmed. Maybe I just thought he was more mature than that.
I’m curious to hear how much more Tomás might let slip, but Emmett just laughs and waves off the insult. “Mind your own business.”
Tomás sighs, shaking his head with a wry smile. “Excuse me, ma’am, I’ll leave you to your meal. Have a lovely night, you two.”
Our waiter soon returns with a huge platter of tacos, steaming hot and wafting delicious scents of grilled steak, corn tortillas, and chili peppers. My mouth waters. Lunch was a long time ago, and Mexican food is one of my biggest weaknesses.
I bite into one of the tacos and don’t bother holding back a moan of delight. “Oh my God, you were right. This is incredible.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Tomás you said that.” Emmett chuckles as he picks up another taco.
We dig in with gusto, and I find that Emmett has a way about him—an easy charm—that makes me feel comfortable. There’s no fumbling for topics or awkward silences, and for that, I’m incredibly grateful. Just like I was in the elevator.
As we eat, I learn that he’s thirty-eight (but I wouldn’t have guessed it), his last name is Smith, that he grew up not far from here, he has two siblings, and his best friend is an attorney. It’s all such normal stuff that part of me keeps waiting to uncover something horrible about him. Like how he secretly keeps all his toenail clippings or has twenty-four cats. It’s hard to understand how he’s not married with a couple of kids by now. The normal ones always go first.
For a while, we just focus on enjoying our delicious dinner, keeping the conversation light as we indulge. Our arms brush from time to time. Our knees bump under the small table. The entire time, I’m completely aware of him, my entire body tingling and alive.
Our conversation runs naturally from discussing the amazing food to comparing our other favorite restaurants in the city to speculating on how our state college will do in the upcoming football season.
I suddenly realize that I’m having a good time—actually, a fabulous time. I’ve almost forgotten how nice dating can be. Emmett’s mellow vibe is contagious. There’s no pressure here. Just chilling out, sharing a meal, shooting the breeze. And I even get some top-notch eye candy with my meal.
When we’ve demolished most of the tacos, Emmett wipes his mouth and asks, “So I never asked, what do you do?”
“Oh, I’m in collectibles. Antiques, that sort of thing,” I answer vaguely before taking another purposely huge bite.
I used to love talking business. I was, and still am, proud of all the hard work I’ve done building my little specialty bookshop from the ground up. But the shop’s recent downturn in business has soured the topic with anxiety, and the recent buyout offer has made it even worse. Besides, I’ve found that men sometimes turn squirrelly when I mention my success as a female entrepreneur. If this were a real first date, I would want to gauge whether Emmett is the kind of guy who’s intimidated by ambitious women before I invest too much time in getting to know him.
I don’t have to invest the time, I remind myself. Because this can’t come anywhere near a real commitment. We might have had a fun couple of hours, but we’re not trying to start any kind of personal relationship here. I’m evaluating him for something much more short-term. I’m not looking for a partner; I’m looking for a donor. So there’s no point forcing the conversation into awkward corners. Win-win.
Emmett props his chin on his hand, leaning forward. His dark eyes examine me. “I’ve been dying to know . . . no offense, but how the hell are you still single?”
I almost laugh. I’ve been wondering the exact same thing about him. “That’s a very good question. My friends think my standards are too high.” But I’m not about to settle. High standards are a good thing, as far as I’m concerned.
He nods once, his eyes going more serious. “Hence, the clinic.”
“Yep. Or the ‘spank bank,’ as you not so affectionately put it.” I arch my eyebrows at him pointedly, although the effect is somewhat ruined by my smirk.
He holds up his hand as he grins back. “Trust me, I was putting it nicely. They once had a contest for new slogans. You should have heard the things people in my office came up with that week. Even my sweet sixty-year-old secretary got in on it. I can’t unhear some of those things.” He pauses, his mouth lifting in a mischievous grin, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to continue. “You spank it, we bank it. You throttle it, we bottle it. Things like that.”
“Oh my God.” A hand clapped over my mouth barely contains my very unladylike snort-laugh. And then my brain starts working. “You jack it, we pack it,” I say with a giggle.
“That’s actually pretty good.” Emmett chuckles along with me. Then his smile fades as he continues watching me from across the table. “I think it’s commendable, taking matters into your own hands, but what I still don’t understand is, why have a baby at all?”
The muscles between my shoulders tense just a little. That question is much harder. I play with my beer bottle while I think, picking at the paper label. Finally, I reply, “I don’t really know. Can anyone explain why they want to be a mother? I just do. I always have, ever since I was a kid myself. I could always feel something missing from my life. It’s almost like . . . a calling.”
I expect a blank stare, at best, and laughter, at worst. Instead, Emmett regards me with a serious, inquiring expression.
“I can’t say I understand, but I’ll take your word for it. I’ve got to say, that takes some grit to stare single motherhood in the face and say, ‘Bring it on.’”
I flush and shrug off the unexpected compliment. “I’m no braver than millions of other women in the world. I couldn’t put it off any longer, that’s all. I knew I wanted a child, and when I turned thirty-five, I realized it was now or never. I’d have to take matters into my own hands.”
Really, I just got tired of waiting. Sometimes it feels like I’ve spent my whole life that way, getting more and more frustrated until I finally just did for myself what nobody else would do for me. I was tired of living in a cramped, dingy apartment, so I saved up for a freshly built condo. Tired of busting my ass for a promotion that was always “Oh, it’s not in the budget right now, maybe next year,” so I quit my job as a supermarket-chain book buyer and opened the Lit Apothecary. Tired of fifteen years of serial monogamy, dating my way through what felt like every man in the city, sniffing and digging like a bloodhound for husband material, so I bought myself a top-of-the-line battery-operated boyfriend.
Going to a fertility clinic is just more of the same pattern. I realized all along that I needed one thing from a man—just one thing—since I wasn’t able to find someone I could see myself starting a family with, and the sperm bank was the solution.
“If this doesn’t work, I’ll adopt. I’m trying IUI first because adoption is expensive, and it can take a while. But I’ll make it happen one way or another, whatever it takes.”
“IUI?” he asks.
“Sorry. Intrauterine in
semination.”
Emmett nods slowly, a sober expression on his face. His gaze is intense. “I can’t remember the last time I met a woman like you,” he murmurs in a low voice with a heat that sinks into my skin. “I would love to help . . . if you’ve decided to let me.”
Down, girl. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“And I’d just be the donor. As I’ve said before, I don’t want any involvement.”
I nod. “I’ve thought a lot about this over the past couple days, and I’ve decided, yes, I’m interested. Assuming you don’t have any diseases or genetic problems.” I pull a small plastic cup out of my purse and set it on the table between us.
Emmett blinks at the cup in confusion for a moment. Then his jaw drops and his eyes widen as his stare snaps back up to me. “What the hell is this?”
“I’m not sure a physical relationship is the best idea. Dinner was great, don’t get me wrong, but I just don’t think sleeping together is a good idea.” I nudge the cup a little closer to him with a demure smile. “This is for your sample.”
Chapter Four
Emmett
For a moment, all I can do is stare openmouthed at Jenna. Did she just say my sample? No way. A fucking pee cup to catch the goods—is she insane?
I shouldn’t be pissed. She’s not exactly asking me for a hardship here. But orgasming into a cup isn’t what I want. She is, and right up until five seconds ago, I thought we were on the same page about this arrangement. I’ve been looking forward to taking this sexy firecracker of a woman to my bed tonight, not handing her my jizz in a sterile plastic cup. What a fucking letdown.
“Is there a problem?” she asks, blinking at me.
I manage to unfreeze my brain enough to respond. Leaning closer, I say quietly, “Hell yes, there is. I’m not jacking off into some cup for you in the bathroom of a Mexican restaurant. What did you think I meant by doing this ‘the old-fashioned way?’ I wasn’t talking about using a butter churn.”
“Of course I knew you were talking about having sex. I’m not that naive. And I didn’t intend for you to do it here,” she says, and it might be my imagination, but I think I see her flush a little. “I just decided the physical act of making a baby wouldn’t work for me.”
“Why not?” Could I have misread her that badly? No way. If I know anything, it’s how to tell whether a woman is interested in me, and Jenna’s been showing all the signs since the moment we met in that elevator.
“Because I didn’t want to invite any . . . complications.” She hesitates. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, you seem great and all, but I barely know you. We met two days ago. We’ve had one dinner together. I spend more time deciding on my next shoe purchase than the amount of time we’ve spent together.”
Is that all? So she’s not the type to fuck on the first date, no big deal. Was she worried about me trying to rush her? I would never pull a dick move like that—but then again, like she just pointed out, she doesn’t know me well enough to know that. I have to earn her trust the hard way.
I give her a reassuring smile. “That’s an easy problem to fix. We can keep going out and take things as slow as you need.”
“But I don’t want to take it slow.”
My eyebrows dart up. “Oh? I can do quick too.”
Her gaze drops for a second and she stammers, “Th-that’s not what I meant. I do feel like we click, but I just don’t have the time or energy for anything involved.”
Oh, I get it now. Looks like we’re in the same boat when it comes to dating.
I steeple my fingers in front of my chin. “I see where you’re coming from. But sex doesn’t have to complicate things.” In fact, in my experience, sometimes it makes them wonderfully simple. “If you just want to be fuck-buddies, that’s fine with me.” I flash her a wolfish grin. “More than fine, actually.”
Her eyes remain rock steady, unmoved by my flirting. This is the kind of stare down I’ve given to doomed opponents at the negotiation table, and I always win. But something about Jenna’s confidence leaves me feeling unsure.
Breathing a labored sigh, she explains, “This little cup ensures we avoid falling into any kind of relationship in the first place. I already have a life plan all worked out, and it doesn’t include a man.”
“Then it’s lucky I never have relationships anyway.” When she blinks owlishly, I elaborate. “Let me lay it all out for you. You’re clearly a very busy woman, and I’m a very busy man. I’m married to my job. It might not be the happiest marriage, but it’s still mine, and I don’t do infidelity. My life has no room for anything beyond one-night stands. I haven’t had a steady girlfriend in almost a decade. Shit, I barely have time to grab a beer with my best friend once a week, let alone take care of a kid. So, if all you want is for me to knock you up and then get the hell out of your life, that works perfectly for me.”
“Yeah, that’s all I want, no strings and things done on my terms . . . before and after, if you get my drift. What if you change your mind, though?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to worry about that possibility. Part of the reason I went for a sperm bank is so some stranger wouldn’t come crawling out of the woodwork someday, demanding paternity rights.”
“I swear, this kid will be one hundred percent yours. I’m willing to put that promise in writing, if you want. I won’t get involved or even have any opinions on how you raise him or her. Trust me, I’m happy to do nothing more than lend a helping dick.” Very, very happy.
Jenna’s expression changes from stubborn to thoughtful. She chews her lower lip, then replies slowly, “Well, if it’s legally binding, maybe. And I’ve heard that orgasms facilitate sperm uptake, so I guess having sex instead of artificial insemination might not hurt my chances of fertilization.”
This is the strangest dirty talk I’ve ever heard, but I’ll take my victories however I can get them. She’s willing to consider the idea—or at least stop shoving that damn cup at me.
I take the opportunity to press my point further. “Using a sperm sample defeats the whole purpose of my offer anyway. The reason I suggested this in the first place is so you didn’t have to resort to . . . what was it you said they did? Getting your cervix catheterized in some cold clinic.” I grimace and can’t help but notice the way Jenna’s mouth has turned down too.
“That’s a fair point.” She shrugs. “And you’re certain you can be no-strings about this?”
I nod. “Absolutely. You’ll be free to go your own way. Hell, if the kid wants to hop a train and run away to join the circus, they can be my guest. Just as long as you never let them go vegan.”
She snorts, trying not to smile. “You said you wouldn’t have any opinions.”
I put up my hands in mock defeat. “Fine. Just put the cup away, for God’s sake.”
She sighs but tucks it back into her purse, and I’m glad to see it go. Then she adds, “There is one more issue we should talk about.”
“Lay it on me.” Whatever it is, I’m sure I can deal with it.
“This might not be a once-and-done thing. We might have to keep trying to conceive for months. And since we’d be having unprotected sex, I’d need to see a copy of your test results to be sure you have a clean bill of health, and you’d have to agree to only sleep with me until we’re done.” Her eyes are sharp, evaluating me, but there’s vulnerability in them too. A hint of trepidation as she waits to see how I’ll react. “Can you commit to those conditions?”
I should be freaking out. Sleeping with only one woman for however long it takes her to pass a pregnancy test? She’s essentially asking me for monogamy until further notice.
But strangely enough, I realize I’m far from turned off. And it’s not just because of her assurances that she won’t get attached. I can already tell that having her once won’t be nearly enough to work her out of my system. Her sexy curves, her smart mouth . . . nope, Jenna isn’t a one-night kind of lady.
Intri
gued, I nod. “Yeah, I’m still on board. That makes sense, and I'm happy to swap test results.” In fact, I’m so on board for that, it’s all I can do not to pull her on top of me right now.
“Are you sure you’re good with all that?” she asks.
“Absolutely. We’re going to fuck, Jenna, and we’re going to do it until the job gets done.” I stand up, pull out my wallet, and drop a fifty on the table to cover our meal and tip. “So, are you ready to get out of here? No time like the present.”
She blinks up at me, looking confused, then chuckles. “Oh no, we’re not doing it tonight.”
“But you just said—”
“I’m not ovulating yet.” She stands up and pats my cheek, her coy smile maddening. “Good night, big boy. Let’s talk next Tuesday.”
I’m left standing openmouthed on the restaurant patio with tented pants, hot all over, watching her strut away down the street. And not even a good-night kiss to show for it.
Fuck!
• • •
My erection still hasn’t died all the way down by the time I get home. I park in the building’s basement garage and hurry up to my penthouse, eager for privacy. I can still feel the ghost of Jenna’s fingertips brushing my cheek, like the lingering heat of an ember.
I would have expected all this talk of babies and clinical stuff like ovulation to kill my boner, but somehow, with Jenna, it’s the total opposite—sexy as all hell. She puts everything out there so freely, no beating around the bush or getting embarrassed. My usual playmates like to have fun, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes it’s clear they lack the confidence and directness of maturity. Jenna is completely different. Not a girl, all woman.
God, I can’t wait . . .
After draping my sport coat over the back of the couch, I head to my bedroom and sit on the edge of the mattress as I unzip my pants and pull out my stiff cock. A sigh of relief escapes me at the first firm stroke. I close my eyes and let my legs splay open as I focus on the sensations. I jerk myself to dirty thoughts of Jenna, already feeling a warm tingle spreading through my veins.
