by Kendall Ryan
Then she rolls over to the edge of the bed. “Sorry to run so soon, but . . .”
I can’t help the frown that pulls on my lips. I don’t want her to just rush off again. “Hey, where’s the fire?” I ask, sitting up.
“I have to drive home, figure out some dinner, and get to sleep so I can function at work tomorrow.” She leans down to pick up her bra and starts pulling it on.
I rest my hand on her still-bare shoulder. “Sleep is overrated, and I have food here. Or we could walk down to my favorite café and order breakfast for dinner.”
A stone forms in my stomach during the moments of silence that follow my suggestion.
She considers it, her mouth pressing into a line. “Pancakes actually sound pretty tempting. There’s probably nothing good in my fridge anyway.”
“Pancakes it is, then.”
I’m pleased to score what is technically a third date. I enjoy talking with Jenna as much as I enjoy trying to knock her up. And I like how normal it feels to eat together and do other things besides fuck. It may sound strange, but I haven’t met a woman whose company I truly enjoy outside the bedroom in a long time. I may as well savor it while it lasts.
After we’re dressed, we walk down the street a few blocks to the café. After we’ve ordered, I lean toward her over the small table. “So, how was work today?” Then I shake my head. “Wait, never mind, you said you don’t like talking about work. What would you like to talk about?”
She considers for a moment. “Tell me . . . what do you like to do for fun?”
“What we’re doing now is pretty fun. It’s sort of my number-one thing to do for fun, truth be told.” My smile crooks into a smirk.
She gives me a gently exasperated look. “I meant other than seeing women.”
“Usually work takes all my time, but every once in a blue moon, I manage to get away from the city and go camping or hiking.”
She blinks. “You’re a nature lover?”
“Oh yeah, big time.” I raise an eyebrow teasingly. “Why do you sound surprised?”
“I admit, it’s a little tough to picture you in hiking boots and canvas shorts. I’ve never seen you in anything less than business casual.”
“You’ve seen me in a lot less, actually.”
She chuckles. “You know I meant other than naked. So, how did you get into that? Not exactly the easiest hobby for a city boy.”
“I don’t often get time to go anymore, but yeah, the outdoors is a major stress reliever for me.”
I must not have been able to keep the disappointment from my voice. Something about Jenna makes it easy to overshare . . . but I shouldn’t give in to the impulse. This is supposed to be a lighthearted fling, and talking about childhood disappointments is the very opposite of fun.
I lean back and force a casual tone. “Even though I had to study business in college so I could take over when Dad retired, I took so many classes in stuff like canyoneering and ecology, I ended up declaring a second major in outdoor tourism. So, if you ever want to know the best way to fall off a mountain or what plants you can eat if you’re lost in the woods, then I’m your guy.” I chuckle, but it comes out half-assed, and I figure it’s time to change the subject. “Since we’re talking ancient history . . . how did you get to be such a bookworm?”
“Childhood is ancient history? Hey, what’re you implying about my age?” She smiles to let me know she’s just kidding and isn’t really insulted. “I don’t know. I’ve just always loved reading. My dad . . .” She stops with her mouth still open, closes it, then resumes. “My mom was always working and I was an only child, so books kept me company. Typical latchkey kid.”
I stop myself from digging deeper into that Freudian slip since she clearly doesn’t want to share. I, of all people, can understand one’s father being a sore subject. Besides, I’m not supposed to care in the first place. I’m not supposed to want to get closer—I mean, I don’t want to. It’s just simple curiosity. That’s absolutely all it is.
But there is something else I can’t stop myself from asking. “Speaking of your mom . . . she called you when we first met?”
“Oh God, don’t remind me.” Jenna laughs instead of groaning, though it’s clearly not such a horrible memory anymore.
“Sorry,” I say with a chuckle. I’m not really sorry, not about the events that led me to sitting here in this restaurant with Jenna after a night of wild sex. “But she knows about your . . . plans?”
She nods matter-of-factly, as if there’s nothing unusual about it. “Yep. Her attitude is, she raised me alone and I turned out fine, so she figures I can pull off single motherhood too.”
Interesting . . . implying the Dad Who Must Not Be Named either died or ran off. Either way, I can see why she doesn’t want to talk about him. “She sounds like a cool lady,” I say.
Jenna chuckles. “I don’t know if ‘cool’ is the word I’d use. She likes crocheting, kitten figurines, and reality shows. But hard as nails? Take no shit? That’s my mom.”
I laugh and almost say, I’d like to meet her someday. But at the last second, I swallow it. Getting to know Jenna’s family isn’t in the cards for us. How would she even introduce us? Hi, Mom, this is the guy who agreed to impregnate me.
Instead, I say, “I’m sure she’s right. You can handle anything.”
Jenna’s smile is appreciative and vulnerable and far too beautiful. “Thanks. I hope so.”
The pancakes arrive and we dig in with gusto, still chatting away. Our conversation winds on late into the night, and eventually Jenna glances at the time on her phone.
“I should probably say good night,” she says at last with a wry twist of her mouth. “I have to get up early for work tomorrow.”
“I’ll walk you back to your car.” I stand and offer my arm, and she takes it without hesitation.
We stroll through the quiet city streets together to my building. I follow her to her car, say good night one last time, and watch her drive away. Then I take the elevator upstairs to my empty penthouse.
As I walk down the hall, I remember how Jenna’s presence earlier seemed to fill the silence. She warmed this place.
I strip naked and get into bed. It’s gone cold by now, but the sheets still smell like her. Her sweat, her pleasure, her light floral perfume.
I stare at the pattern of shadows on the ceiling. Unbidden, the thought comes that this place is too big for just one person. It’s not the first time I’ve had that thought, but for some reason, tonight I can’t push it away like I usually do. Four thousand square feet is a little excessive for one person, I knew that when I bought the place, but it seemed fitting for the lifestyle I live. Always doing what’s expected of me, yet never doing what I want. A sense of melancholy takes over as I reflect on my future—or lack of a future—with Jenna.
We entered this strange little un-relationship to get Jenna pregnant. But once I succeed . . . I’m going to miss this warmth, I realize. Jesse was right. I don’t normally date women who are my age, or so smart and career-driven, or so sassy and kind in equal measure. Jenna stimulates me in many more ways than just physical.
No, dumbass, this isn’t dating, I think, correcting myself. We aren’t in this for the romance. Really, we can’t even become friends. We agreed right off the bat that we’d stay out of each other’s lives. The instant she pees on a stick and sees the plus sign she’s been longing for, it’s all over.
My life is about fulfilling obligations, doing what’s expected of me, and this is what Jenna wants and expects from me. Nothing more. That thought alone is enough to give me pause.
Rolling over, I shut my eyes. Enjoy this while it lasts, Emmett, and then move on.
Just like you do with everything else.
Chapter Eleven
Jenna
My pregnancy test appointment crawls closer. I itch with curiosity and anticipation, but I force myself to be patient and wait out the two weeks instead of r
aiding the corner drugstore for pee sticks.
I didn’t plan on contacting Emmett until I knew whether I needed another dose of sperm, but some combination of restlessness and horniness compels me to text him a few days after our last “meeting.” Before I know it, we’re texting every few days, although usually just to complain about work.
At home one night, I’m alternating browsing baby supplies online, trying not to eat a second bowl of butter pecan ice cream, and talking to Emmett. I’ve been in a shitty mood all week, and work today only made it worse. Luckily, Emmett understands. His company is apparently going through a rough merger with the competition, which only cements my conviction that selling out is the wrong thing to do.
After an hour of mutual bitching, I’m starting to feel somewhat better—until I go to the bathroom and find a big, fat, ugly red streak in the crotch of my panties. There’s even a slight smear on my white leggings, just to add insult to injury.
Dammit, this is the freaking icing on the cake.
I stare at the mocking stain. Everything makes sense now. Mood swings, food cravings, feeling fat and tired, wanting to drag Emmett back into my bed . . . I let hope lead me astray. I’ve been deluding myself into interpreting everything as pregnancy symptoms when it was just goddamn PMS.
I have never inserted a tampon so angrily in my life.
I ball up my bloodstained clothes and slam-dunk them into the hamper. Fuck my entire life. I need alcohol. I’m one hundred percent baby-free, so I’m allowed to drink. Hell, I’m entitled.
I change into a fresh outfit—with black leggings this time because, fuck you, Aunt Flo—pack up my purse, and head for the nearest bar, Crossroads Tavern. I’ve only been there a few times, but it’s a decent enough watering hole, and more importantly, it’s nearby so I can walk there. Drinking enough to dull my emotions without having to worry about driving home is my top priority right now.
The bar is packed, and as I squeeze inside, I see why. Everyone’s attention is glued to the big-screen televisions blaring a championship basketball game. Oh, whatever. I’m just here to drown my sorrows—as long as I can find somewhere to sit, I don’t care how noisy it is.
I shoulder my way through to the bar and shout over the noise of the crowd, “Double shot of tequila, please. And I want to open a tab.”
The bartender nods and trades me my order for my credit card. I take a gulp, shuddering at the burn, then sigh at the sweet warmth that spreads through my veins.
The crowd erupts in earsplitting clapping and hollering. Someone must have scored a crucial basket. Even though I don’t follow either of the teams playing, I turn my attention to the nearest television, just for something for my eyeballs to do while I drink. But I’ve barely finished my order before that gets too boring.
On a tequila-lubricated impulse, I pull out my phone and text Emmett: Hey, party at Crossroads, you in? I throw in a couple of random emojis for good measure, then get back to drinking.
I’ve polished off another tequila shot when a hand lands on my lower back. I whip around, prepared to deck whatever random asshole is trying to grope me, and stop short at the sight of Emmett. Looking agitated, he yells something unintelligible over the ruckus.
“What?” I shout.
“You shouldn’t be drinking,” he shouts back.
“I can do what I want.” My third shot arrives—or does it count as my fourth, since the first was a double? Doesn’t matter. I toss it down my throat.
“But what about the baby?” he insists.
My stomach squirms. “I can’t hear you,” I lie.
Emmett casts a frustrated glare at the huge, rowdy crowd. “Oh, this is ridiculous. Let’s get out of here.”
I set my jaw. “No. I want to get drunk.”
“You’re already drunk. I’m walking you home.”
Who does he think he is, my boss? I glare at him. “Fuck off.”
“Maybe later. Come on.” He calls to the bartender, “Excuse me, can I get her tab? I’m paying.”
I growl, but the bartender hands over my card, so I pocket it and grudgingly let Emmett drag me out of the bar. The sidewalk tilts under my feet but he holds me tight, not letting me fall to the pavement in a heap.
“What the hell is up with you tonight?” Emmett asks, staring urgently at me.
He has such pretty eyes. Like rich dark chocolate . . . and I’d kill for those long lashes.
“Hey, are you listening?”
Not really. “It’s fine,” I snap.
“But what if—”
“I’m not fucking pregnant, okay? I got my period. Happy?”
All the confused irritation instantly falls from his face. “Oh,” he says, his voice flat.
“Yeah.” Even though the quick motion makes me sway slightly, I look away, not wanting him to see how deeply this failure stings.
Before I know what’s going on, he pulls me into a tight hug. “I’m sorry.”
I stiffen, not expecting his comfort, then melt into it. The warm, solid strength of his arms brings a knot to my throat. My anger abruptly dissolves into being just plain upset. “It’s not fair,” I mumble, sniffing into his shoulder.
“I know,” he says gently.
“I t-tried so hard, I did all this shit, and it still didn’t work.” I know I’m whining, acting ridiculous, but right now I don’t care. If only for a few minutes, I feel like being fussed over. I feel like being a girly-girl who cries and gets emotional. “What’m I gonna do?”
He pets my back in long, calming strokes, as if I were a cat. “We can try again. For as long as it takes.”
“You’re being so nice to me.”
“Of course. We’re friends.” His hand pauses on my back for a second. “I mean, seeing you like this, who wouldn’t want to cheer you up?”
If I were any less sad and drunk and just generally discombobulated, I would start overanalyzing everything about this situation. But all I want right now is his comfort and concern.
No . . . that’s still not completely true. I don’t want just anyone’s sympathy. I want Emmett, and I don’t give a shit how it happens.
He leans away without breaking the hug, just enough to look in my eyes. “Feel better?”
I manage another long, wet sniff, and nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”
And I actually do . . . better enough, in fact, for my mind to return to the problem at hand. There must be something more we can do, some way we can make sure we take a better stab at pregnancy next time. The alcohol-soaked gears start turning.
Smiling, he brushes a stray hair out of my eyes. “I’m glad I could help y—”
“How often do you jerk off?” I say, interrupting him.
He blinks several times. “What?”
I step back slightly to pull a tissue from my purse and blow my nose. “Jacking off can lower your sperm count, y’know. So, how often?”
“I-I’m not telling you that,” he sputters.
I cock my eyebrow. “So it’s a lot.”
“No. When someone says, ‘No comment,’ it doesn’t automatically mean the most incriminating possible answer.”
“Fine. Doesn’t matter anyway. Going forward, next month, I want to institute a new policy . . . all of your orgasms belong to me.” I pull his hand down to cup my crotch. “Anytime you need to relieve pressure, you’re only allowed to use my pussy.”
His eyes get wider with every word, and his mouth opens and closes a few times. When he removes his hand, he seems reluctant.
“You listening?” I demand.
“Yeah, I heard every word. Believing them was the hard part.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, believe it. Yes or no?”
He licks his lips in what could be trepidation, but I hope is eagerness. Damn, he has some nice lips. Full, soft. I’d like those lips to go places.
What was I talking about again?
Finally, he replies, “If that’s what has to h
appen, then . . . I guess I can do that.”
I pump my fist in drunken victory and wince when my lower belly protests with a cramp. Agreeing on a plan has cheered me right up. More sex has got to equal more chance at a baby, right? And the prospect of hopping back into bed with Emmett is like winning the lottery.
“Is something still bothering you?” he asks, his voice warm with concern.
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just some cramps. No big deal.”
Some distant part of me is sober enough to wonder why I blurted it out like that. Normally, I’d hesitate to talk about Private Uterus Things with a man who’s not my boyfriend—hell, even some of my old boyfriends were jerks about it. But Emmett doesn’t seem grossed out, only sympathetic. And somehow, I knew he wouldn’t mind. Things have always been different with Emmett. Comfortable. Like I can share anything at all and he not only won’t react badly, he’ll actually give a shit about how I feel.
Must be because of our totally all-about-medical-stuff arrangement, and not at all about the way he smiles. We’re just friends. Not even friend-friends. Sex friends. Very sexy friends.
Shut up, brain.
Before I realize it, we’re walking, and soon we’re almost back to my apartment.
Emmett interrupts my increasingly dirty thoughts by suggesting, “Maybe I can lend a hand.”
I unlock the door and he follows me inside. We’re standing in my foyer, with only the dim lamp I left on to light our surroundings.
When I look up at Emmett, I see he has that gleam in his eye that I’ve learned to recognize. The sly, sensual look that means he’s cooking up some naughty scheme. But what he’s up to specifically, I have no idea.
“What could you do about cramps?” I ask. “You have some ibuprofen on you?”
“Nope.” He cups me hard through my leggings.
I gasp. “W-what are you doing?” Looks like he meant lend a hand very literally. My body votes yes . . . but the few brain cells that survived the tequila can’t forget the fact that I’m on my period and should be closed for business.
