Chapter Seven

Jenna

The next evening, I left work a little early to prepare. I showered, shaved all the vital regions, blow-dried my hair, and am now pacing around my bedroom wrapped in a towel, trying to figure out what to wear. Balance is crucial. I want to look nice but not overdressed, and definitely not too sexy.

I consider my fanciest underthings—a lacy black lingerie set—then pass them over in favor of plain white cotton. Sensible underwear for a sensible night of making a baby.

Just because Emmett is going to see me naked tonight doesn’t mean I have to put on a whole song and dance for him. No big deal. He’s only the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, and this will be the first time I’ve gotten laid in almost a year, and . . .

Oh my God, stop it, woman. Please, just stop thinking and cover your tits.

As I pull on my panties, I’m careful not to brush the small, but sore red welt near my navel. I injected my first hCG trigger shot last night. While it wasn’t a barrel of laughs, it also wasn’t nearly as bad as my mind had built it up to be. As with most scary things in life, I found that the best approach was to just gather my courage and take the leap fast, before I could psych myself out of it. Now if only I could stop overthinking this date too.

No, no, this is not a date. What’s happening tonight is absolutely nothing like a date. It’s just . . . informal sperm donation.

Oh my God, I’m really doing this, aren’t I? Negotiating a stud deal for myself like a horse breeder or something? I stare into my closet like it contains the controls to a jumbo jet instead of the same old wardrobe I should find easy to choose from.

Okay, stop freaking out. Think of it like a business meeting. Just because it’s for knocking me up doesn’t make the rules of engagement any different. Insert penis A into slot B. We stay professional, because anything more will just confuse my heart and blur the lines, and I can’t let that happen.

Sure, Emmett is attractive and funny and kind, and that’s a big part of why I chose him . . . but not in a boyfriend kind of way. This isn’t a romantic audition. It’s just because his traits are good enough that I’d want them passed on to my child, that’s all. Besides, it’s no shame to pick a high-quality partner who also happens to be so good looking it hurts. I might as well have fun while I’m working on getting fertilized.

Yep, totally cool and rational, no complicated feelings allowed. And if he does or says one single thing that makes me uncomfortable, I’m not above telling him to get out of my bedroom and go jack off in that cup. I have a whole binder full of men I could pick from at the sperm bank.

While I’m thinking about it, I grab the plastic specimen jar and toss it in my purse, just in case. In the process, I catch a glimpse at the clock and almost panic because, holy shit, it’s already 5:15. How was I dithering around in my underwear for half an hour?

No more nonsense. I need laser focus. I need to just fucking pick an outfit already.

I go back to the closet. A mulberry peasant blouse, fawn-colored suede ankle boots, and my most flattering pair of dark jeans—sure, that’s fine. I dress as fast as I can while still avoiding the sore spot on my stomach. For a moment, I fret over the question of jewelry, makeup, and perfume, then say out loud, “Oh, for God’s sake, what I wore to work is fine,” and restrain myself to the minimum. Then I’m out the door and on my way to Los Platitos.

Like he did at our last dinner meeting, Emmett is waiting for me outside, looking nothing short of dashing. He flashes me a brilliant smile. “Hey there, beautiful. You hungry?”

The innocent question seems a lot dirtier coming from his full lips. And it’s disarming how he always seems so pleased to see me.

“Starving,” I say truthfully.

We walk together into the warm ambience of Los Platitos, with its amber lighting, dark wood decor, and rich scents of saffron, garlic, and smoke. Even though I only live a couple of blocks away, I haven’t visited in a long time. It’s pretty pricey, and it moved well out of my budget when I opened the Lit Apothecary.

The hostess seats us at a small round table, and a waitress soon appears. “Good evening,” she chirps. “Can I get you two something to drink?”

“I’ll have iced tea,” I reply.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic, pl—” Emmett starts to say, but I quickly interrupt him.

“No. Sorry, he’ll have tonic water with lime.”

He blinks, and the waitress’s brow furrows slightly.

When I realize how rude that sounded, I turn to Emmett. “Remember . . . uh, dear, you’re not supposed to have alcohol.”

He still looks confused but plays along and nods at the waitress. “Right. My mistake; I forgot. She’s right.”

Her expression softens into a smile, as if she finds us endearing. “A close call. All right, one iced tea and one tonic water with lime. I’ll get those drinks right out to you.”

As soon as the waitress is gone, Emmett asks me, “I’m sorry, but since when do I not drink? I’m sure that waitress thinks I’m on my way to an AA meeting as soon as we finish eating.”

I offer him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. It’s just that I want your swimmers to be in top shape tonight.”

He nods slowly, understanding. “Ah. Well, I promise they are . . . dear.”

I answer his teasing smirk by rolling my eyes. “Don’t make fun of me. Would you rather I’d told her the whole story?” Feigning affectionate concern was the easiest way over that little speed bump.

“Fine, I’ll lay off. So, how was your day?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested.

I shrug a little. “Eh, it was okay. I don’t really feel like talking about work.” On dates, I stop myself from finishing.

“Fair enough. I don’t either.” He leans back in his chair and it creaks. “How about . . . do you have any hobbies?”

“Mostly I just read.” Alone in bed at night, sipping a glass of wine. All I need to complete the cozy-but-kind-of-sad picture is a cat on my lap.

“Nice. I wish I had more time to read, myself.” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Or maybe I do have the time and I just waste it on TV. What’s your favorite book?”

“You’re making me choose?” I widen my eyes, pretending to be scandalized. “How could you ever do that to a poor bibliophile?”

He laughs. “Okay, jeez. Can I ask your favorite genre, at least? Mine is crime fiction, if you want to know.”

I shouldn’t want to know. We’re not here to get close. We’re here to eat and hash out the final details of getting a bun in my oven. But even knowing that, I find myself suddenly reluctant to shatter the casual mood. Besides, I love talking about books.

There isn’t any harm in it, is there? We can just enjoy a night out at a nice restaurant right now and save the heavy stuff for later.

I ponder his question. “I like mysteries too. I’m pretty omnivorous when it comes to books. But I think, if I absolutely had to pick . . . ugh, this is so hard. Let’s say satire, gothic romance, and postmodern literature are somewhere in my top five. Oh, and historical nonfiction.”

We’re briefly interrupted by the waitress returning with our drinks. We thank her and order half a dozen different tapas plates.

Emmett sips his lime tonic water. “Hmm . . . this actually isn’t half bad. Anyway, that’s quite a list. I’m going to guess you were an English major?”

“Classics and philosophy, actually,” I reply, stirring sugar into my iced tea. “But I might have added English too if I’d had more time.” Raising me alone, Mom couldn’t afford to contribute much to my college fund, and my scholarships came with a graduation deadline. I was lucky for the four years I got.

Emmett hums appreciatively. “Damn, woman, now I feel out of my league. Did you learn to speak Latin?”

I make an uncertain noise. “I took some basic language classes, but my emphasis was more on art, literature, and history, and I’m sure I’ve lost it all by now anyway.”

“Come on, give it a try,” he says. “Talk nerdy to me.”

Our food arrives and I pop a bacon-wrapped fig into my mouth while I try to think back almost fifteen years. Hmm . . . there’s one quote that should definitely get a laugh out of him, if I can only remember it.

“Well,” I say finally, “I might still know part of a poem by Catullus. I memorized it in college because I thought it’d make a funny party trick.” He’ll see why in a minute.

Haltingly, I start to recite it in all its indecipherable glory. Normally, I’d feel self-conscious reciting a poem in Latin in front of anyone after all these years, but it feels fun.

Emmett raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Wow. What does that mean?”

I try to keep a straight face as I translate, “I will fuck you in the ass and mouth—”

I can’t even get through the first line before Emmett interrupts me by cracking up. “What . . . ha-ha . . . what the hell? So you do have a dirty mind.”

“It’s more a pissed-off poem than a dirty one. But I never claimed my mind was one hundred percent clean,” I retort playfully. “I just don’t advertise dirtiness like you do.”

Then I hesitate. Wait, no, this is way too close to flirting. I should pull back and move to a serious topic.

I fiddle with my napkin in my lap. “Not to kill the mood or anything, but we should talk about . . . what we’re doing later.”

His smile turns devilish. “Oh? I think that’s the opposite of killing the mood.”

I ignore the heat that climbs into my cheeks. “Before we have sex, I need to know for sure that you’ll never try to get involved. I want to raise my child my way—alone. No co-parenting, not even any shared holidays, nada. This is my plan, and if you can’t agree to that—no offense, but I’ll just go back to the sperm bank.”

Emmett’s eyebrow quirks. “Haven’t we already talked about this?”

“Yes, but I wanted to give you one last chance to back out.” I raise my brows urgently, looking him square in the eye. “So if you need to think it over a little longer . . .”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he says. I expected him to be annoyed by my interrogation, but his tone is only reassuring, and maybe a little amused. “My answer hasn’t changed since last week. Trust me . . . as a busy executive, I have no interest in midnight feedings and diaper patrol. That stuff is all you.”

I nod, slightly calmed. “Good, so we’re in agreement.”

Instead of changing the subject to something more fun, Emmett considers me for a moment, then sighs thoughtfully. “Listen . . . I hope you trust me, and I know I trust you, but if it helps ease your mind, my attorney friend drafted some contracts. Practically shoved them down my throat, in fact. You want to look them over now?”

“Really?” I blink. “Um . . . yeah, actually, I would like that.”

He pulls out his phone and forwards me an email with three attachments. I read while eating, my phone in one hand and a piece of foie-gras toast in the other. Emmett says nothing, patiently letting me concentrate. I feel a little bad for ignoring him . . . but then again, I remind myself, we’re having a business meeting, not a date. Discussing this agreement is the entire point of us coming here.

I notice Emmett’s already signed the documents: Jonathan Emmett Smith II. Huh, I guess he goes by his middle name. I guess I don’t blame a man called “the Second” for wanting to differentiate himself from his father. Something seems familiar about his name, but it’s not like Smith is an uncommon name. Whatever, I’m probably just remembering an old coworker or something. I focus on the contract language itself.

Years working in business has given me a talent for speed-reading legalese. Finally, I put away my phone and nod at him. “These look pretty solid. I’ll add my signature tomorrow and send them back to you.”

He cocks his head. “Tomorrow? Not before you let me into your bedroom?”

I lean my chin on my hand. “Nah. I think . . . I trust you too. At least enough to wait until the morning after.”

A slow but dazzling grin spreads over his handsome features. “Glad to hear it. Now, let’s dig in. This meal looks incredible.”

We enjoy a wonderful dinner together, chatting about food, books, the hassles and rewards of managing a business, and all the other interests we’re slowly discovering we have in common. We splurge on lemon-ginger tartlet for dessert. When the bill arrives, Emmett insists on paying, and I can’t find it in me to put up too much of a fight.

He signs the receipt, adding a generous tip. Then he pushes his chair out and extends his hand to me. “Shall we?”

I swallow. Only one more event remains in the evening, and there’s a sensual smolder in his eyes. An unmistakable promise of pleasure.

I almost take his hand. Instead, I stand up on my own. “Y-yeah, let’s go. My place is just a short walk away.”

“Really? So is mine. I guess we live only a few blocks apart.”

Close. Too close. Our shoulders bump as we exit into the cool night air and make our way toward my place . . . and my bed.