Liam

Fucking Amira isn’t here yet. I’ve been circling the parking lot looking for her Jaguar for five minutes, and there’s no sign of her. She’d better show up. I don’t even want to be here. I have a thousand things to do today.

After giving up, I drop the keys to my Touareg into the valet’s hand and take a deep breath in and release it slowly. Amira is testing my patience more than usual lately, and it’s making me want to start scheduling another European tour just to get away from her. Having a kid is going to seriously change how I tour. I’m not leaving our baby alone with Amira for a minute. She hates kids, and she doesn’t know the first thing about babies. But I do.

I had a baby brother when I was five. I loved helping my mother take care of him. I held him and told him stories. My happiest memory is snuggling with Mom and Dylan in her big, warm bed on a Saturday morning, watching it snow outside. I was too little to know where we were stationed, but it was somewhere in the Midwest. Dylan died when he was one year old. My father killed him. I know he did. When he came home from being deployed for the last time, he was out of his mind. Before he left, he wasn’t a bad father—more of an absent one—but when he came home from Afghanistan, he wasn’t my father at all. Dylan’s death was ruled as a case of SIDS and no one was ever convicted of his murder. Life was never the same. Mom and Dad got divorced after a couple of years of him knocking her around and making her think Dylan’s death was her fault. I hated him for becoming the monster that singlehandedly demolished our family. I never want to be anything like that man.

Inside the dimly lit restaurant, a young, wide-eyed hostess greets me and mentions that she loves my music. I love my fans, but today I wish I could be a little more anonymous. I don’t want this baby story leaking to the press just yet, but the agency insisted on a public meeting place.

The cute little hostess leads me to a table, and I notice the tip of a tattoo peeking out from underneath the collar of her shirt. It’s a tree—my tree, the DJ Freedom tree used on my first album cover.

“Hey, do you have a pen?” I ask. She pats down her pockets until she comes up with one and hands it to me with a big smile. A waitress walks by, and I tap her shoulder while I wink at the hostess. Hostess fan girl giggles.

“Could I borrow a piece of paper?” I ask the waitress.

“Uh, yeah,” she says, giving me a once over before ripping a piece off a pad on her tray.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem,” she says, full of indifference and absolutely no recognition. I hope she’s going to be our waitress.

I write a little note, sign the paper, and hand it to the star struck hostess just as Amira joins me.

“Giving signatures, Liam? God, can’t we have a quiet dinner without one of your groupies butting in?” Amira pulls out her own chair and sits down without even looking at the poor hostess.

I ignore her and move so that my back is to Amira and I’m shielding fan girl.

“Don’t mind her. She’s crabby until she has a couple of drinks.”

I lean over and kiss her on the cheek and whisper.

“Thanks for being a fan.”

Her hand floats up to her cheek, and she silently turns to leave while Amira makes a snide comment under her breath.

“You need to learn your place, Amira. I love my fans. Everything I do, I do for them. If you’re uncomfortable with that, then just keep your fucking opinions to yourself, you got it?”

“Li-am, I just don’t like to share you.”

She’s using her wretched baby voice. Fuck, I hate the baby voice.

“Let’s start over, Amira. The surrogate is going to be here soon, and I’m guessing you want to make a good impression since your future is riding on this baby.”

She snorts as scrolls through Instagram on her phone. Our waitress approaches, and thankfully, it’s the one who didn’t seem to know me a few minutes ago, but I have a feeling somebody’s filled her in since then. She’s appropriate and professional, but something in her eyes says hey, I know you now.

“There will be one more joining us, a woman in her early twenties. Could you bring her back when she arrives?” I say.

“Of course. Can I get you anything to drink while you wait?”

“Bring me a long island iced tea,” Amira says without looking up from her phone. The waitress takes Amira’s rudeness in stride, writing down her order without a word before she looks to me for my order. I like her. We’re going to get along well. I can already tell.

“Just water, please.”

My order earns me another snort from my wife.

“You’re so boring, Liam. Why don’t you ever have any fun?”

With one eyebrow raised high, the waitress leaves us alone to get our drinks.

I lean on the table and lower my voice.

“Shut up, Amira, or I’ll leave, and you can get a fucking job at McDonalds and live in public housing. Would you like fries with that?”

She slams her phone down and glares, but she quickly switches her attention to someone standing behind me.

“Um, excuse me. I think there’s been some confusion. I was supposed to be meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Weaver tonight from Joyful Connections, but you’re Mr. and Mrs. Wild, aren’t you?”

I’d recognize that soft, melodic voice anywhere. I’ve been looking forward to seeing the woman connected to that voice for twenty-four hours. We had an immediate connection during our conference call, and Amira made it painfully clear that she wasn’t having any of that.

Amira dominated the spotlight, and poor Lourdes could hardly get a word in edgewise.

I glance up and immediately feel drawn to the woman standing at the head of our table. As soon as our eyes meet, her hand flies to her throat to fondle a charm on her necklace, a charm of a tree. She’s the same woman who took my breath away that day at Cecconi’s, the woman who brought every cell in my body to attention by simply existing. I’m naturally drawn to her like one end of a magnet to another. This is the woman who turned me into a babbling idiot with a massive hard on. How could the universe be so cruel, bringing her into my life this way? And why is she wearing a necklace with my trademark on it? There are a million other women who could be our surrogate, but this one . . . this one is supposed to be more. She’s supposed to be mine.

Amira is saying something, and Lourdes yes, that’s her name. She’s looking at her but the only thing I can hear is my heart pounding in my chest. The urge to reach out and touch her silky toffee skin is overwhelming as she gestures with her hands while she speaks. I want to reach out and take one of them and pull her into my lap so I can look at her closer, feel her, smell her.

I’m not supposed to, and I shouldn’t, but I do anyway. I push out my chair and stand, which in hindsight might not have been the smartest idea. My cock stiffened the moment I heard her voice, the same way it did during our conference call and the day I saw her in the restaurant. My plan is to simply shake her hand and offer her a seat, but what I end up doing is entirely different.

I take her hand. She’s not offering it, but I take it anyway. I have her attention now. Her eyes are wide as she looks at my hand holding hers, and I lean in to kiss her on the cheek and softly say, “Nice to meet you.”

“Liam!” Amira says, raising her voice.

I ignore her and breathe in the faint smell of coffee and cinnamon in Lourdes’s hair. I don’t drink coffee, but I might start if it reminds me of her. I move back, and she shakes herself from my surprise attack, stepping away and pulling her hand from mine. She doesn’t speak. Her mouth opens and closes and opens again, but no words come out. I’ve affected her. Good.

“Please have a seat . . . Lourdes, isn’t it?” I say, pulling out a chair for her.

“Li-am.” Amira is seething. I can see her out of the corner of my eye, and I should care, but I don’t. I really don’t. She wanted this. She wanted a baby to save her fortune. Well, now she’s gonna get one, and I’m going to enjoy the company of this gorgeous creature for the next ten months provided she chooses us.

“This is my wife, Amira,” I say absently, waving my hand in her direction. She’s still speechless but offers a timid hand to Amira, who gives it one quick jerk. I glance at Amira when Lourdes looks at the chair I’m offering her. I widen my eyes and then narrow them with a lift of my brows. What does she expect me to do, be rude? I’m being a dick to Amira, which is unlike me. I’m usually more discreet. I have a talent for smoothing over problems and hoping they will just go away, like Amira. I really wish she would just go away, but she’s like one of those tiny fibers that gets stuck in your eye. The one you can’t quite find, but it hurts like hell. You keep digging and rubbing, but it’s still fucking there.

Lourdes finds her voice.

“I um, like I said, I think there has been a mix-up or a miscommunication. I’m supposed to meet with the Weavers.”

“The Weavers, yes. But we spoke to you yesterday on the phone. They must have mixed up our names at the agency. Sit,” I say and pull out the chair a little farther. Lourdes eyes Amira for acceptance, and Amira nods toward the chair, even though she’s digging holes in her palms with her long, pointy manicured nails.

“Okay. I’ll stay for a minute, but I really should keep an eye out for—”

“The Weavers,” I say, finishing for her.

“Yes.” She sits, and I help scoot her in. The hem of her dress hikes up on her thigh, and I have to sit down. There’s no hiding what’s going on in my pants anymore.

Amira leans back into her chair and crosses her arms over her chest as if to say ok, stud, you like her, so you start the interview.

So I do.

“So, Lourdes, tell us a little about yourself. Are you a fan of mine?” I say, pointing to her necklace that she is fiddling with again.

She drops the chain, and the tree lays flat against her silky neck.

“Um no, sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your charm. It’s my trademark,” I say, pointing to her neck.

“Oh, uh no. My boyfriend gave it to me in high school for graduation.”

“See, Liam? Not everybody knows who you are,” Amira says with satisfaction.

I give her a quick, hard stare and return my attention to Lourdes.

“So we know you have a son and you’re in college. Tell us more. What are you majoring in?”

The waitress brings us our drinks before she can answer and asks Lourdes what she will be having.

“Water is fine. With lemon, please.”

She’s so fucking polite and sweet, and that voice—she could make a million doing relaxation therapy recordings. I’d love to record her and use it in a mix. I hope she chooses us just for that—well not just for that, but partially for that.

When the waitress is gone, I prompt her again.

“So, college?”

“Oh yes, sorry. I’m going to Berkeley. I’m going to be a lawyer.”

Amira coughs.

“Really? That seems boring,” she says before she sucks hard from her Long Island. Please God, don’t let her get drunk. She’s bad enough sober.

“No, not at all. The law is fascinating and flawed, and I want to change that—the flaws, I mean.”

“I hope you do,” I say, and I mean it. The legal system is more than flawed. It’s fucked, and my dead baby brother is proof.

“So what do you do for fun?” Amira asks. It figures that she’d ask about fun and I’d ask about education.

“I don’t have a lot of time for extracurricular activities with a son and school, but I like to run and read and work in the kitchen of a homeless shelter.”

Amira snorts and nearly sucks her drink dry. She’s well on her way to being drunk after sucking down a Long Island in two drinks.

“That’s very admirable, Lourdes. There aren’t too many people our age who consider working with the less fortunate fun.”

“You can say that again,” Amira says, waving to our waitress and pointing at her glass. Shit, here we go, drink number two. I swear, I’ll take this poor girl and leave if she gets angry sloshed, which is sort of what I’m expecting. Lourdes bites her lip when Amira makes her snide comment, and my blood boils. How stupid is that woman? She needs a baby to keep her inheritance, and here’s the perfect woman to give her one, and what’s she doing? Acting like the spoiled little rich bitch that she is.

“I enjoy cooking, even though I’m not very good at it. I usually work in the kitchen at the shelter. I have good parents, and I’ve always had a roof over my head, so it’s hard for me to comprehend having nothing. If I were ever in that position, I would be grateful for the help. Do unto others and all that, ya know?”

Lourdes smiles and adjusts her silverware until they are aligned on the bottom and straight up and down in perfect parallel rows, and even then, she continues to make minute adjustments. This must be something she does when she’s nervous. It’s adorable.

“You just revived my faith in humanity a little bit,” I say.

“It’s nothing,” she says.

It’s not, but I don’t want to make her uncomfortable saying so.

“What brought you to surrogacy?” I ask.

“Yeah, sounds like you’re too busy to have a baby for somebody else,” Amira says, and I kick her in the shin under the table.

“Ouch! God, Liam, watch your big feet, will ya?” She yells.

The waitress drops off a water with lemon for Lourdes and another Long Island for Amira. Lourdes thanks her, and Amira sucks on the straw of her drink like it’s the last bit of liquid she’s ever going to see. We give our orders and the waitress is gone.

“So, surrogacy?” I ask again.

“Oh yes. Well, I have a son, and law school is expensive. I worked my way through my first year, but this coming year is going to require more of my time, so I need a way to pay for it.”

I’d fucking pay her way thorough law school whether she gave us a kid or not. The difference between the two women at this table is striking. It makes me wish for the billionth time that I’d never gotten into this mess with Amira. She’s nothing I look for in a woman, and Lourdes is everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

“I hope we will all be able to help each other,” I say and press the side of my foot against hers under the table. She squirms in her seat and messes with her fork, aligning and re aligning it.

“How long have you been trying to have a baby?” She asks, taking a big drink of her water.

“Oh, I can get pregnant. I’m just not gonna ruin my body doing it,” Amira says, rolling her eyes.

I cringe. What a bitch. A frown line forms between Lourdes’s brows, and I’m about to rescue her when she replies.

“Actually, if you exercise during your pregnancy and eat healthy, your body doesn’t really change much. I look exactly the same naked as I did three years ago.”

My turn to bite my lip. Atta girl! I want to high-five her for putting Amira in her place, but of course, she’s supposed to be my loving wife, and I should be on her side. I’m not.

Amira is staring at Lourdes in shock, and I’m watching them both while trying to decide if I need to step in or not. Lourdes seems to know how to handle herself, but I’m jumping in anyway.

“There’s something you both have in common—not the naked part, although I’m sure that’s not a problem, but you both like to exercise. Amira is a workout fiend. She’s in the gym a couple of hours every day, and other than the occasional alcoholic drink, she eats very healthily.”

Amira beams. She’s feeling secure now that I seem to be on her side. Lord, I don’t know if I can do this for the entire meal. Making nice is hard work.

“Do you? Work out, I mean?” Lourdes asks me.

“Him?” Amira laughs.

“I do. I’m just not a gym rat like Amira. I prefer running outside to the treadmill,” I say. I want to kick her again, but my foot is happy next to Lourdes’s.

“I run outside too. I love the fresh air and the sound of kids playing and the smell of freshly cut grass.”

Soul mate. Life is a motherfucker sometimes. It teases you with things you can’t have and smacks you upside the head with the things it gives you instead.

“Well, now that we’ve established you two are a couple of tree huggers, let’s talk about having a baby.”

Our waitress must have some sort of cosmic connection to the level of tension happening at our table, because she continues to show up at pivotal moments when we all need a mental break from each other. She’s here now with our food, placing the dishes under our noses and giving us pause.

“Anything else I can do for you right now?” She asks. Amira starts to ask for another drink when I interrupt her.

“No, that’s it for now. Thank you, we’re fine.”

The waitress is standing at my shoulder and can’t see my face when I give Amira a death snarl.

“All right, I’ll check on you in a bit,” She says, disappearing before Amira can try and order her third drink.

We eat in silence, but the sound of the restaurant buzzing with conversation around us is deafening. I want to leave, but I don’t want to leave Lourdes.

Amira is using her phone under the table. She thinks she’s being sneaky, but it’s obvious. The alcohol is making her indiscreet. Lourdes is never going to give us a baby at this rate, and as much as I don’t want to, we may as well end this night and cut our losses.

I sit back and place my elbows on the arms of my chair, steepling my fingers, and watch Lourdes take a bite. She feels me watching her. The corner of her mouth lifts ever so slightly, but she doesn’t look at me. Amira’s checked out over there with her phone. I could probably make out with Lourdes at the table and she’d never notice.

“I’ll be right back,” Amira says, standing up. She wobbles a little, grabbing onto her chair, but she rights herself and walks away toward the entrance of the restaurant.

“No chance of you being our surrogate, huh?” I say when she’s gone.

“Why do you say that?” she asks.

I don’t have to say a word. I just turn my gaze to where Amira just disappeared.

“Oh, well yeah, she’s not the most maternal person, is she?”

Of course she would be diplomatic about it. She’s too nice to say hell no, that bitch is crazy.

“Amira is . . . well, Amira is Amira. She’s used to getting what she wants. She’s never had to work for anything, so she can’t imagine you saying no. I, on the other hand, have worked for everything in my life, and I anticipate that you will be declining our offer—if you’re sane, that is, and I think you’re sane.”

She laughs softly and folds her napkin into a perfect square, placing it next to her plate, where she has neatly balanced her fork and knife on the edge.

“I sort of figured her out on the phone yesterday, although I didn’t think I was talking to her at the time. I thought I was talking with Mrs. Weaver, which was very strange, because the Weavers are as straight-laced and traditional as they come.”

“So it’s a no?”

She wrinkles up her nose, but I’m not sure if that’s a yes wrinkle or a no wrinkle.

“I haven’t made up my mind. I believe in second and third chances.”

“How about fourth and fifth? She can be a handful,” I say, hopeful that I, or rather we, haven’t lost the opportunity to have Lourdes carry our child.

“Come here,” I say, leaning forward and crooking my finger. She hesitates. She even looks around for Amira, but still, she leans in until we’re almost touching foreheads.

“I know she wants you to be the one. She may seem cranky and unfriendly, but she’s got her heart set on you.”

Lie. Well, partially, anyway. She doesn’t want Lourdes to be our surrogate. She expects her to do it, but since it’s out of the question to blurt that miserable fact out, I sugar coat it a little.

I’m so close I can feel her warm breath against my skin. She smells like pasta now—pasta, coffee, and cinnamon. You’d think the three would be a terrible combination, but they’re not. They’re beguiling.

“What about what you want, Mr. Wild? Have you interviewed many surrogates? Am I the one you have your heart set on too?”

She’s calling me out, letting me know she’s aware of what’s going on between us. I don’t know if I should admit it or try to keep things moving along with the Amira excuse. I’m going with a little of both.

“We haven’t interviewed any because we were only interested in one—you.”

She lounges back in her chair and I miss her closeness.

“I’ll seriously consider it.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

Amira returns to the table and says she has to go. There’s an emergency with her family, and she needs to make some international calls to Nigeria.

“I hope everything is ok,” Lourdes says.

“It’s not. I’m going, Liam, and don’t worry. I have a car coming. I won’t drink and drive.”

I stand and go to her side, taking her elbow. I’ve never seen her so pale and stricken. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s scared.

“Amira, what’s going on?”

In any other situation, she would be soaking up the public display of affection, but not tonight. She steps away from me, mumbling something about her father, and I take her by the shoulders and turn her to face me, capturing all of her attention.

“Amira, what’s wrong with your father? What’s going on?” I shake her gently until she appears more alert.

“They think he had a heart attack. He’s in the hospital. I have to go.”

Shit. A heart attack. Now it all makes sense. Her meal ticket might be dying, so she’s got to get home and cash out.

Lourdes stands and takes Amira’s hand.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry. Is he going to be ok?” she asks.

Amira looks at where their hands connect and then at me.

“They don’t know. I have to go.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” I ask, and as cold hearted as it may be, I cross my fingers and hope she says no.

“No. Stay here and take care of this baby thing.”

She drops Lourdes’s hand and walks away. Handle this ‘baby thing’. What the hell is that supposed to mean? I can’t do anything without her. She’s not thinking straight. She’s drunk and she’s afraid, albeit for the wrong reasons, but afraid just the same.

Lourdes looks at me with eyes full of compassion, and I want to tell her not to bother.

“She’s tough. She’ll be ok. Don’t worry.” I pull her into a side hug and rub my hand up and down her bare arm. Her skin against mine floods me with familiarity and longing and guilt. I feel like I know her, a part of her, and I find myself wishing I weren’t here trying to convince her to have my baby. Wait, that’s not true. I wouldn’t mind her having my baby at all, as long as it doesn’t have Amira’s DNA.

The guilt is foolish. Our marriage is a morbid scam. But my father was a Marine, and if I learned anything from him before he went batshit crazy, it was to face up to my responsibilities and follow through to the end of things. I’ve been physically faithful to Amira for one reason only—to protect my money and my reputation. All she wants is a piece of masculine arm candy, someone who likes fun and sex and music, all of which I like. But I want intelligence and loyalty and good sex—yes, good sex, of course. The one thing I never thought I would be able to add to that list was having my own family.

I used to be a free spirit, roaming the world and spreading music and good vibes to people who loved me. I slept with whomever I pleased and did what I wanted when I wanted. That was before, though. Before I saw Lourdes from across the room that afternoon I met Amira for lunch. That woman made me want things—crazy things, normal things, like babies and houses on the beach.

The coffee cinnamon scent of her skin is making me want cinnamon toast and Starbucks. She shivers under my touch. I want to kiss her, anywhere and everywhere, but I release her instead.

“Do you want to stay for coffee?” I ask.

“You should go make sure your wife is okay. I’ll be fine. Dinner was wonderful. Thank you so much for having me.”

She probably thinks I’m a cold-hearted asshole for not rushing after Amira. I want to be selfish and insist she stay for at least one cup of coffee but I should probably encourage her to go.

“It was my pleasure. We would love to do it again sometime. Maybe at our place? When Amira is home and things are settled with her father, of course.”

She’s been coiled tight all evening until this moment. Her jaw unclenches and her features soften when she hears my casual, easygoing words.

“That would be nice. Yes, thank you.”

I can’t let her go without knowing exactly when I’ll see her again. If she leaves without a plan, I risk her clearing her head and changing her mind altogether.

“Let’s plan on next week. I’m sure she won’t be gone too long. Does Friday night at seven work for you? I’ll text you our address. It’s not listed in the profile.” Inside, I’m cringing. Too much? Too soon? Too bossy?

She surprises me when she rummages through her purse and hands me her phone. I look at it as if I’ve never seen a phone before. She’s letting me enter my information. When I look up at her, she raises her brows, and I don’t waste time entering my full name, phone number, and address to her contact list. Before I hand it back, though, I press call and feel my own phone buzz in my pocket. There. Perfect. Now I’ve got her number too.