Nicole

I was raised by a single mother.

Amanda Powers is absolutely kick-ass amazing.

After my father died when I was young, she didn’t remarry, but in the last few years she’s met a widower named James who romanced her like I suppose only a silver fox can do—dancing, dinners at expensive restaurants, nights out at the ballet.

When I’ve asked if she plans to marry him, she simply laughs and in her husky Faye Dunaway voice says, “I prefer to have a gentleman caller.”

But she loves her gentleman caller, and he loves her, too.

Her grief over my father was intense but not debilitating. A police officer, Robert Powers died a quarter century ago in the line of duty. One night when my father responded to an armed robbery, he didn’t come home.

My mother was devastated. My brother and I were, too.

But I don’t remember how much or for how long. That’s the thing about being five. My dad died when I was too young to have memories of him. My mother’s told me stories of my father, too, her high school sweetheart, a brave, honest, and handsome man.

Faced with raising two kids alone, my mother remade herself. She took real estate classes, learned the ins and outs, and started selling apartments in New York City to support her family.

After several years, she became one of the top brokers in this town, and she still is. That’s what she focused on as we grew up—mastering her trade and raising her kids. She did it with grace, confidence, and an unwavering faith in her ability to soldier on after the love of her life was killed.

That’s why my plan seems perfectly reasonable.

I don’t need to wait for Mr. Right when I have a model from my childhood for how to be Mrs. and Mr. Mom, all in one.

But lest anyone think it’s easy-peasy lemon squeezy to ask a man to whack off in a small room for your future mommy dreams, it is most assuredly not.

I am a cyclone of emotions right now. They storm and bluster inside me, nerves and fear and excitement all at once. But I batten down the hatches and march on. We Powers ladies know how to get shit done.

I square my shoulders, take a steadying breath, and confess.

“Here’s the thing. I’m suffering from a case of baby fever,” I say, and holy shit, my voice sounds borderline normal.

Ryder furrows his brow. “Say that again?”

“Baby fever. You know this thing women get sometimes?” I say, going for humor. That’s our shared language, Ryder and me. We joke, we tease, we play. “Apparently, I have a very serious case of wanting to have a baby, and it can only be cured by getting knocked up.”

He blinks, and yup, I’ve won.

I’ve now officially become the person who’s asked him the strangest thing ever.

And I’m messing it up.

That was the wrong approach. I grab the controls and try to steer the plane out of this impending crash. I wave my hands in front of my face, the universal sign for I need a do-over on account of being a ding-dong. I drag my fingers through my hair and breathe. Breathe again. Holy shit, when did inhaling air become so hard? Oh, right. When I had the harebrained idea to ask my coworker for a cup of baby batter.

When I raise my face and meet his eyes, I see the same confusion etched in them as a few seconds ago. But there’s kindness and patience, too, in his sky-blue irises. He’s waiting for me to keep going. He gives an easy nod that says it’s okay, I’m listening, even if I don’t get it yet.

“What I’m trying to say is that I want to have a baby. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time now, and I’m ready to become a mom. A single mom.” Once I’ve said those last two words, I feel emboldened. Bravado surges through me. This is my calling in life. The heart knows what the heart wants, and mine craves the pitter-patter of little feet. “I’ve been researching all the options, from adoption to sperm donation, and this might seem crazy, but I hope it sounds like the compliment I absolutely mean it to be.” I clasp my hand to my heart as the balding man in the booth behind Ryder raises a bottle of ketchup to pour some on his plate. “Would you help me?”

Ryder freezes.

The bald man does, too.

The bottle of the red condiment hovers behind Ryder’s handsome head.

I’ve shocked even the patrons surrounding us at Wendy’s Diner.

The enormity of the question I’ve asked expands between us. It is a balloon being filled with air. With each passing second, it grows larger.

Ryder doesn’t move. He stares at me with a quizzical gaze. His hands are in his lap. He’s a statue.

I let the air out of the balloon, releasing it abruptly. “What I mean is, would you be my donor?”

The balloon races across the diner, squealing and squeaking, landing splat on the table, the rubber a limp, pathetic mess.

Ryder’s brows knit together. He makes a sound. I’m not sure what noise it is. I’ve rendered him speechless. He swallows. Opens his lips. Tries to talk. He drags his hand over his jaw. His square jaw that I want for my baby. His genes are so fine, and now I’m wantonly coveting the DNA that made his face.

“Nicole.”

I try to read his tone, but it’s impossible. For several interminable seconds, I’m sure I’ve ruined our friendship and our working relationship.

I need words. I need to talk my way back to normal. I adopt a bright, cheery smile. “Hey, don’t worry about it. We can totally pretend I never said that. Let’s bring on the milkshakes and talk about Steve’s insane swing.”

His lips twitch, and he lifts his arm, stretches it across the table. He sets his hand on my right hand. “Nicole,” he says again, and this time his voice is strong, reassuring. “You caught me off guard. I never in a million years expected to be asked that.”

“It’s not exactly an everyday request,” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “It’s not.”

“More like something from a sitcom, huh?” I say with a little we’re all good shrug.

“I don’t think it’s a sitcom,” he says, and I want to thank him a thousand times over for not bantering back with me. He seems to realize that now’s not the time for jokes. “Let’s talk about what you have in mind.”

My lungs inflate with oxygen again. I recalibrate, since I was sure he wasn’t going to be open to it, based on his initial reaction. But as I regard his kind eyes and his palm on mine, my pulse settles. His hand is warm, and it calms my nerves. It gives me the courage to begin.

“I looked into adoption, and while I think it’s amazing, I want to try first to have and carry a baby. I’m completely ready to do it on my own, so I’ve been looking into sperm banks.” I stop to roll my eyes in a self-deprecating way. “Believe me, I know it’s the height of irony that the gal who usually has open browser tabs full of the latest and greatest in vibrators and sexual positions now spends more time perusing the offerings at sperm banks.”

He smiles, and that’s another feature I can add to the list. The man has a great smile. It’s warm and exhilarating at the same time. “Some women are checking out Plenty of Fish. You’re checking out plenty of tadpoles,” he says, then makes a keep-talking gesture with his free hand. “Go on.”

“And the reality is pretty stark.”

“You mean the pickings are slim? Or there’s no one you want to bring home to mama?”

“Let me tell you all about sperm banks.”

A soft flurry of laughter falls from his lips. “Words I never thought I’d hear tonight. Or any night,” he says, and oddly enough, this conversation is going better than I expected.