Eight Weeks Later

Five-thirty is early for anyone but the most obnoxious morning people to be ordering coffee, which is just fine with me.

I love being one of the few people in the local coffee shop. It gives me a chance to chat with whichever teen is acting as the barista and the few customers who, like me, are dependent on an early morning blast of coffee to get them through the day. It’s a golden opportunity to strengthen my connection with the small community I grew up in.

Once I finish my coffee, I’ll head into the office, where I’ll be able to get about three hours of quiet time to work before the rest of my staff shows up.

The faint sounds of Silver Bells wafts through a pair of hidden speakers as I place my order.

Once she’s taken my order, I ignore the barista, focusing instead on my phone, slowly reading through the most recent dossier the fertility agency has sent me on a possible surrogate.

I’m surprised they are still attempting to match me up with one of their girls. I’m sure if my net worth was lower, they would have already written me off as a lost cause.

Since the surrogate I selected back in October backed out on me, they’ve sent me more than twenty different dossiers and I’ve rejected each one. Even I’m willing to admit my excuses for a few of them were getting pretty flimsy.

The woman whose information currently fills my cell phone’s screen seems perfect. She has one child of her own, a bright boy of ten, and has also been a surrogate twice, indicating that she’s unlikely to flake on me. She’s intelligent, appears to have good morals, and seems reliable. The only problem is I just can’t get enthused about her.

When I close my eyes, I can’t imagine her heavy with my child. I’m sure the fertility agency is wondering if I actually want a baby, and in the spirit of honesty, I’ve wondered the same thing myself from time to time. Sometimes, it just doesn’t seem like my heart is into it.

But the problem goes deeper than that. Every time I read a potential surrogate’s dossier, a vision of Lara floats in front of my eyes.

As if conjured by my thoughts, my phone dings, alerting me to an incoming text message. A second later, the message appears with a little image of Lara’s laughing face.

For a moment, my eyes remained glued to the image as a familiar feeling of warmth and pleasure spreads throughout my chest. Our relationship might have started out as an impromptu one-night stand. It defied the odds when it lasted throughout the morning, but that was only the tip of the iceberg. Since that night, somehow, we’ve managed to become fast friends. The kind who constantly text, Facetime, and call one another.

We’ve talked about everything: music, books, movies, her bar, my work. For the first time in my life, I understand what it feels like to have an honest-to-goodness best friend. Someone who is on the same wavelength as me. No one would believe me if I told them that I’d made a friend as a result of a one-night stand.

That is the one thing we’ve refused to talk about – and it’s killing me.

In the past few weeks, my conversations, my friendship, with Lara has become the most important thing in my life. I’d do anything to make sure nothing jeopardizes that, which as far as I’m concerned means no sex. But there’s something about Lara that’s gotten under my skin. Just her picture, the sound of her voice, makes my cock spring to life.

Every. Freaking. Time.

From a distance, I can maintain the friendship I so desperately need. But up close, where I can breathe her sweet scent and see how the 1920s-inspired clothing she loves hugs her hot little body?

I don’t think I have enough strength to resist her…

That’s why, despite how lonely I was on Thanksgiving, I didn’t fly to Chicago and take Lara up on her offer to have dinner.

There are also a few things I haven’t told her yet. Like the fact that I’ve started the process of having a baby via a surrogate. Or that while in high school I discovered I had a knack for creating the type of software that military and government agencies all over the world need and are willing to pay an exorbitant price for, which is why last year I officially became a billionaire –one who not only owns one of the highest grossing software firms in the world, but is also a leading shareholder in many other, equally successful corporations.

Lara is one of the first people I’ve encountered in the past decade who hasn’t already known about my wealth before meeting me. I get the sense that even if she knew about my net worth, she wouldn’t be impressed by it.

“Mr. Sullivan.”

Jackie Albright, the skinny, redheaded barista who took my order and who also happens to be my Uncle Pete’s next door neighbor, nudges a large paper cup across the counter. “Your order is ready.”

“Thanks, Jackie.”

I wrap my hand around the cup, enjoying the way the warmth seeps into my skin almost as much as I know I’ll enjoy the dark liquid it contains.

She blushes bright pink. “No, thank you for putting me in contact with that scholarship group. Without that money, there’s no way I’d be able to afford to go to college next fall. Not without taking out a fortune in student loans.”

“It wasn’t a problem. You deserve it.”

A bright girl with big dreams, Jackie has always talked about going to college and studying architecture, but her family is in an income bracket that makes it difficult to get the funding needed to finance higher education. I was happy to help out. I always am.

I pull a twenty out of my pocket and hand it to her. “Here, add this to your college fund.”

Jackie’s blush deepens but she takes the bill and stuffs it deep into her apron pocket. “Really, Mr. Sullivan. You don’t have to do things like—”

I smile at her. “I want to help out, Jackie. You deserve it.”

Jackie flashes another quick smile before turning to take the next order.

I take my coffee to a quiet corner of the shop and settle down to read Lara’s text.

I expect to get a bad joke, or a fun story about a bar customer. Maybe even a picture of her ridiculous dog like she occasionally sends me. The contents of this particular text are the last thing I anticipate.