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“Can I have your sperm?”
“Umm, no,” says my very handsome friend. He’s standing in the doorway of his stunning Upper East Side townhouse, wearing a completely bewildered expression. Who can blame him? It’s 10 p.m. and I’m in my pajamas, my bunned-up hair hanging askew off my head.
“Before you say no, hear me out––”
“No,” he repeats as if I haven’t just given him instructions. He eyeballs my pjs with the pigs with wings pattern on them. A joke gift Delia bought me when she told me she sleeps naked and I said I would do that when pigs fly. They’re very comfy.
“Are you in your pajamas?”
“Yes.” I push past him to get inside. “I’m prepared to assume all cost,” I rush to say, my voice high and marked with desperation. “You know my financial situation. You know I don’t need help in that regard. And you can participate as little or as much as you want in raising our child––”
“Slow down, Stella––”
“Jeff said no.”
One of the few perks of having dated Jeff was that he introduced me to Ethan who to this day remains one of my closest friends. It was Ethan who informed me that his best friend needed a property manager. A position that required discretion. My mother was hired by the number one draft pick of the NY Titans, quarterback Calvin Shaw, and the rest is history. She’s been working for him ever since, long after she stopped needing to work because of the exponentially massive improvement of my financial situation.
I walk directly into his living room and come to an abrupt stop. Stacks of cardboard boxes are everywhere.
“Are you moving?”
“Yes.” Ethan brushes a hand over his gorgeous face. “Where’s this coming from?”
“I want a baby and the gays said I was too structured. And we’re friends, right? We respect each other, right?”
“Wait? What gays?”
“The architect, and the professor of economics at Columbia. Keep up, will you.”
Ethan chuckles and I glare back. This wasn’t supposed to be this hard. And it’s poking at all my sore spots.
“I really liked the professor. He’s the one that said I was too structured. The architect said he found a more geographically suitable candidate, but I’m pretty sure he was lying because I would’ve moved uptown if that was the only issue.”
“Okay––” he says, taking a deep breath, his hands on his hips. “You want a baby.”
“Yes.”
“So go to a sperm bank.”
“Too anonymous.”
“I’m not giving you my sperm, Stella. I’m moving to Los Angeles in less than two weeks and I’m getting married. I don’t think she’d be too keen on me handing over my sperm.”
Stunned, I rock back on my heels. “What?! To who?”
“To a woman I’m in love with.” He smiles then, the sweetest of smiles, and I know he’s serious. “Camilla’s friend.” At my blank response he continues, “The actress––we haven’t talked in months.”
“I called.”
“To tell me my investments are up thirteen percent.”
“You’re up fourteen for the year now. And you said you were too busy for a drink.”
“You canceled the last time.”
Totally dejected, I slump down on the armrest of his couch. “You were the last name on my list.” I can’t keep the disappointment out of my voice. I’m so bummed I may start to cry and I am not a crier.
Ethan chuckles softly. “Wow, thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Why not a sperm bank?”
“I want my kid to know his or her father. I don’t want to tell them I bought their father.”
Ethan’s face goes unnaturally still. Then it does something strange. The smile stretching across his face is strange, that is. “I think I may have a solution for you.”
Chapter Four
Stella
He’s ten minutes late. I check my phone. Nope, no text or calls. And why would he pick this restaurant? It’s one of those obnoxiously trendy and overpriced places in SoHo. The only reason I haven’t paid for my drink and walked out is because of Ethan. Ethan vouched for him, swore up and down that this guy is a good man and a worthy candidate, so I’m allowing him a grace period of two more…
The roar of tail pipes gets my attention. Actually, it gets everyone’s attention. The people sitting at the outside tables crowd my line of sight. I shift left and right until I spot a man on a Harley pull up to the restaurant and park right in front of a fire hydrant.
How obnoxious.
Secretly, I hope a traffic officer drives by to disabuse this guy of his sense of entitlement. Passersby begin to stop and stare. That’s when I get a sinking feeling. Oh balls, this is probably my wayward lunch companion.
He takes off his helmet and runs a big hand through his hair, after which he greets his fan club with a wide bright grin. It seems out of place here in New York. It’s too much. We just don’t smile like that here.
He finally gets off the bike and I realize how tall he is in comparison to everyone around him. I’m talking freakishly tall. The pictures online, of him on the football field, do not do this guy justice. He’s proportionate, though. Which is probably why he didn’t look like a freak in pictures.
I run a perfunctory assessment of his other attributes. Messy, dark-blonde hair. A deep tan. Firm jaw. A straight nose. Bulging chest muscles pushing against a gray t-shirt. He meets all the requirements for Beefcake of the Year. I’ll reserve judgment for now.
Five minutes later, he’s still grinning. At the people that have swarmed the bike. At the women that are putting their hands on him to get his attention. At himself probably. A nagging suspicion tells me he may be the type. This does not bode well for our future.
The crowd around him grows bigger. From my research and what Ethan’s told me, I know he’s a retired football player but these people are acting like he’s the second coming.
Two more minutes pass and it doesn’t look like he’s made much progress so, getting impatient, I go fetch him. I push, I shove, I even step on toes to get through the mass of bodies. Finally, I reach my intended target.
“Mr. Wylder?”
I get nothing. He’s still smiling at a brunette who’s extending an arm to be signed. I guess I should be grateful it isn’t a more intimate body part.
“Mr. Wylder!” I shout and tug on the hem of his t-shirt. His attention finally swings my way. “I’m waiting.”
“Sorry, Shorty. No more autographs.”
He holds up a hand, his big-ass palm inches from my face, and pushes past me without glancing my way again.
It takes me a while to process what just happened. By then he’s already walked into the restaurant while I remain standing on th
e sidewalk shell-shocked.
I watch him talk to the maître d’, flirt with the hostess. I almost can’t believe my eyes. It’s like watching reality TV, totally cringeworthy and yet I can’t look away in fear I may miss what cringeworthy thing he might do next.
He looks at our table and notes the empty chairs. His head swivels right, then left. Finally he looks straight ahead. His gaze lands on me. Our eyes meet. Here we go.
The surprise on his face turns to…he’s smiling––again.
In all honesty, I’ve already made up my mind. I need to get back home and stalk the forums and websites for new potential candidates. With that in mind, I march into the restaurant, and back to the table.
“What are the chances?” he says with a crooked grin and a heavy Southern accent. He thinks this lazy country boy routine is cute. It’s not cute, and I’m not smiling. I’m not even close to smiling.
“What are the chances?” I parrot back. “Stella Donovan,” I say, holding out a hand.
“Nice to meet you, Stella.” The sticky sweet way he says my name has my gut churning. Par for the course.
“Dane Wylder.”
I tip my head, no smile included. My cold response has no visible effect on him. He’s not chastened in the least. He pulls out my chair and waits, a smile still in place. As soon as I sit I retrieve an iPad and a manila folder out of my tote bag.
“What’s that?” he asks, his tone curious with a dash of amusement. It seems this guy is easily amused.
“The research I’ve compiled. Only the essentials. Should we decide to proceed––” In my mind I’m snickering as the words leave my lips. “Then a more exhaustive vetting process will follow.”
Fat chance.
Looking up, I take in the disheveled bed head, the two-day stubble, and last, although by no means least, the black eye. I don’t even want to know how that happened.
There’s a strangely alert look in his heavily lashed, hazel eyes, the tips so long they’re tangled at the ends. For a hot moment I wonder if it’s a dominant trait. Which I really shouldn’t since there isn’t a single chance of this guy becoming anything other than a funny story I tell at cocktail parties. Therefore, as strangely fascinated by those lashes as I am, I don’t linger in case this egomaniac gets the wrong impression.
