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I look up at the ceiling. Huxley is tall and handsome—the best-looking guy I know. He’s incredibly clever—his crack last night about bribing the examination officer for a pass in mathematics was amusing because he was top of all his mathematics and economics classes. The guy’s a fucking smart arse. He’s honorable and fair. Very funny. Extremely affable and a great host, seeing it as his calling in life to put everyone at ease. And because of all that I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s great in bed. He sounds perfect.
But he’s not of course. I can overlook the fact that he’s afraid of spiders, heights, thunderstorms, needles, clowns, dolls, the sight of blood, and probably a dozen other things. I can forgive him for being incredibly ambitious, a tad arrogant, squeamish, for only eating his food one item at a time without mixing them on his plate, for liking practical jokes, and for being stubborn and prideful and even Mr. Darcy-like at times, refusing to admit he’s wrong.
I can forget all that. But when it comes down to it, I can’t forget that he’s a player, a tomcat who’s never been out with a girl for more than six months, in my knowledge. That’s not to say he uses women. I don’t think he’s ever had to talk a girl into his bed, and I doubt he’s ever had to promise a wedding ring to get them to sleep with him. But I’ve had to console girls when they’ve come to find him and he’s conveniently disappeared. I’ve watched them cry, and I’ve been determined never to put myself in the same position.
Mack and Titus are the same—or Mack was until he met Sidnie—and I guess it might have something to do with the guys being so rich; I think they’re all wary about women being after their money. Which, as a woman, I’d get resentful about, except I’ve actually overheard women they’ve dated joke about hooking a billionaire, so I know it’s a factor.
I understand why he’s been reluctant to commit in the past. And I accept that he might have changed, because he’s older now, and his business is relatively stable, and he might be looking to settle down at last. He did promise me,If you give me one night, I’ll be so irresistible that you’ll want two. And then three. And we’ll never look back.
But am I willing to bet my heart on it?
No. I am not.
I know he’s fond of me. Maybe that he even loves me, as a friend. But it’s impossible not to think that he only wants me because he hasn’t had me. And that once the novelty’s worn off, he’ll be looking elsewhere for entertainment. If that were to happen; if we were to date, and then he either cheated on me or broke it off because he was bored… I cover my face with my hands at the thought, my insides twisting. I would never, ever recover.
I blow out a long, slow breath and lower my hands. I feel better now I’ve thought it all through. Last night was an amusing diversion, and I enjoyed flirting with him, and kissing him. But the crux of it is that I asked him to donate, and he said no. Forget all the jokes about doing it the old-fashioned way. He doesn’t want to be a distant father, and that’s fair enough. I shouldn’t have asked him, I guess, but it’s done, and now I can move on.
So… what’s next? Do I ask one of the other guys I know?
My face flushes at the thought. A few months ago I might have asked Mack, because we’re good friends and I like and admire him, even though we argue a lot. But I can’t ask now he’s with Sidnie; that would just be weird. Wouldn’t it? At the clinic, they said it’s relatively common for men who have partners to donate, and the partners are asked to sign the consent form so they’re aware of the issue around the donor being identifiable. But I can’t help but think that if I was Sidnie, I wouldn’t want my man fathering other women’s children.
What about Titus? I’ve known him as long as the others. He’s lovely—taller and bigger even than Hux and good looking with it. I’ve given him several nicknames over the years—the Incredible Hunk and the Striking Viking jumping to mind, because of his Scandinavian heritage. But we’ve never had that connection that I have with Huxley. Perhaps that’s a good thing, though? Maybe it would be better to have a baby with someone like that?
I rest a hand on my tummy beneath the covers. I don’t know. The thought of getting pregnant by Titus feels bizarre. The whole process is a bit freaky, actually. I’m beginning to think I’d rather not know the donor. So what does that mean? That I have to wait three years for a clinic donor?
I’ll only be thirty-two. Hardly old to have my first child. But it feels like such a long time. I’m at a good point in my life right now. My company is well-established and doing great. I have a fantastic apartment, a beautiful dog, lots of friends, and a blossoming bank account. I feel as if I’m in the perfect place for a baby. I want one so badly. I didn’t think I was the sort of woman who’d get broody, but I am, terribly so. And now I have to wait three years?
I look at the clock. It’s now 7:05. I need to get home, shower and change, and go to the office. I have two meetings this morning, then I’m supposed to be coming back to Huxley’s for a one p.m. meeting with the Auckland Business Consortium. Which, of course, Huxley will be at. I groan. I’m going to have to face him at some point. I’m not ashamed that I asked him to be a donor—I like to think it’s a flattering thing if a woman likes you enough to father her child. And I’m not embarrassed that I opened up a bit. I don’t even mind that we kissed—we were drunk, and we’re both single. Nobody was hurt in the process.
Okay, I’m a little mortified to have discussed self-administering and vibrators. But hey, I’m a woman of the world. Fuck it. It’s done. If that’s the only thing I have to worry about, my life isn’t going too badly.
I get up, groan as I open the curtains, and pull on my suit. I could shower here, but I don’t have all my toiletries or a change of clothes, and I’d rather go home.
I tidy my hair, wipe away the worst of the black smudges under my eyes, and pick up my purse. Then I frown as I see the waste-paper bin beside the bed, and the two Panadol and the bottle of water on the bedside table. Did I leave them there? I don’t remember. That was very smart of me considering I was out of my tree. Shrugging, I take the Panadol, put my shoes on, a little unsteadily, and then quietly leave the room.
I’m relieved to get to reception without bumping into Huxley. I hand Gail my key card with a smile, then head over to the elevator and call the carriage.
It’s only as I walk in and press the button for the ground floor that something filters into my memory. As the doors close, I stare ahead, not seeing the mirror, but instead a flicker of an image from last night. Huxley’s waistcoat and shirt collar from close up. His strong arms around me. Holy shit—he carried me in here and took me up to the room. He was the one who left the bin and the Panadol.
I lean against the wall and let my head fall back with a thud. He could so easily have taken advantage of me. But instead he took me up to a spare suite, put me to bed, and left.
Oh my God, Huxley. What am I going to do with you?
*
At 1:10 p.m., I arrive back at the club. I feel a lot better than I did earlier. I went home, picked up Nymph from my brother, took her for a run, showered and changed, and ate breakfast, even though my stomach was still a bit uneasy. By eighty-thirty I was in the office, and I’ve had a busy and productive morning. I’ve just dropped Nymph off home, and now I feel ready to face the music.
I’m a little late because my last meeting ran over, but it won’t matter—everyone in the Consortium runs a business, and we all know the pressures we’re under, and make allowances accordingly.
I have to admit, though, to feeling butterflies in my stomach as the elevator rises to the third floor. Will Huxley have told any of the others what we talked about last night? I can’t imagine he would have. Even so, I have to take several deep breaths as I walk out of the elevator and along the corridor to the board room where the meeting is always held.
As I approach the room, I can see the shape of the other eleven members of the Consortium behind the frosted glass, and then the muffled sound of laughter. I sigh, put my hand on the door, and push it open.
“Hey,” I say, “Sorry I’m late.”
“Hey, Elizabeth.” Mack, Titus, and the other members call out as I walk in. I run my gaze along the table and see the one available chair near the far end of the table. Opposite Huxley.
Eyes down, I walk to the chair, pull it out, and sit. The head of the Consortium, Marvin Law, says, “We were just talking about the postal strikes in the U.K.”
