Baby Daddy

Chapter Three

Chapter ThreeJenna

I’m nervous.

Despite it being a Wednesday night, all the spots along Twenty-Ninth Street are taken. But I don’t mind parking around the corner and walking a block. The early October evening is crisp, with just a hint of a breeze, and the chatter of the dinnertime crowd sounds light and friendly. I could use a moment to compose myself. My stomach is tied in knots at the thought of having dinner with Emmett.

Well, not just dinner, if I’m being honest. It’s his comment about putting a baby inside me the “old-fashioned way” that has left me on edge for the past two days.

I take a deep breath and click the button on my key fob to lock my car, and focus on the sound of my high-heeled boots clicking along the pavement. I was unsure what to wear to the restaurant—it’s the first date I’ve been on in a long time. A simple oatmeal-colored tunic with leggings and tousled hair was the look I settled on after trying on half my closet in an anxious fit.

I stopped looking for Mr. Right altogether at some point last year. Some well-meaning friends told me that love would find me once I stopped looking. They lied. Fuckers.

But none of that matters right now. I’ve promised myself that no matter what happens, I’m the one in control. If I don’t like Emmett (or the things he has to say), I can just march my behind (and my uterus) right back to the clinic.

I expected Emmett to wait inside the restaurant. Instead, I spot him standing on the sidewalk as I approach, his hands in the pockets of his slate-gray sport coat, the very picture of a cultured, confident big shot.

Damn, he’s even more attractive than I remember. I half hoped to see him in his business suit again, but this five-o’clock-shadowed casual look is just as appealing. More appealing, maybe. His dark gray chinos and blue polo fit close enough that I can’t resist a quick up-and-down look. He must have gone home to spruce up after work before coming here, and I appreciate the effort almost as much as the view. The man is hot.

Emmett smiles and my eyes snap up to meet his. Oops. Hopefully he didn’t catch me checking out the goods. I’m here to decide whether I want his sperm sample, not to grab his ass. Not to take him home with me. Not to let him f**k the living daylights out of me . . .

Well, at least, not yet.

My stomach flips and I yank the plug out of my imagination. “Uh, hi,” I say, giving him a lame wave.

“Hello, Jenna,” he says, sounding genuinely glad to see me. I feel the weight of his gaze as it travels over me, making me warm. “You didn’t wear the lipstick.”

For a moment, I’m baffled, and then I recall our elevator conversation. The color I told him was my favorite and that I generally saved for dates.

“It’s not a real date.” Is it?

“Right, of course.” Emmett nods. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“No, I just hit a little traffic. Sorry I’m late.” It’s been a long time since I had a date, and I suddenly feel rusty.

He shrugs. “Only by five minutes, no big deal. Do you want to sit outside?”

“Sure, the weather’s nice.” I let him escort me to the door, through the bustling restaurant and back out to the patio. His hand sits on the small of my back the entire way.

When the waiter comes to our table, we order two bottles of Victoria beer and half a dozen carne asada tacos, and he quickly returns with our drinks. I sip my frosty brew, admiring the sunset in one direction and the traditional-style decor in the other, all adobe and turquoise. “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of this place before.”

“Just wait until our food arrives—I’m convinced they make the best tacos in the city. I come here all the time after a long day.” He winks. “Or a late night.”

A silver-haired man, not our waiter, brings a basket of tortilla chips and stone bowls of fresh salsa and guacamole to the table. As he sets down our appetizers, he says to Emmett, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lady friend?”

“Jenna, this is Tomás. His family has owned this restaurant for almost fifty years . . .”

Tomás gives Emmett a look of good-natured exasperation. “Twenty-three years, to be exact,” he says to me. “The gringo comes here whenever he wants real food.”

With a grin, Emmett jumps right into what is clearly a well-worn game. “Aren’t you too old to still be running around waiting tables? You need to settle down, old man.”

“Ah, you wish. Would you listen to this young snot’s nonsense?” Tomás shoots an incredulous look at me, as if inviting me into their sparring match, before firing back at Emmett. “Speak for yourself. When are you going to settle down? I never see you here with the same woman twice.”

My ears perk up despite myself. Really? So he’s a playboy, huh? I guess I’m not shocked to hear that a man with Emmett’s looks gets around some, and really, his private life is none of my business. But it’s oddly disappointing to have his escapades confirmed. Maybe I just thought he was more mature than that.

I’m curious to hear how much more Tomás might let slip, but Emmett just laughs and waves off the insult. “Mind your own business.”

Tomás sighs, shaking his head with a wry smile. “Excuse me, ma’am, I’ll leave you to your meal. Have a lovely night, you two.”

Our waiter soon returns with a huge platter of tacos, steaming hot and wafting delicious scents of grilled steak, corn tortillas, and chili peppers. My mouth waters. Lunch was a long time ago, and Mexican food is one of my biggest weaknesses.

I bite into one of the tacos and don’t bother holding back a moan of delight. “Oh my God, you were right. This is incredible.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Tomás you said that.” Emmett chuckles as he picks up another taco.

We dig in with gusto, and I find that Emmett has a way about him—an easy charm—that makes me feel comfortable. There’s no fumbling for topics or awkward silences, and for that, I’m incredibly grateful. Just like I was in the elevator.

As we eat, I learn that he’s thirty-eight (but I wouldn’t have guessed it), his last name is Smith, that he grew up not far from here, he has two siblings, and his best friend is an attorney. It’s all such normal stuff that part of me keeps waiting to uncover something horrible about him. Like how he secretly keeps all his toenail clippings or has twenty-four cats. It’s hard to understand how he’s not married with a couple of kids by now. The normal ones always go first.

For a while, we just focus on enjoying our delicious dinner, keeping the conversation light as we indulge. Our arms brush from time to time. Our knees bump under the small table. The entire time, I’m completely aware of him, my entire body tingling and alive.

Our conversation runs naturally from discussing the amazing food to comparing our other favorite restaurants in the city to speculating on how our state college will do in the upcoming football season.

I suddenly realize that I’m having a good time—actually, a fabulous time. I’ve almost forgotten how nice dating can be. Emmett’s mellow vibe is contagious. There’s no pressure here. Just chilling out, sharing a meal, shooting the breeze. And I even get some top-notch eye candy with my meal.

When we’ve demolished most of the tacos, Emmett wipes his mouth and asks, “So I never asked, what do you do?”

“Oh, I’m in collectibles. Antiques, that sort of thing,” I answer vaguely before taking another purposely huge bite.

I used to love talking business. I was, and still am, proud of all the hard work I’ve done building my little specialty bookshop from the ground up. But the shop’s recent downturn in business has soured the topic with anxiety, and the recent buyout offer has made it even worse. Besides, I’ve found that men sometimes turn squirrelly when I mention my success as a female entrepreneur. If this were a real first date, I would want to gauge whether Emmett is the kind of guy who’s intimidated by ambitious women before I invest too much time in getting to know him.

I don’t have to invest the time, I remind myself. Because this can’t come anywhere near a real commitment. We might have had a fun couple of hours, but we’re not trying to start any kind of personal relationship here. I’m evaluating him for something much more short-term. I’m not looking for a partner; I’m looking for a donor. So there’s no point forcing the conversation into awkward corners. Win-win.

Emmett props his chin on his hand, leaning forward. His dark eyes examine me. “I’ve been dying to know . . . no offense, but how the hell are you still single?”

I almost laugh. I’ve been wondering the exact same thing about him. “That’s a very good question. My friends think my standards are too high.” But I’m not about to settle. High standards are a good thing, as far as I’m concerned.

He nods once, his eyes going more serious. “Hence, the clinic.”

“Yep. Or the ‘spank bank,’ as you not so affectionately put it.” I arch my eyebrows at him pointedly, although the effect is somewhat ruined by my smirk.

He holds up his hand as he grins back. “Trust me, I was putting it nicely. They once had a contest for new slogans. You should have heard the things people in my office came up with that week. Even my sweet sixty-year-old secretary got in on it. I can’t unhear some of those things.” He pauses, his mouth lifting in a mischievous grin, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to continue. “You spank it, we bank it. You throttle it, we bottle it. Things like that.”

“Oh my God.” A hand clapped over my mouth barely contains my very unladylike snort-laugh. And then my brain starts working. “You jack it, we pack it,” I say with a giggle.

“That’s actually pretty good.” Emmett chuckles along with me. Then his smile fades as he continues watching me from across the table. “I think it’s commendable, taking matters into your own hands, but what I still don’t understand is, why have a baby at all?”

The muscles between my shoulders tense just a little. That question is much harder. I play with my beer bottle while I think, picking at the paper label. Finally, I reply, “I don’t really know. Can anyone explain why they want to be a mother? I just do. I always have, ever since I was a kid myself. I could always feel something missing from my life. It’s almost like . . . a calling.”

I expect a blank stare, at best, and laughter, at worst. Instead, Emmett regards me with a serious, inquiring expression.

“I can’t say I understand, but I’ll take your word for it. I’ve got to say, that takes some grit to stare single motherhood in the face and say, ‘Bring it on.’”

I flush and shrug off the unexpected compliment. “I’m no braver than millions of other women in the world. I couldn’t put it off any longer, that’s all. I knew I wanted a child, and when I turned thirty-five, I realized it was now or never. I’d have to take matters into my own hands.”

Really, I just got tired of waiting. Sometimes it feels like I’ve spent my whole life that way, getting more and more frustrated until I finally just did for myself what nobody else would do for me. I was tired of living in a cramped, dingy apartment, so I saved up for a freshly built condo. Tired of busting my ass for a promotion that was always “Oh, it’s not in the budget right now, maybe next year,” so I quit my job as a supermarket-chain book buyer and opened the Lit Apothecary. Tired of fifteen years of serial monogamy, dating my way through what felt like every man in the city, sniffing and digging like a bloodhound for husband material, so I bought myself a top-of-the-line battery-operated boyfriend.

Going to a fertility clinic is just more of the same pattern. I realized all along that I needed one thing from a man—just one thing—since I wasn’t able to find someone I could see myself starting a family with, and the sperm bank was the solution.

“If this doesn’t work, I’ll adopt. I’m trying IUI first because adoption is expensive, and it can take a while. But I’ll make it happen one way or another, whatever it takes.”

“IUI?” he asks.

“Sorry. Intrauterine insemination.”

Emmett nods slowly, a sober expression on his face. His gaze is intense. “I can’t remember the last time I met a woman like you,” he murmurs in a low voice with a heat that sinks into my skin. “I would love to help . . . if you’ve decided to let me.”

Down, girl. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“And I’d just be the donor. As I’ve said before, I don’t want any involvement.”

I nod. “I’ve thought a lot about this over the past couple days, and I’ve decided, yes, I’m interested. Assuming you don’t have any diseases or genetic problems.” I pull a small plastic cup out of my purse and set it on the table between us.

Emmett blinks at the cup in confusion for a moment. Then his jaw drops and his eyes widen as his stare snaps back up to me. “What the hell is this?”

“I’m not sure a physical relationship is the best idea. Dinner was great, don’t get me wrong, but I just don’t think sleeping together is a good idea.” I nudge the cup a little closer to him with a demure smile. “This is for your sample.”