Chapter Nineteen
Regan
It’s Friday afternoon. The contract was signed last week. I still haven’t told a single soul.
And I’m staring at a positive test. I’m ovulating. Or I will be within twenty-four to forty-eight hours.
I know because I went back to the city and bought several dozen ovulation tests. I take a deep breath. Now is the time. We have to start tonight.
I’m excited, but at the same time, terrified. What if it doesn’t happen? What if I’m one of those women who can’t get pregnant? Or what if I simply waited too long? What if I finally figured out what I want out of life and it’s unachievable?
I can’t think about any of that yet. I pick up my phone.
Me: It’s time. Are you around?
Lucas and I haven’t texted much. The time I told him I agreed to his first proposition. Then when I agreed to the second. And when he told me the contract was ready. The last time we texted was last week, after a courier brought me the contract and he asked when he might expect to hear from me because his job entails out of town commitments and he’d have to plan accordingly.
Plan accordingly. Like I’m something on his schedule to be checked off.
I stare blankly out my front window thinking about how crazy this is. I may have a baby with the one man in this town who is the polar opposite of me. Signing his contract, taking these ovulation tests this week, that’s about the most planning I’ve done since before I dropped out of college thirteen years ago.
If I were to bet on it, I’d say he has my name written on some calendar or list somewhere, along with all his other projects.
Project . I think about his ‘mission’ to make me come. The things he whispered in my ear. The way I’d actually looked forward to being with a guy—something that hasn’t happened in eons. I haven’t thought about it in weeks. Not since I completely changed directions and went on a mission of my own. Am I disappointed that is no longer the objective here?
No. I don’t think I am. Having an orgasm is overrated. I think society puts too much pressure on women as it is. And to then expect them to just ‘let Calgon take them away’ and forget about everything else in life just for five to ten seconds of pleasure. It’s a ridiculous thought, one I’m embarrassed I ever agreed to.
I stare at my phone. He hasn’t texted back. He’s normally much quicker than this. What if he’s not available? Or worse, out of town. I close my eyes. I should have kept him more in the loop. I gave him an approximate time frame, but never having done this, I couldn’t be sure. Since my period decided to be almost a week late last month, who knew when this might happen? It’s why I’ve been peeing on ovulation tests for the last six days.
I should have warned him that once a test strip indicates impending ovulation, it’s imperative for success that we do it as soon as possible. The articles I read said all the studies show sex before ovulation is best. Having sperm right there, waiting for the egg to be released so they can jump all over it as soon as it’s in the fallopian tube, is ideal.
Okay, so maybe I’ve gone a bit overboard these past few weeks with my internet research.
I check my phone again. Still nothing.
Texting him a second time would seem desperate. So I busy myself. I clean the dressing room. Put some dresses back on the rack. Count today’s profits. I stare at the calendar. June 20. Could today be the day I— oh shit —it’s June 20 th . I haven’t done my quarterly sales tax filing.
I spend the next two hours going over receipts and ledgers from the past three months, and then make the bank transfer, coming in just under the wire.
The front doorbells chime. I don’t look up. I’m staring at my laptop waiting for the acknowledgement of filing.
Deep, male laughter fills the air, pulling my attention from my computer.
Lucas is standing on the other side of the counter, bags in hand, staring at the complete disaster I’ve made. Papers are strewn everywhere. It looks like a tornado came through here and upended my entire bookkeeping system.
“You look how my brother Dallas looks at the start of each April.”
I nod. “Yeah. I almost forgot to file my quarterly sales taxes.”
His eyes narrow. “How could that even happen? Don’t you have reminders on your phone? A digital calendar? Alarms so you don’t forget? A wall calendar with important dates circled and noted? Hell, even a Post-it note affixed to your ledger would do.”
I stare at him with crazy eyes. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a freak, that’s why. Do you seriously do all that crap you just said?”
“Any diligent businessperson would.”
I study him. “Lucas, have you ever been diagnosed with OCD? And if so, is it hereditary?”
His head bobs with laughter. “You’re not the first person to ever ask that. But no, it’s just good business practice.”
He steps forward, clears a spot on the counter and puts down a large take-out bag from Lloyd’s Steakhouse. Then he gets the bottle of wine he’d tucked under his arm and sets it down as well.
Involuntarily, my stomach grumbles as the incredible smells of the food hit me.
“So you did get my text?” I purse my lips. “What kind of good business practice has you not responding to texts?”
“This isn’t business.”
I scoff. “It is according to the contract I just signed.”
He leans over the counter, inching closer. “The contract has nothing to do with this part.”
“Even so.” I tear my eyes away from his, refusing to succumb to his alluring gaze. “You should have texted me back.” I touch the takeout bag. “What’s this?”
“Dinner.”
“This isn’t a date, Lucas. This is a business transaction.”
“Can you not talk about my cock like it’s a commodity?”
“It’s not your cock I’m interested in. It’s your sperm.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wonder how much truth there is to that. His cock is fascinating. The thought has me wondering if I’m not just a little disappointed that the friends-with-benefits thing didn’t actually happen. Then again, I am about to be bedded by the man.
He walks around to my side of the counter and whispers in my ear. “Then why didn’t you have me jizz into a cup?”
I step away. “Better odds this way.”
“Actually, the best odds are intrauterine insemination.”
My eyes widen.
“Don’t look so surprised, Regan. I’ve done my homework.”
I motion to his offerings. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“So you’ve eaten? It’s only five thirty.”
“No, but—”
“We’re going to spend the next eighteen years around each other and you’re complaining about one dinner?”
I sigh. “We might not, you know. There’s no guarantee this will happen.”
“It’s going to happen.” He pats the front of his pants. “I’m shooting only the best swimmers.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Got tested last week. Wanted to make sure I’m not shooting blanks.”
My jaw slackens. “You did?”
“You’ll be happy to know my sperm count is very high. Motility is good. Along with morphology and vitality and density. Basically, if sperm testing was an exam, I just aced it with flying colors.” He turns in a circle, arms held out. “You’re welcome.”
I roll my eyes. But secretly, I’m delighted to know he’s highly fertile. At the same time, I know that means if we can’t conceive, I’m the culprit.
“Also.” He winks. “You’ll be happy to know I tested negative for any and all STIs.”
Inwardly, I scold myself for not thinking of this. But I don’t say anything. He already thinks I’m a kook of epic proportions. I can imagine what his desk calendar must look like.
Tuesday: Get tested for diseases.
Thursday: Go to sperm doctor.
Friday: Impregnate Regan.
I shake off the thought. “Well, that’s a relief. And so you know, no STIs here either.”
“I figured.” He picks up the wine and Lloyd’s bag. “Come on. Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
Before I even get a chance to call him out on his blatantly obvious stab at my long dry spell, he’s flipping around my sign and locking the front door. He really does hate me leaving it unlocked. He turns. “I should have had Candace write into the contract that you’ll keep your doors locked when my kid is with you.”
“Must you always call it your kid?”
“Fine. Our kid.”
He traipses upstairs like he owns the place, and then— like he owns the place —he goes right to the kitchen and plates our food.
I don’t resist much, however, because the mouth-watering beef tenderloin on my plate is just about the nicest meal I’ve had in… well, since I can remember. It makes me wonder, is this how it’s going to be? When he’s depositing thousands of dollars into my account every month? When he’s expecting our child to be raised with the same socioeconomic standards he has?
“Where did you have the testing done?” I ask.
“I’m not an idiot, Regan. I went to the city.”
“Good. That’s good.”
He tops off my wine. “What did Maddie and Ava say about this whole situation?”
“Didn’t tell them,” I say around a bite of baked potato. I swallow it and add, “What did Blake and Dallas say?”
“I haven’t told anyone either.”
“Why is that?”
“You tell me.”
I gaze across the living room. “I suppose because I didn’t want to be talked out of it.”
“Yup. Same.” He takes a bite of steak.
“So if you’re afraid of being talked out of it, and I’m afraid of being talked out of it, does that mean we’re making a huge mistake, Lucas?”
He puts his fork down. “It means it’s nobody’s goddamn business except ours.”
I nod, knowing exactly what my friends would say. They’d probably show up with slide shows, graphs, and statistics about how epically bad this plan is.
“When are we going to tell them?” I ask. “Assuming it happens.”
“I was going to leave that up to you.”
“Can we just play it by ear? Even if I do get pregnant, there are still things that can go wrong.”
His head cocks to the side. “But you aren’t planning on waiting too long are you? I mean, it’ll be obvious after a while.”
“I’ll have more time than most,” I say, glancing down at my fluffy midsection. “I’ve seen women my size go into their third trimester without it being obvious.”
“You want to wait that long?”
“I don’t know.”
He tops off my wine. Again.
“I’m a sure thing, Lucas. You don’t have to get me drunk.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, but who knows, this may be one of the last drinks you get to have for a long long time.” His finger taps on his lips as he watches me take a sip. “You aren’t going to drink when you’re pregnant, are you? Jeez, there’s something else I should have told Candace to add.”
“I’m not going to do anything to put the baby at risk. Sushi will be the one that kills me. I love sushi. Especially the raw stuff. But from what I’ve read, that’s a hard no.” A thought occurs to me, making me smile like a Cheshire cat. “So listen, since I’m going to have to give up drinking, raw sushi, and a whole slew of other stuff with nitrates and all, I think it’s only fair that you have to give up something too.”
He touches the wine bottle. “I work in the business, Regan. Sorry, but I’m not giving up drinking. That’s a hard no.”
I’m somewhat amused he thinks that’s what I was talking about. I reach across the table and pull a half-full pack of smokes from his breast pocket, tossing them on the table.
“You want me to quit smoking?”
“God, yes. First of all, you can’t smoke around the baby.” My head falls back, and I sigh. “Guess I should have had Candace add that to the contract. Second, you’ll no longer smell and taste like a chimney. And third, and most importantly, you’ll live longer. Won’t you want to be around for his or her graduation? Wedding? Grandkids?”
“Jesus.” He swipes a hand across his jaw. “This really could be happening.”
“If you’re having second thoughts, now is the time to pull out.”
“I’m not.” He puts a hand over mine. “Pulling out is not going to help us, Ray. I’m pushing in. I’m pushing in all nine inches. But before I do, I’m going to make sure you’re ready for me.” His eyes fall to my cleavage. “I’ll suck your nipples until you squirm.” He waves his fingers in the air. “I’ll use these on your clit. And inside you. I’m going to find that little pebble of a spot deep within and massage it until you’re so wet you’re dripping. I’ll use my tongue on you. Everywhere . And maybe my teeth. Your pussy is going to beg for my cock, Ray. It’s going to drag everything out of me.” He leans close. “Every last fucking drop.”
I clear my throat, unable to speak or eat another morsel.
He stands, goes to the very drawer that holds my wine stopper, corks the wine, then pulls me to my feet. “Let’s go make a baby.”