The Knocked Up Plan

In return, she treated me like gum on the bottom of her shoe.

I could answer Nicole with starkness and say, I don’t really care anymore about romancing a woman.

But she deserves more than that. “For most men, yes, I suspect it would be a great start to romance. And for me, I had a hell of a good time with you.”

Nicole doesn’t balk at my honest assessment. Instead, she nudges me with her elbow. “Good thing we can be so scientific about this, right?”

I laugh, relieved that we don’t have to tread more seriously on this topic. I adopt my radio announcer voice. “Gentlemen, tonight we conducted a highly scientific study of dates in New York City, and we’ve concluded that the flying trapeze is an excellent jumpstart to romance.”

Nicole jumps in. “If you play your cards right, by the end of the evening her heart will be topsy-turvy for you. You might even land a first kiss.” She winks at me and whispers, “But I’m pretty confident you’re a sure thing.”

That’s because the sex is guaranteed in ink. It’s sex with a contract, outlined in legalese. The last week has been consumed by paperwork for our arrangement. First, I showed her my health records—a clean bill of health and no STDs. Same for her. Then, the more formal agreement. My lawyer checked the contract for me. It’s everything Nicole proposed. Sex for the sole purpose of procreation. If she conceives, I owe her nothing. That’s the bottom line. No expectations. No future payments. In return, I won’t ask for anything, either. No parental rights. Nothing at all.

Fine with me.

At its heart, it’s a beautiful sort of deal, one that says neither party expects a damn thing. I run a hand through her hair. “Fuck that romance shit. I want you in bed, woman.”

Her eyes blaze with heat. “And that’s exactly where I want to be.”

I love that she’s down to fuck. And I fucking love that we’re not playing games. There’s something incredibly freeing about this kind of relationship. Maybe this is the way it should be—clear and easy.

But once we reach her place in the East 80s, all that easy, breezy, sexy confidence slips away.





Thirteen





Nicole

Dogs are a woman’s best friend.

They’re also buzz killers since I need to tend to my doggy before we get into doggy-style.

Ruby jumps up and down when I unlock the door. She whimpers her excitement at seeing her mistress. She swings her gaze at Ryder and unleashes an accusatory bark at the unknown man.

Who the hell are you?

“Shh. He’s a friend,” I tell her and instantly she settles down.

“Hey girl,” he says, in that sweet but firm voice that dog people know how to use. “You’re gorgeous.”

My heart goes pitter-patter over the compliment.

“She says thank you,” I translate, though it’s readily apparent Ruby likes the praise, seeing as how she’s waggling her butt. “She’s shameless. She falls lickety split.”

Ryder shrugs. “Not a bad trait.” He quickly adds, like he needs to correct himself, “In a dog.”

He rubs her chin, and Ruby’s sold. For a second, it hits me how odd it is that they haven’t met yet. Despite our work companionship, there’s never been a need for him to be here.

Now there is, and it’s business time.

But first, I need to take Ruby for a quick walk around the block so she can attend to her business. Ryder joins me, grabbing a dog bag from the stash I keep in an open jar by my door. Dog people get dog people.

“Where’s your boy right now? Waiting patiently by the door for you?”

“Romeo’s at the neighbor’s,” he tells me as we head down the stairs and out to my quiet block. “There’s a sweet lady who lives upstairs from me. She’s been in my building forever, and I mean forever. Rent-controlled and all that jazz. Her niece lives with her and walks dogs, so they have Romeo right now. I booked her because I wasn’t sure how long we’d be tonight.”

“Hopefully we will . . .” But then I’m not sure what to say. Are we hoping it’ll be long or short? Does he want to get in and out with three Hail Marys so he can get home and walk the dog? We’ve been out for a few hours already. Furtively, I check the time. He probably needs to do the deed quickly.

I’ll think dirty thoughts as soon as we finish the dog walk, so I can make it easy for him. I should be a fertile myrtle right now, so hopefully this whole shebang isn’t too much of a time-suck for either of us. Women get knocked up on the first try all the time. My mother did. Why not me?

Soon, we return to my building and head to my floor. As I turn the key in the lock, a voice calls out to me. “Hey, Nicole!”

My shoulders tense as I hear my neighbor Frederick. I’m not entirely sure what he does for a living. All I know is he dresses like a hipster and is completely incapable of, well, anything. Last month, he asked to borrow Drano. A few months ago, he begged for baking soda and vinegar. Honestly, I don’t want to know what he does in his place.

“Hi, Frederick.”

“Hey there,” Ryder says, with a quick lift of his chin.

“Hey, buddy,” Frederick replies. Yeah, he’s one of those guys. Everyone is buddy. Frederick strokes his beard and peers at us curiously over the edge of his glasses. He seems to remember something when he snaps his fingers. “Nicole. Any chance you have a plunger I can borrow?”

Oh Jesus.

“Did you ask the super?” I suggest.

“He’s not around tonight.”

This is when I wish I lived in a doorman building. “Sure. I’ll get one for you,” I say, thinking how incredibly unsexy this is.

“I’ll get it,” Ryder offers.

I shoot him the most deadly stare in the history of stares. Seriously. Because there is no way I am letting this sexy-as-sin man touch a plunger before he gets his hands on me. And it’s not like the bathroom plunger has gotten action in ages. “I’ll do it. You will not touch my plunger.”

He presses his lips together to stifle a laugh, and I realize how weirdly dirty that sounded. “Your plunger,” he says with a chuckle.

I open the door, unleash Ruby, scurry to the bathroom, grab the plunger, and take it to Frederick.

“You’re a godsend,” he tells me, holding up the plunger with the stick end as if I’ve handed him the Olympic torch. “I’ll get this back to you in a jiffy.”

I scoff and wag a finger. “No. No, you will not. You will not knock on my door tonight to return a plunger. What you will do is buy me a new one tomorrow. Good night.”

I open my door, and Ryder follows me in, laughing. “That was fucking beautiful. Also, what kind of man doesn’t have his own plunger?”

I point a thumb in my neighbor’s direction. “That kind of man,” I say, shaking my head as I head to the kitchen to wash my hands. For a full minute. I give them a surgeon-level scrub.

When I’m done, I turn to see the most gorgeous man leaning in the doorway of my kitchen.

Dear Lord, he’s beautiful, and I’m so not in the mood.

From the dog to the neighbor to the plunger. But I need to get it up, so to speak.

“Hey there,” he says, softly. Maybe he senses the shift. Duh. Of course he does. He’s not stupid.