It was day four. No stopping yet.
My inbox was still a disaster. I was tempted to ask Jodi or one of the younger café ladies with time on her hands and a sense of humor to do some screening of my messages. I didn’t want to overlook my possible soul mate—I mean, sperm mate—but jeez. A girl had to work for a living and couldn’t weed through salacious emails day and night.
The bright side was that Macy was making tons of cash. The café had even gotten a feature on the local nightly news last night, and though nothing had been specifically mentioned about my procreation practices, the female anchor had been a little too chatty when it came to “Macy’s newsworthy employees.”
My boss had taken me aside afterward to make sure I understood we were still cool and she wasn’t pissed about the recent spotlight on her business. She was still counting those dolla-dolla bills, and hey, if I happened to find a worthwhile sperm candidate, yay me.
I was so grateful to her for dealing with this lapse of judgment, as some in the community had called my post. And not only that, for making the most of an, uh, sticky situation.
Tilting my head, I squeezed more frosting on top of the baby head cookies I’d just baked. I’d let them cool and now it was time to add the little curls of frosting hair on each one. The girls had rainbow squiggles and the boys did too, shaped into a mohawk. No traditional pink and blue here. We were an all-inclusive café. To that end, I’d also made a gender-neutral baby cookie. No identifying characteristics at all on that one except ruddy cheeks and bright brown eyes.
I had another tray of cooling cookies on the rack. Those were shaped like children’s toys. A wagon, a ball, a kind of creepy doll-looking thing that I’d shaped myself and wouldn’t be making again.
At least they’d taste delicious.
Speaking of tasting, I was tasting the flavor of bitter defeat at missing Murphy the last few days.
Not that I was looking for him, exactly. That would be foolish. I had an inbox full of prospects, not to mention my voicemails and in-person offers. I’d probably need an agent soon. Wonder where I’d find one willing to help me on my quest?
Woman of reproductive age seeking representation in screening candidates with ready sperm. Personal traits of sperm-owner negotiable. Willingness to try a few new positions while making transfer a bonus.
I let out a giggle. Yeah, probably wouldn’t be finding too many takers for that role anytime soon.
“Seeing a beautiful lady laughing definitely makes my day that much better.”
For a second, irrational hope bloomed in my chest that maybe Murphy had changed his voice and his personality and had decided to speak freely for a change.
Not that we never talked. We did. Just not much and not often.
I wasn’t sure why I was so determined to hear him string more than a few sentences together in my direction. Maybe it was because I could tell he was the kind of man who read books and thought important things and would never make fun of me for wanting to have a baby on my own.
He’d think my method of trying to find a guy was ridiculous, of course. Because he was classier than that, and maybe a little old-fashioned to boot. He would never have to worry about such a thing even if he had a mind to procreate, since I always caught chicks checking him out when he was busy poring over the muffin selection or probably reading about some vitally crucial trade deal on his phone.
But it wasn’t Murphy speaking to me. It was Lucky from Gideon’s construction team, and though I’d seen him come in with Murphy a few times, I didn’t know if they were friends. Murphy was a solitary sort. I didn’t know why that appealed to me too.
He didn’t check any of my usual boxes, yet he intrigued me more than anyone had in a very long time.
And Lucky was waiting for a reply.
“Thanks. I’m not beautiful—” I didn’t get the sentence out before he leaned forward and placed his finger over my mouth.
“Don’t argue with me, beautiful. Now what kind of delectable treats are you making in your secret oven?” Lucky grinned, and I wondered if I’d ever heard anyone use an appliance as a sexual euphemism before. But I was pretty sure he was.
The bell dinged over the door and my gaze cut that way, probably because I was seeking escape. I liked Lucky. He seemed nice enough, if a little cocky. He was good looking, and he knew it, which unfortunately lessened his appeal.
And none of that really mattered right now. Murphy stepped through the door, his eyes narrowing on me and Lucky. He’d focused right in on us as if his vision was a laser and we were his target.
“Vee?” Lucky prompted, glancing over his shoulder toward the door. Then his smile widened. “Should’ve known. I’ll just leave the lovebirds alone.” He held up his hands palms out while I frowned at him. “Can’t blame a guy for trying, especially when the writing is on the wall.” His grin flashed and my frown grew.
Was he the guy I’d been talking to online? Well, the one I’d paid the most attention to. It wasn’t as if Cabin Fortress was the only man who’d sent a nice note. There had a been a few. Unfortunately, there were far more of the dirty kind—and not even creatively dirty. Just garden variety unfunny crudeness, mixed with a couple of dick pics.
Even those hadn’t been worth my time. I wasn’t into looking at penises as a rule, except on the occasional night when my rich fantasy life didn’t get the, ah, job done. Still, the ones that had landed in my in bin had been more snort-worthy than arousing.
“Writing on the wall? What writing is that?”
C’mon, give me another hint it’s you I’ve been talking to.
Though strangely, disappointment churned low in my belly at the possibility. Lucky was a fun guy. Even hot. But he wasn’t—