Baby Maker (It Takes Two 1)

“Like a stud at auction?” he mutters.

“Pardon?” I say, even though I heard him perfectly.

“Hmm?”

“I thought you said something.”

“Nope.” He smiles. Apparently everything can be fixed with a smile in the world according to Dane Wylder.

I tap open the screen of my iPad and my eyes land on retired football player under profession. “What position?” I absently inquire while I pull up the list of questions I’d prepared beforehand. Small talk; I couldn’t care less what position, nor do I know much about football outside of the basics.

“All of ’em, honey. With you? All of them. Fair warning, I’m not great at standing. Bum knee.”

He cannot be serious. I look up. He’s smiling, a wide toothy grin. Dear Lord, he is serious.

My eyes move back to the iPad. It never happened. One sign that I find his juvenile behavior mildly entertaining and it will never stop.

“What position did you play?” I try again.

“That’s not in your file?”

I look up from the list of questions. When I don’t respond, he says, “Tight end.” And then––you guessed it––he smiles.

Dane

“I’d suggest a Myers-Briggs test, to see if our personalities are compatible, but I think it’s safe to say you’re an extrovert,” she says, tone communicating her annoyance perfectly.

I was a psych major. I know exactly what a Myers-Briggs test is. Doesn’t mean she needs to know that. This wouldn’t be half as much fun if she didn’t underestimate me.

This woman is not what I was expecting when Ethan suggested this babymaking scheme. When he said a friend of his was interested in co-parenting a child and nothin’ more, I jumped at the chance, my prayers answered. A woman not interested in anything other than a platonic business arrangement? Sign me up.

I pictured an unattractive woman. Someone older, smellin’ of desperation. Nothing like this…this little thing with dark hair and big eyes. She’s no Christy, but she’s attractive.

“Is that one of them squiggly line picture tests? Imma tell you right now they all look like boobs to me.”

As soon as we sat down she fished a pair of reading glasses out of her bag and put them on. As far as ugly goes, these are the granddaddy of ugly. But those clear blue-green eyes of hers framed by those ugly-as-fuck glasses are something special.

She blinks, blinks again. Her expression is priceless. I almost wish I had a keepsake.

“Save it for your groupies, Mr. Wylder. The dumb beefcake act won’t work on me. I’ve seen your IQ score.”

“You have?”

“It’s right here in your dossier.” She taps a short red nail on the screen of her iPad.

“And a perfect Wonderlic.”

“Excuse me?”

“I take it you ain’t a football fan?” At the word ain’t, she grimaces. I bite back the urge to chuckle.

“You would be correct.” Across the table, she hands me a manila folder. “Here’s my dossier.”

“Dossier?” Taking it, I flip it up and down. “You mean a file.”

I get a not-so-subtle glare in return. This woman does not like me––a first. So then why does another undeniable smile split my face? Don’t know. But what I do know is that this is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

Her irritation clears and once again she’s lookin’ down her cute nose at the screen. Her eyes widen. She glances up from the tablet she’s abusing and skewers me with those baby blues. I can’t wait to see what comes out of that pretty mouth next.

“It says here you’ve had a thousand sexual partners?” Her voice holds equal amounts of shock and disbelief. “That can’t be right.” Damn, she’s cute when she’s confused. “It’s a typo, right?’

“That’s classified information,” I bark, feigning anger like a champ. She rolls her eyes and I barely manage to stop the laughter wantin’ to rip out of me. “How’d you get that number?”

“Research. Otherwise known as Google. So it’s obviously not classified.”

Pure bullshit propagated by past teammates but why mess with the legend, right? Besides, most women, even the most bloodthirsty predators, balk at such a number. They move on to dumber pastures in their hunt for a husband and that spells victory for me. And if there’s one thing I love above all else, it’s winning.

“Give or take a few hundred.” She eyeballs me, mentally gearing up for a debate.

Men have been underestimating women since the dawn of time. Not me. I chose the red pill. Make no mistake, they are the smarter sex. The idea that men rule the world is a lie spoon-fed to us by the females of the specie––a conspiracy to control the masses. Keep the suckers fat and happy, thinking they’re in charge, when someone else is pulling puppet strings from behind the curtain. Not this sucker. Ain’t no one pullin’ my strings.

Her lips shape into a smug smile. She laces her fingers together. She has nice hands, long tapered fingers. One minute I’m staring at her hands and the next I’m picturing those hands wrapped around––

She coughs. My eyes climb back up to her face where I find her wearing a determined little scowl.

“If this is going to work, honesty is of the utmost importance. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Absolutely.” Though I highly doubt any woman is capable of keeping that promise for longer than a twenty-four-hour period.

“And you expect me to believe you’ve had a thousand sexual partners?”

God, this is like fishing with dynamite. Sitting back, I cross my arms and give it a meaningful pause before answering, “Sweetheart, I was gettin’ paid a lot of money to play football. I couldn’t just give that up.”

She goes dead silent. Dang, if I knew how much fun this was gonna be, I’d have done it ages ago.

Stella

I glance at my cell, indicating my impatience to leave. “Well,” I say, searching for an excuse for a speedy exit.

I ordered the salad Niçoise simply because I wanted to eat and end this torture as quickly as possible. I hadn’t expected this clown to order the rest of the menu. I’ve never seen a human being consume so much food. I can’t even imagine what his carbon footprint is.

Throughout lunch I said as little as possible while he pelted me over and over with inane questions. Why does he care if my tight ponytail gives me a headache? Or whether I always wear black. Or my favorite, “Are those glasses for show, or do you really need them?”

And then there was this…

“You’re Puerto Rican.”

“American––I was born here. Half Cuban, if that’s what you’re asking. On my mother’s side.”

“Right,” he said, like it’s the same thing.

“Is that a problem?”

His face lit up with another sly grin. “Hell no. I like seasonin’ on my white meat.”

I couldn’t make this up if I tried. You would think he was dropped on his head as a baby. Alas no, I’ve seen his IQ score with my own eyes, courtesy of one of my young analysts who “knows how to get information.” I didn’t ask how, I only said thank you.

“I really need to head back to the office.”

“On a Saturday?”

Oops.

“I have some research to do.” Sounds legit…kind of.

His greenish-brown eyes narrow. He motions for the bill. Ten awkward and silent minutes later, we’re struggling for the bill folder.

“Allow me,” he says.

“I got it,” I reply. Even though I put up a good fight, his grip is a thousand times stronger. He eventually wins the hand-to-hand combat.

Placing three crisp C-notes down, he stands. I do the same, denying him the opportunity to pull my chair out. This earns me a rare frown.

“You aren’t going to wait for the change?” The bill was $150.32. I glanced at the total before it was unceremoniously ripped out of my hands.

“Nope.”

So, here’s the thing, I get a little an

xious about money. Irrationally so, I readily admit. Being broke for as long as we were when I was growing up gives you a whole set of triggers. Twenty percent would’ve been sufficient. One hundred percent is being careless and my next thought is he’ll be broke by the time he reaches fifty.

Catching me conspicuously eyeballing the black folder, he says, “You okay?”

My gaze snaps back to him. “Yeah. I’m great. Do you always tip that much?”

He doesn’t like the question. I know this because he wears his suspicion openly. “Yeah, why?”

He’ll be broke by the time he reaches fifty. “Just curious.”

“More research?”

“Hmm, yeah.”

His warm hand lands on my lower back as he walks me out. The gesture takes me by surprise. Instinctively, I lean forward and he gives me a queer look. Once we hit the sidewalk, people walking by us recognize him, some slowing their pace. We’re about to get swarmed, a perfect opportunity for me to make a swift getaway.

“Thank you for lunch, Mr. Wylder.”

He smirks. Apparently he finds it hilarious that I would address him as such because he’s been giving me the same quirky smile throughout lunch. I’ve been racking my brain for the last hour trying to place who he reminds me of.