Baby Maker (It Takes Two 1)

He replies with a smug grin. No surprise.

Leading Dane to my bedroom feels weird, weirdly intimate. I pause at the threshold. He takes one look at the bed I speak of and gasps, eyebrows high up his forehead.

“A California king?”

Everybody’s got a fetish. Mine is oversized luxury mattresses. No doubt this stems from the lumpy twin I grew up sleeping in. A shrink would have a field day with this, among other things, which is why I’ve never seen one.

“I like big beds,” I mutter, as I lie down, propped up by a stuffed headboard and a mountain of pillows piled up behind me.

“Marry me?”

“No.”

“Glad we got that out of the way. Hand me the remote.”

Placing his dish down on the side table, he gets into bed, legs spread apart to accommodate the size of his ego. Once he’s made himself comfortable, he grabs his dish and starts eating.

“You have two choices,” I tell him. “Housewives of Atlanta, or the Food Network?” He stops chewing his pasta to give me a dirty look. “Housewives it is.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m working on my laptop and he’s talking to the television. This is unequivocally the chattiest man I’ve ever met. The Housewives thing didn’t work out when he started asking way too many questions.

“That’s bullshit, Coach, and you know it,” he grumbles. Glancing up, I’m not surprised to find ESPN on my television.

My gaze moves sideways, to take a long look at the man making himself at home in my bed. It’s comfortable, having him here. Which is strange because I haven’t had a man here in a long time.

In the last few years there have been a couple of unremarkable first dates, and one uneventful one-night stand due to some questionable judgment on my part at an industry event. Other than that, my dating life has been nonexistent.

I could blame the ridiculous hours I work. I legitimately could. But the truth is it was easier to let time get away than it was to put in the effort it takes to get another person to like me. Especially since dating in this city is an Olympic-caliber competition.

New York runs a surplus of beautiful, accomplished women year in and year out. The men who live here have had it way too good for way too long. They expect you to be all things. Charming, successful, independently wealthy, sexually experienced but not too experienced––all wrapped up in a Victoria’s Secret body.

It’s exhausting. And since I’m none of those things naturally––the Victoria’s Secret body doesn’t even warrant a discussion––it takes colossal effort on my part to get noticed at all. Effort I’m not willing to put in. The problem with being single is that it’s easy.

Turning on his side, Dane faces me while his eyes remain on the television. He plumps the pillow under his head before he settles in.

My attention lingers on the curve of his massive bicep, how the tan fades on the delicate skin under his arm. Two freckles play peekaboo. He smells good, the scent subtle and clean. It kick-starts a slow creeping warmth. Next comes a familiar stirring in my nether region.

This cannot be happening.

Crap…I’m sweating––sweating from embarrassment. I’m the one that railed against such behavior and yet here I am, behaving badly. God help me if he notices.

It’s the hormone treatments. Of course it is. That’s the reason for my body going haywire. Not the testosterone he’s emitting, or the pheromones, or whatever it is he’s got going on.

“Do you miss it?” I’m grasping at straws, anything to distract myself. His large, expressive eyes lift to mine in question. “Playing?” I add.

He turns onto his back, arms up, and stretches. His shirt rides up, exposing a trail of dark-blond hair and a carved abdomen. He strokes it in slow, lazy movements.

No, no, no! Don’t do that! I’m screaming on the inside, so panicked by my reaction that I actually contemplate pulling his shirt down.

“I do, but not the way most players do.” My eyes subtly return to his face. They need to stay there for safety reasons. “Most players miss the guys, the camaraderie. I miss those things too but mostly I miss the work…the grind.”

His lashes throw shadows, his jaw sharp even under the scruff. He really is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. Empirically speaking, that is.

“Most players have families waitin’ on them at home––I didn’t…the grind was everything to me.”

“I get it,” I reply, nodding. His eyes lift up to meet me. “My career is everything to me too. I can’t imagine my life without it. What do you think you’ll do now?”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m havin’ a baby,” he says with the sweetest smile.

“That can’t be enough. Not for someone like you.”

“What does that mean?” he asks, his voice carries a good amount of apprehension. He thinks it’s a criticism when it’s actually a compliment. Dane is full of life, vital in a way I’ve never witnessed before.

“You’re smart. You have a lot of energy. Some people are happy to slow down and just be––I can’t see you doing that. You’re a man that needs goals…a purpose.”

He studies me thoughtfully. Then his gaze drifts to the ceiling. “ESPN made me an offer.” By the tone of his voice I can safely assume he’s not thrilled with the idea.

“You don’t sound excited about it.”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Why did you retire?”

His open gaze returns to me, glides from feature to feature on my face. “My body couldn’t take it anymore. The healing took longer and longer until I was playin’ injured all the time. And I wanted to go out on top. Not get traded to a team with a losin’ record, lookin’ for an experienced set of hands to babysit their rookie quarterback. So I hit my number and hung up the pads.”

“What number?” I murmur, all my attention on the cleft of his chin, on the missing burnished gold scruff where he must’ve had stitches at one time, on the sound of his deep raspy voice.

“Most touchdown catches for a tight end in NFL history.” There’s a subtle poke of amusement in his voice that forces my eyes back to his.

“Is that a big deal?” I sink down lower into the pillows, closer. Intimate talks in bed have never been my thing…and yet I’m enjoying this.

“In my world it is.” A soft smile tips up the corners of his sensual mouth.

“Are you okay with it? Being away from the game?”

The spark in his eyes tugs at me, keeping me present in the moment while the charge between us gains strength with each beat of silence that passes. He exhales softly and it reaches inside of me, filling up some empty corner I hadn’t noticed was empty until this very minute.

“I am now.”

Chapter Thirteen

Stella

I’m getting comfortable on my uncomfortable designer couch with a slice of pizza when my cell phone rings.

“Let’s go shopping,” he says the second I answer. No greeting. No waiting for me to greet him. Knowing Dane pretty well by now, it’s not a suggestion nor a question.

I smile. In small increments––sm

all enough that I barely noticed until it was too late––he’s managed to shoehorn himself into my life to the point that now I’m the one smiling way too often. This is all kinds of wrong.

“How do you know I’m not busy?” It’s Friday, late afternoon. I’m never busy on Friday afternoons.

During the summer, most financial firms close early, a little after four, since most people in finance stampede in droves to the Hamptons. Translation: I’m on my couch.

Something spooked him the other day. I know I was spooked. The moment we shared was way too intense and intimate and completely inappropriate. Which is probably the reason he suddenly left afterward, muttering something about needing to work out.

A workout? After a huge meal? I didn’t argue. He seemed intent on leaving and feeling off-balance myself I was relieved to see him go.

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Let’s go shopping.”

“A little premature, don’t you think?”

“We’re having a baby. Maybe not right away but we’re having one.”

I have to admit his infectious enthusiasm for this non-existent baby has been infecting me slowly. It’s so easy to be swept away by Dane’s optimism––easy and dangerous.

“I thought it was bad luck, buying baby stuff beforehand.”

“Is that a Cuban thing? Because I’m pretty sure my sister was all set up before she had her first kid.”

“No, it’s not a Cuban thing. It’s a me thing. I don’t want to jinx it.”

“I’ll be at your place in twenty minutes.”

Exactly twenty minutes later my doorbell rings. Freaking Eddie. He puts the fanatic in fan.

I explained to him three times that I don’t care if the President of the United States shows up, he needs to ring me. That’s when he assured me that he would never just let the President up. Needless to say, the conversation did not go as planned.

I open the door to a man staring inquisitively at me. “Why are you not ready? I’m double-parked.”

“Have we been married fifty years and I somehow missed it?” A frown mars his model-worthy good looks. “You were supposed to be announced. Gimme a minute to get my bag and glasses.”