Rebel Soul
Colton shakes his head. “You’re an idiot.”
“Oh, and someone with easily accessible medical history. No STDs, obviously. No one that smokes. No current or past substance abuse issues. No criminal record.”
“Those are good.” He scribbles away. “I’d add willing to sign a contract and possibly an NDA.”
“I can’t decide if it sounds like I’m selecting a dog or a goddamn mail order bride.”
Colton cracks up. “Only you.”
“Tell me about it.” Every muscle in my body is taut with tension. “So, how do we find a woman who meets all of these?”
“Well, first, you adjust your expectations—no one is going to meet all of it. The answer is obvious though—we hold auditions.”
I drop my head to my desk, smacking it against the hard surface a time or two. “How is this my life?”
Colton’s laugh—at my expense—only makes me want to bang my head into it again. “Don’t get all bent out of shape over it. Plus, aren’t you used to auditioning women?”
Slowly, I sit back up, rolling my neck from side-to-side. This right here is why I don’t talk much about my work; people love to crack jokes. But Colton knows the full scope of my job, which is why he damn well knows he’s being an ass. “That’s been outsourced for the last three years.”
He smirks, the baiting motherfucker. “Yeah, I know. Seeing you riled up sparks joy in my life.”
“Don’t you Marie Kondo me.”
His smirk ratchets up to a full-on grin. “What? I said you spark joy; I’m keeping you.”
“Whatever,” I mumble under my breath. “You say that shit like you have a choice.”
It’s been a week since Colton and I sat down and really got to work on this baby mama bullshit, and he’s been hard at work ever since. Where or how he plans on finding women to audition for this is beyond me—and truthfully, I’m not sure I want to know.
I mean, is this some kind of dark web shit? And if it is, are the women involved in it really the kind I want to parent a child with? My mind races with questions day in and day out, but I keep them to myself. As idiotic as it may be, this is one of those ‘ignorance is bliss’ situations.
My phone rings, buzzing loudly against the quartz countertop. “Colton,” I say in way of greeting.
“Where are you? I called your office, and Margaret said you were out of the office. Wouldn’t say where or when you’d be back, either.” He sounds so put out, I can’t help but grin.
God love Margaret Wells; she’s petite, with pale everything—hair, skin, and eyes. She’s thirty-five but doesn’t look a day past nineteen. She swears it’s some German skin care line, but her wife says it’s genetics. Either way, Margaret looks as fragile as a flower, but it’s a lie. She has thorns—razor-sharp thorns that she won’t hesitate to stick you with.
“Oh, yeah, I’m working from home today.”
“Home? Why?”
I pop a capsule into my Nespresso and tap the Lungo button, opting for a larger pour. “Yeah, it’s rainy today.”
“You say that like it is a justifiable reason to not go into the office.”
“It’s not?” I ask, the fresh smell of espresso overwhelming my senses.
“Privileged asshole,” Colton mutters under his breath. “It was torrential at six, but I still went on my run, yet you couldn’t manage to drive to your office in a drizzle?”
I laugh. “To each his own. Now, what’s got your panties in a wad?”
“We need to set a date, time, and place. I think I have enough women lined up.”
“Let me grab my laptop.” I lay the phone back onto the island, tapping the speakerphone button. “Okay. Ready.”
“I have ten women lined up to start. All of them match at least seventy percent of your criteria. The one non-negotiable they all agreed to was an NDA as well as being tested prior to the interview.”
“Okay, good. Let me pull up my calendar.” I click around on my laptop, scanning over emails as my synced schedule loads. “Got it. It looks like any day next week except Tuesday is good.”
“Let’s do Monday then. Best to get it out of the way, don’t you think?”
I’m so consumed with our conversation that I don’t even hear her approach. “That should work. Do you think we can do all ten women at once?”
“It’ll be rough, and exhausting for sure, but we can handle it. Check your email, I’m sending pict—”
“Um, what?” Stacia asks, cutting Colton off and scaring the shit out of me.
“Fuck! I thought you were at work.” I fumble around for my phone, pressing my thumb onto the end call button with far more force than necessary.
She arches a delicate brow. “My car is literally right next to yours in the driveway.”
My skin feels too hot and too tight as embarrassment crawls over, under, and through me. Which is stupid; I have nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m doing what I need to do to claim something that should have been mine to start with—something worth this and more to me.