The Knocked Up Plan (One Love #3)

by Lauren Blakely

he says in that deep, gritty voice. He could read the phone book and make it sound like foreplay, which means everything he says makes you feel like a cat in mating season, even if he’s talking about changing the toner in the copy machine. I’d probably have a dirty dream about toner if he did.

“So sad,” he says, shaking his head. “Almost makes me want to take on the job for Rachel myself.” “How thoughtful of you.” “I’m considerate like that.” “You’d be a Good Samaritan of orgasms, then?” “Perhaps it’s my true calling,” he says, in a completely serious tone. “Patron Saint of the Big O?” He snaps his fingers and points at me. “Yes. That’ll go on my new business cards. Maybe I’ll even make house calls to administer my special brand of medicine.”

I eye her bowl. “Nicole. You miss the meat, don’t you?” She laughs loudly. “Oh yeah, I do miss the meat. And yes, I walked right into that one. But that right there is one reason. You’re easygoing. You’re charming. You’re kind. You’re funny. You’re smart. You’re ridiculously handsome.” “Oh really? Ridiculously?” “Insanely good-looking.” “Do continue.” “You’re amazingly gorgeous. You’re out-of-this-world beautiful.” I’m not often called beautiful. It’s a word reserved more for women or works of art. Oddly enough, I don’t mind it. Maybe because it came with a litany of praise, or perhaps it’s the way she says each word with a particular flare. Whatever the reason, I can’t help but give some back to her when I say, “And your child will have a beautiful mother.”

“Awesome. So I just choke the chicken in a room with a ton of other dudes going at it in their own rooms, too. Hand a cup to the nurse. She seals up the goods. Then, what’s next?” “They do tests on your swimmers.” “They’ll pass. Then you come in, maybe the same day, maybe a few days later?” “Same day. We’d have to time everything to my cycle and when I’m ovulating.” “Fine, so they undress you, prop you up on an exam table, and stick a turkey baster into you?” “You paint a lovely picture of the process.” I hold up a hand, waving her off. “Wait. I’m not done. You’re in nothing but a hospital gown. The doc tells you to put your cute little feet in stirrups, and they stick that baster up inside what I am sure is an absolutely gorgeous and heavenly home,” I say, because if she can compliment my tadpoles, I can say something nice about the paradise between her legs. She mouths a thank you. “After the boys make the upstream trip, they send you home.” I mime patting her on the rear and then sending her out the door.

“I haven’t been with anyone, either.” I pull back to meet his eyes. “Unless you count my vibrator.” His lips twitch in a grin. “But that was only, maybe, fifty times.” He arches a brow as he fingers the hem of my skirt. It’s loose and flowy. “Fifty isn’t too bad.” “That was just this week,” I say.

I blink, trying to make sense of this flipped-around reality. But when I replay her words in my head, they’re not muddy. They’re crystal clear. She doesn’t want love from me. She wants her baby to have a father. My chest hurts. My heart literally fucking aches. I want to grab her shoulders, stare into her eyes, and ask her to be mine for-fucking-ever.