The Knocked Up Plan (One Love #3)

by Lauren Blakely

A thick head of soft and wavy light brown hair, cheekbones carved by the gods, eyes that inspire dreams of tropical waters, a body handcrafted by his own rigid discipline, and a brain shaped and chiseled by Stanford.

I flash a winning smile, showing off my straight, gleaming choppers. I look like a million bucks, and I have the pedigree to back up all these statements. Correction: I had it. Now I’m the guy coaching the Tinder-using crowd on how not to fuck up a hookup.

The thing is, Greg and I were good separately, but together we were toothpaste and orange juice. Several weeks into our engagement, the lovely little diamond slipped off my finger in the shower, courtesy of my Vanilla Spice body wash. The ring slipped into the drain and hasn’t been seen since. For all I know, it’s been swept into the great sewers of Manhattan, and a rat is wearing it as a tiara.

I didn’t want to marry a man who didn’t make me swoon, and so I called it off. Greg married someone else a year later and invited me to the wedding. He and his wife appear outrageously happy, so it worked out for all of us, not just the rat.

“So, love is a virus?” “Absolutely. And it seems I’ve got more antibodies to it than I expected,” I say

“It’s like online shopping without seeing what you’re buying,” Delaney adds. “Who buys anything on the Internet without seeing a photo? You don’t shop for shoes just by the size, color, and style. You need to see them. Try them on.” “I don’t think trying on is an option.” I wink.

“I just wish I knew the guy was going to be a Ryder Lockhart level of hot,” I say, matter-of-factly.

Normally, Delaney and Penny would tease me about all the crazy things I’ve said about dating, or the ultimate deal-breakers in dating profiles (submissive men need not apply at the house of Nicole), unexpected uses for oranges (guess . . .), and what number of battery-operated friends is too many (for the record, there is no such thing as too many).

But life is a string of uncomfortable moments, and our job as adults is to navigate through them with the least harm and most love.

Holy shit, when did inhaling air become so hard? Oh, right. When I had the harebrained idea to ask my coworker for a cup of baby batter.

Ryder’s brows knit together. He makes a sound. I’m not sure what noise it is. I’ve rendered him speechless. He swallows. Opens his lips. Tries to talk. He drags his hand over his jaw. His square jaw that I want for my baby. His genes are so fine, and now I’m wantonly coveting the DNA that made his face.

“How does it work?” I ask. “The whole donation process.” She stabs a carrot slice, chews, and swallows. “Well, there’s this thing guys do when they’re horny. It’s called”—she glances furtively from side to side—“jacking off.” “I’m well aware of how the protein shake is made. What I mean is, are we talking about one of those little rooms you go into?” I ask, since what man doesn’t have an image of a jerk-off chamber? “With magazines or porn or whatnot?”

Nicole is a brave, bold, beautiful woman who’s unafraid to carve out a life on her own terms. I admire the fuck out of that. And I also want to fuck her.

“Hear me out. You explained how it worked. The room, the cup, the magazines, the videos. The whacking off in a fucking public place. The cost. But most of all . . . the wait. You’d have to wait for an appointment for me, for the testing, for the jerking off, then for your special date with the turkey baster.” He cups my cheek. His hand is big and warm. “What if we did it the old-fashioned way?”

My mind latches onto the prospect of . . . screwing Ryder Lockhart. Having sex with the most handsome man I know. Getting horizontal with this gorgeous, witty, generous man who’s willing to give me a piece of himself. My stomach has the audacity to swoop. My skin prickles as my mind fills with images. Undressing him. Undoing his zipper. Guiding him inside me. I lick my lips. My nipples tighten. Oh dear Lord in Heaven. It sounds dangerous and divine.

“Want to know what I’m thinking?” I ask, coy and flirty. “That I now win the weirdest thing someone has asked you?” “Would it be weird? Sex with you?” “Do you like it weird?” “I like it hard. I like it good. And I like it a lot.” A groan echoes in his throat. I tap-dance my fingers down his chest. “And I think I’m going to find out if you’re as good in bed as I’ve always thought you might be.”

Dropping a hand to my hip, he yanks me close. “What do you say we test out how it’s going to be with a kiss?” “We get to kiss, too?” I tease. “Woman, I’m not just going to fuck you. There’s going to be kissing and fucking. Fucking and kissing. And coming.”

Somehow, you’ve worked with this level of handsomeness without turning into a swoony puddle every day. That’s because you’re a grown-ass woman and you’re able to separate your admiration of his attributes from attraction. After all, you can admire a Monet and not want to bang it.

I have no patience for boring kisses. Merely adequate lip-locks can suck it.

Kissing should be starlight and fireworks. A first kiss should be butterflies in your belly, wobbles in your knees. You should feel it everywhere. In your bones. In your eyelashes. In your fingertips.

Don’t settle for ordinary kisses. Kisses are the sustenance of love. They will feed you.

The man makes oral sex a two-person sport, and in return I get the best Os I’ve ever had.

“Stop saying that. There’s nothing wrong with wanting something. So often we think we need to temper our hope so we’re prepared for bad news. Guess what? Bad news hurts whether you’re prepared for it or not. There’s nothing wrong with hoping for the best.”

I hereby rename shark week to my favorite week ever—blow job week.

I like to think our ability to love is infinite. I want to feel the limitlessness of love.

He wears dark jeans that fit him so damn well I bet they gossip to other jeans about how good it feels to hug his legs.

When we hang up, I’m standing in front of my building, holding my keys with the tadpole charm, wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to do about the whole no expectations part of the arrangement. Right now, I want expectations.

“Ever thought about what it would be like if men were the ones who got pregnant?” Our mom answers right away. “Maternity leave would last for two years with full pay, for one thing.”

“And I can’t wait to get out of the first trimester. I finally got my appetite back.” Abby scans the room as if she’s making sure no kids are around then says, “That’s not the only appetite you get back in the second trimester.” “Oh yeah?” She runs a hand through her honey-colored curls. “Some days, it’s like all you want to do is jump on him and climb him like a tree.”

“I know what I’ll be doing tonight. A little online Christmas shopping for some new vibrators.” “Get extra batteries, too. You’ll need them.” When I hop on the Internet later, I do just that. I’m like a bear, stocking up for the winter.

The doctor leaves us alone, and I bend my face to her belly and press the gentlest kiss to her skin. “Hi, baby,” I say, and I know, I fucking know, that I’m already in love with our child.

I can do this. I can say this. The chance to be with her is worth the risk.