Читать книгу Playing by the Baby Rules - Michelle Celmer, Michelle Celmer - Страница 8

“I’m telling you, Risa, all you need is a turkey baster.”

Marisa Donato looked up from the new shipment of jasmine-scented aromatherapy candles she’d been shelving and shot Lucy Lopez, her moderately demented sales associate, a look of disgust. “Impregnate myself with a turkey baster? Tell me you’re joking.”

“I just figured, if you’re so opposed to the idea of sex, why not?”

Marisa cringed as a pair of young women browsing near the push-up bras exchanged curious glances. Open talk of sex was probably common when the shop specialized in adult toys and pornographic videos. Since Marisa had transformed the store into Intimate Secrets, an upscale lingerie boutique, blatantly sexual merchandise was a thing of the past. Lucy’s blatantly sexual language, however, was a habit Marisa hadn’t yet broken.

Marisa lowered her voice. “I am not opposed to sex. Just that kind of sex. And even if I were to consider impregnating myself with a kitchen gadget, which I wouldn’t in a million years, where am I going to get the, uh…genetic material?”

Oblivious to the customers, Lucy shrugged and said loudly, “I don’t know. A sperm bank?”

She was rewarded with a round of giggles from the back of the store.

Marisa dropped her voice to a whisper. “I don’t think you can just walk in and say, ‘Hi, I’d like to make a withdrawal.’ Besides, the whole idea is too weird.”

“Okay, so the turkey baster is out.” Lucy chose a candle from the stock behind the counter and dug a lighter out of her jeans pocket. She lit it, and the spicy sweet scent of cinnamon drifted up in a curl of smoke. “Why don’t you just stick with your original plan and have it done artificially?”

“The doctor said the chances of the artificial insemination working are only ten to fifteen percent per cycle, and he’s supposed to be one of the best fertility specialists in Michigan. With success rates like that, it could cost me a small fortune. He recommended doing it naturally.”

“So you either find a small fortune or do it the old-fashioned way?”

“Exactly. And because of the endometriosis, it could take months to conceive.”

Lucy leaned back, resting her elbows on the counter. “What you need is a man who would agree to unadulterated, no-strings-attached sex.”

“More or less.” The thought made her stomach pitch. Ironically, her mother would have jumped at the offer. Make it a different man every night and she would have been in her glory.

“My God, Risa, what man wouldn’t agree to that? There has to be a couple hundred in Royal Oak alone who would jump at the chance.”

That’s what she was afraid of. The idea of meaningless sex with some stranger just seemed so…sleazy. Unfortunately she was running out of options—and time.

What had begun as severe monthly cramping in her early teens was now relentless, stabbing pain. An annual checkup with her gynecologist revealed what she had already suspected. Radical surgery was inevitable. If she was going to have a baby, she was going to have to do it soon.

Artificial means had appeared to be the answer, until she’d learned the exorbitant fees and dismal success rates. Foreign and private adoptions were also far too pricey and domestic adoption for a middle-class, single working woman was practically unheard-of.

There was always the conventional “get married and have a family” routine. Collectively, her parents’ eight divorces had taught her one important lesson—marital bliss didn’t run in the family. By the time she left for college she’d lost track of how many “uncles” had come to stay with her and her mother. Uncles who, after Marisa had begun to develop physically, leered at her in a way that made her skin crawl. She hadn’t dared sleep at night without a chair hooked under her doorknob. Just in case.

She would have given up on the prospect of children altogether, but lately, every time she passed a mother walking her baby in a stroller or pushing her toddler on the swings in the park, that twinge of envy she usually felt had turned into a dull, hollow ache. She longed to feel the unconditional love only a child could give, to share all of the love she’d stored up in her heart.

But sex with a stranger? Could she stoop so low when she’d deliberately spent her entire adult life avoiding that type of shallow existence?

“I don’t know if I could do that,” she told Lucy. “And if I did, it would have to be someone I would want to have sex with, and even more importantly, would want to procreate with.”

“There has to be someone.” Lucy blew a spiral of springy red hair out of her eyes. “Give me an idea of what you would be looking for.”

Gathering her long gauzy skirt, Marisa settled on the stool behind the register and propped her elbows on the glass-top display case. “Well, first and foremost, he would have to be healthy—no weird genetic diseases running in his family.”

“That’s reasonable. You just ask for a family history. What else?”

“He would have to be attractive. Not necessarily gorgeous, although that would be a definite plus, but reasonably good-looking. And he would have to be nice. I couldn’t have meaningless sex with someone I didn’t like.”

“That doesn’t sound so hard.” She counted off on her fingers. “Cute, nice and healthy—who do we know that fits that description?”

The bells above the front door chimed and Marisa opened her mouth to greet the customer entering the store, then realized it wasn’t a customer. It was her best friend, Jake. He was slightly disheveled from the mid-July heat, wearing a rumpled Hawaiian-print shirt, cargo shorts and sandals.

When he saw them standing there, he broke into a wide grin. “Hey guys, what’s up?”

Marisa looked at Lucy, and Lucy looked at her, then they both turned and looked at Jake again.

“Risa?” Lucy said, her unspoken question more than clear.

Her and Jake? Yeah, right. The idea was nearly as preposterous as the turkey baster. They had been best buddies since the fifth grade. Sure, she’d had a hopeless crush on him at first. Every girl in school had a crush on big, bad Jake Carmichael at one time or another. It was a teenage rite of passage.

But she wasn’t a kid anymore. She would never risk damaging their friendship. It was far too important to her.

Marisa shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

Jake stopped, absently rubbing his hand across a two-day-old beard the color of golden sand. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” she asked, pasting a smile on her face. “I thought you would be in the studio all afternoon.”

“I needed a break.” He nodded toward the door. “I’ve got sandwiches in the Jeep. I thought you might want to do lunch in the park.”

“What a nice idea,” Lucy said, turning to Marisa. “Isn’t he a nice guy?”

“Yes, Lucy, he’s very nice.” Her eyes conveyed a silent warning—zip it.

Unfortunately, Lucy was never one to pick up on subtlety. “And you’re looking very handsome today, Jake.”

He looked down at his wrinkled clothes, raking a hand through his spiky, sun-streaked hair. “I am?”

She nodded. “Oh, definitely. And healthy. I’ll bet you don’t have any weird genetic diseases in your family.”

Under the counter, Marisa planted the toe of one canvas shoe firmly in Lucy’s shin as she smiled up at Jake. “Why don’t you grab the sandwiches and I’ll meet you outside in a minute.”

He looked at them both kind of funny, then shrugged. “Okay. I’m parked right down the street.”

The door had barely closed when Lucy opened her mouth to speak.

“No,” Marisa interjected. “Don’t even suggest it.”

“Why not? He would be perfect! How you can be best friends with that man and not want to jump him on a daily basis is beyond me.”

Hopping down from her perch on the stool, Marisa grabbed her cell phone from her purse under the counter and slipped it into her skirt pocket. “We don’t have that kind of relationship.”

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t. And this whole idea of finding some stranger to impregnate me is repulsive. I just can’t do it, Luce. We’ll have to think of something else.”

The browsing women appeared at the counter.

“Was that Jake Carmichael, the saxophone player?” one of them asked, dropping a hot pink demi-bra on the counter.

Groupies. Ugh.

“The one and only,” Marisa said, holding back a groan as she rang up her purchase.

The woman jabbed her friend and they both giggled. “I told you it was him! He’s so cute!”

Marisa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Would you like a bottle of essential oil or a scented candle to go with that?”

“I’ve seen you at the bar when his band plays,” the other girl said. “You’re always up front. Is he like, your boyfriend?”

“Well, we really shouldn’t say anything….” Lucy trailed off cryptically, nudging Marisa with her elbow. “It’s not official yet.”

“We won’t tell anyone.” The girl buying the bra turned to her friend. “Will we?”

Her friend shook her head enthusiastically. “Oh no, we won’t tell a soul. Promise.”

“Well, I guess if you promise not to tell…” Lucy leaned forward, lowering her voice. “They’re engaged. They’re planning a spring wedding.”

“Really?” Bra-girl asked, looking heartbroken. “You’re so lucky. He is so hot!”

Marisa smiled at the girls. “I’ll be sure to tell him two of his biggest fans were in today. He’ll appreciate the compliments.” Not. Despite his rising popularity, he considered himself the same old Jake. The hero-worship garbage made him squirm.

“Maybe you could introduce us sometime,” Bra-girl piped up. “We could, like, get his autograph or something.”

“How about a lock of his hair,” Lucy muttered under her breath.

Marisa bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “I’m sure we could arrange that,” she said as she wrapped the bra in pink tissue paper and slipped it into a bag. “Come again, ladies.”

As they walked away giggling, Lucy made a sound of disgust. “God, I detest groupies. They are fun to mess with though.”

“I know, but I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“What’s the harm? It’s all in good fun. Now, back to this sex thing—”

“No.” Marisa shook her head. “We’re definitely not getting back to the sex thing.”

“Aw, come on—”

“No. I’ll be back in a little while.” She walked to the door and yanked it open. A suffocating wall of humidity and heat enveloped her. “Call me on my cell if you get swamped.”

“Think about it,” Lucy called after her. “Jake would be perfect!”

Flinging herself out the door, Marisa saw only a flash of color before promptly colliding face first into a very wide and very solid male chest.

“Whoa!” Jake caught her arm. “What’s the rush.”

The door swung shut, bumping her on the behind and knocking her even farther into him. She braced her hands against his chest to steady herself, instantly aware of the play of muscles beneath the sweat-moistened cotton shirt, the heat radiating from his skin. The sudden images racing through her mind, like exactly what she and Jake would have to do to make a baby, sent a funny little shiver down her spine. She never thought about stuff like that—least of all with Jake. It was all Lucy’s fault for suggesting that she and Jake should—

No, they definitely shouldn’t.

“What am I perfect for?” he asked.

He’d heard that? “Um…”

Jake stood, fingers still clasped firmly around her arm. His hands were large and strong but exceedingly gentle, his fingers long and graceful. It took a full five seconds to register the heat seeping through her blouse where he grasped her, and the hum of sensation traveling up her arm. She had to force herself not to jerk away.

“Earth to Marisa. You okay?”

She realized they were just standing there on the sidewalk, interrupting the heavy flow of afternoon foot traffic. Aware, too, that more than her arm had begun to tingle now, she gently extracted herself from his grasp. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

“What am I perfect for?” he asked again as they started down Main Street on foot toward the park.

“It was nothing.” Sweat began to soak the underside of her bra. It had to be about a million degrees out, which still didn’t account for the heat creeping up into her face. There was no doubt in Marisa’s mind, Lucy had done this on purpose. If she had just kept her mouth shut—

“After seventeen years, don’t you think I can tell when you’re lying.” Jake poked her playfully. “Come on, tell me.”

She shook her head. “You don’t want to know.”

“Sure I do.”

“Trust me, you don’t.”

“Marisa, are you blushing?”

Jeez, couldn’t he just drop it? “We should hurry, before someone gets our favorite spot.” She walked faster, until she was almost jogging. Considering he was nearly a foot taller, he didn’t have any trouble keeping up, and she was in danger of collapsing from heat-stroke.

“I’m not going to stop asking, so you might as well spill it.”

“I can’t.”

He batted obscenely long lashes at her—lashes any woman would kill for. “Please?”

“Nope.”

“Pretty please? With sugar on top?” He was grinning down at her, his expression complete mischief. She had no doubt that he would relentlessly nag and harass her until she gave in.

He nudged her again. “C’mon, tell me. What am I perfect for?”

“Sex, Jake,” she blurted out. “She thinks you’re perfect for sex.”