Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby, Page 2

* * *

  Declan

  * * *

  It’s time.

  We’ve spent four years knowing each other. One year engaged to each other. It took two weddings to actually get married, but we’ve now spent nearly two years as husband and wife.

  Two months ago, we agreed to take the plunge. The best damn plunge I could ever ask for.

  I’ve spent forty-three days having sex with my wife while wearing socks in a swimming pool. No, not literally, but after years of condomless sex, that’s what it feels like. We’ve ditched the pill and decided to take what is already perfect and increase it by fifty percent.

  We’re going to have a baby.

  Or, at least, we will once I rise to the occasion, and for some reason, that’s... a problem.

  Hey. Hey. This has never, ever happened before. I’m a virile guy. Very virile. Like my cars, my helicopters, my jets, I expect equipment to do its job when I want it, where I want it, and how I want it to operate.

  I’m staring at one piece of fine-tooled machinery right now that is not cooperating. Nothing’s wrong with the engine. Battery is charged. The motor is in top shape.

  The starter, though, seems to be a little... off.

  Eye to eye (his one, my two), I tell him softly, “It’s time.” Patience may be a virtue, but it’s not my virtue. Especially right now.

  For the last three months, this is all Shannon and I have talked about. It’s left me in a state of perpetual hardwood. You try talking to your gorgeous wife about nothing but babies. Stopping birth control. Having sex for procreation. Using your genetic material to conceive. Being told you have to have sex for a purpose.

  A purpose! Sex doesn’t need a purpose. I’ve spent thirty-four years having insanely good, non-goal-oriented sex. You make love for pleasure.

  Not to close a deal.

  Yet here I am, ready to sign the contract on the biggest deal of my life...

  ...and my pen is out of ink.

  “You cannot do this,” I tell him, looking down. He doesn’t even bother with direct eye contact, gravity doing its job a little too well. Bracing myself against the counter, I lean in, the cool granite making my palms ache. I stare at myself in the mirror.

  This is nothing more than pre-game jitters.

  Images of babies I haven’t met yet, blonde and dark, sweet and pensive, run through my mind in a frantic rush, a fast-framed movie, Shannon holding each in her arms like it’s a casting call and we’re searching for the perfect daughter or son.

  Daughter. Son.

  That makes me the father.

  Roles are part of life. We all have many. Boss. Employee. Leader. Follower. Husband. Wife. Too many to name. We swap them out countless times in a given day, sometimes mindless, sometimes mindful. How we shrug into those costumes and play our parts is a matter of volition. We shape who we are at the core by how we act in these peripheral situations.

  Great. Now I sound like Tony Robbins doing a webinar.

  I’ll assume the role of father by taking the incredibly simple step of making love with my wife. No barrier between us. We’re removing obstacles. We’ve spent our entire adult lives working hard not to conceive, and we’ve arrived at a place where the role of soul mate is about to expand.

  To include a new soul of our creation.

  “Get up,” I grunt at my groin, resorting to anger. “You have one job. ONE. And now you decide not to do it? This isn’t a union, buddy. You don’t get to go on strike.” Maybe Bad Cop/Good Cop will work.

  Nothing. This is worse than negotiating with the ironworkers’ union over a new twenty-three story building in Fort Point, and those guys are brutal.

  “Look, I know,” I say to my crotch, “it’s a little different. This time, you aren’t just aiming. You get to hit your target. Exciting, right? Of course it is. Challenging and different. Different just means using new tactics. Being agile. You’ve got this. Different is good. It’s how we grow.”

  He says nothing.

  “So... grow.”

  He does not.

  How about the power of suggestion?

  “You’re a hard negotiator. I like that. Hard. Hard as can be.”

  He’s not.

  New tactic.

  I whisper to him in a low voice, “Remember that time you and Shannon were in the back of the limo, on your second date, and you had sex while being driven to the helicopter? How her legs, so warm, so soft, cradled you while she rode you? Remember how her hair covered you in a rush of passion as she leaned forward and pressed her mouth against your shoulder so she couldn’t be heard as she came?”

  He doesn’t.

  And now I’m referring to my own penis as a third party.

  “Being a father is the natural next step in this relationship. You’re not getting any younger, you know,” I inform him, chuckling.

  Hold on. I feel movement.

  Wait. Is he shrinking? Damn it.

  “But you’re only thirty-four,” I say quickly. “Plenty of time. More than enough time. You’re at peak fertility. Clint Eastwood fathered a child in his eighties. Because he’s virile. Like you. Me. Us.”

  No response.

  “Come on!” I give him a little slap, a playful tap.

  He’s not impressed.

  “When did you turn into a donkey? Stubborn. You’re too stubborn for your own good.”

  “Declan?” Shannon calls from the other side of the bathroom door. “Are you talking to someone in there? Are you having a business meeting... in the bathroom?”

  Sort of.

  I look down. “Performance anxiety isn’t in our vocabulary, buddy. Come on. You can’t choke now. Think scrum! Regroup on the fly! Look at project metrics and change strategy as needed. It’s all about agility. Flexibility. Imagine Shannon, flexible in bed, bent over with her leg in that crooked position where her thigh meets her nipple and–”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “I’m wearing red garters!” Shannon says, closer now, the door making a strange, muffled vibration, as if she’s pressed up against it.

  I look down. He twitches.

  “You are?”

  “I am,” she purrs.

  “Heels?” I call out.

  “I could wear them, if you want.”

  Blood rushes where it belongs. Where it should be. Where I tell it to be.

  That’s right. The role of Declan McCormick, CEO of Grind It Fresh! coffee, requires that I harness my natural power and use it to dominate. Control is my middle name. Bold is my mantra. I go through life with a cultivated detachment that allows me to achieve every goal I set.

  Babymaking is no different. I see the error of my ways. I’ve let my heart take charge when another body part should be at the helm of the ship that needs to dock in Shannon’s port.

  And unload precious cargo.

  Just like that, the mast rights itself.

  Ahoy, matey!

  I open the door to find my wife as promised, dressed in nothing but red lace and silky stockings. Making an entire separate human being with our bodies is just an advanced version of a merger, right?

  I acquired her already.

  Two incredible entities, when combined, potentiate each other. The result is orders of magnitude better.

  Showtime.

  Chapter 2

  Shannon

  * * *

  “So how was it?” Amanda asks, her palm curled around a hot to-go cup filled with her precious breve latte. We’re sitting in our coffee shop, the Grind It Fresh! store directly below corporate headquarters here in the Seaport District of Boston. Ever since Declan bought the coffee chain for me–for us–as a wedding present, I’ve dreamed of meeting friends in my store.

  Mine.

  Didn’t quite dream this line of questioning, though.

  “How was what?” I play dumb. It’s not hard. I just channel my mother.

  “Conception sex?” Her eyes go wide, which makes them look like moons.

  “Excuse me?”

>   “Is it better when you know you’re doing it to make a baby? Does it feel different? Do–” She drops her voice. “Do you feel it deeper? Like when the sperm are seeking out your egg?”

  “Didn’t we both go through the same seventh-grade reproductive biology lesson? You know? Remember how the teacher wore a University of Texas at Austin sweatshirt and we all told her the logo looked like the female system?”

  “That detention sucked,” Amanda groans.

  “Do you not remember anything about sperm and eggs?”

  “I know the biology. I don’t know it experientially. Does it feel different?”

  “What should it feel like? It’s not like Declan’s ejaculating Pop Rocks into me. Or shoving Mentos into a Diet Coke bottle.”

  “Bet there’s a YouTube video out there on that.”

  “Please don’t look it up. Ads for Mentos and yeast infection cream will follow you around on the internet for three days after,” I chide.

  She clenches visibly, then muses. “I was just wondering if the sensation is unique. I’ve never had unprotected sex.”

  “Me neither.”

  “So... anything stand out?”

  “No. It felt like regular sex. Good and wet and hot and...” I can’t lie. “Except Declan was a little different.”

  “How?”

  “It was more loving than usual. Not that we’re not emotional when we’re together. It’s just... normally he’s eager and focused, and last night he took forever coming out of the bathroom and climbing into bed.”

  “Sounds like nerves.”

  “Dec? Declan’s never nervous. Once he makes a decision, he’s in one hundred percent. All in.”

  “Sure, for business. Not for making a whole human being. You’re deciding to invent a soul with your naked bodies, Shannon. Friction and skin and sperm and eggs are all it takes.”

  “And candles and garters,” I add.

  “Those are accessories. Bottom line: you need eggs, sperm, and a way to combine them. Then an incubator of some kind. Of course he’s nervous. Aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  One eyebrow goes up. After years of mystery shops involving hair stylists and changing her hair color every few weeks, Amanda’s settled on a lovely auburn that makes her big, round eyes stand out. When we’re talking about any topic involving questions, she looks like a DA interrogating me.

  “I’ve known you forever. You can tell me the truth.”

  “We’ve gone over this. We’re ready,” I insist.

  “How do you know?”

  The little bell above the door to the coffee shop starts jingling, interrupting my reply. A woman pushing a compact city stroller wrestles her way through the small doorway, the stroller dragged up the single step backwards. Like an accomplished contortionist, she twists her body to prop the door open, one hand on the middle of the stroller handle as she tips the baby up and backwards, yanking the stroller up, hard. She lets the door go. It bangs into the front wheel of the stroller, jolting the baby awake, making her cry just as the woman turns the stroller around to go to the counter.

  Sweat dots her brow. She gently rustles the stroller, using a soothing tone of nonsense syllables to quiet the baby, who looks like a tiny version of a very angry volcano.

  “Shh,” she says, strands of hair making strange, skewed arcs off her scalp, escaping a ponytail hastily shoved into a–

  “Did she use a baby bib as a ponytail holder?” Amanda whispers to me, incredulous. Embroidered lettering along the crooked edge says I’m here because of a power outage.

  “It’s okay,” the woman murmurs to the baby. “Just let Mommy get a few shots of espresso and some adult interaction and we’ll go home, sweetie.” Frayed and disheveled, she points the carriage at the cashier just as a group of businessmen walk in, shoot past her, and create a line nine deep ahead of her.

  Open crying becomes louder and louder.

  The mom. Not the baby.

  “That poor thing,” Amanda says in a commiserating voice. “And you want to live like that?” she asks me, skepticism unhidden.

  I ignore her and stand, walking over to the poor lady. She gives me an apologetic look, as if she’s in the way. As our eyes meet, I see days-old mascara caked on the edge of her eyelashes. The baby fusses but seems to be settling down.

  “What can I get for you?” I ask her.

  “What? Oh, no. I’m fine.” Edging behind the group of hipster dudes with thick-rimmed glasses, beards, and flannel shirts, mixed with guys in suits, she pauses, delicately wiping her eyes in that way women do when they’re trying to pretend they’re not openly crying in public.

  I lean in. “I own the store. Tell you what. You let me hold the baby and I’ll bypass the brogrammer and venture capitalist crowd and get you your drink.”

  “She has pinkeye.” A cultured Southern accent comes forth from her, making me smile. Unexpected for Boston. I don’t meet many Southerners here.

  The admission of pinkeye brings a new flood of tears.

  “Then just the drink. Name your poison.”

  “A whole-milk latte. Triple shot.” Guilt flies across her face like seagulls hovering over a beach barbeque. “I know caffeine and nursing are a no-no, but–”

  “Pffft. Who cares what other people think?” I squeeze her arm and go behind the thick granite counter, tapping Andres on the shoulder. He’s our newest barista, a nineteen-year-old engineering major at Northeastern who has a sixth sense for knowing when to end an espresso shot before it burns.

  The man bun doesn’t hurt our image, either.

  Innocent brown eyes meet mine, his wispy beard adorable in its youthful optimism. “I need a triple-shot whole-milk latte,” I tell him. That earns me a glare from one of the suits at the front of the line, who looks at his smartphone pointedly, as if I’m expected to covertly notice and act on the implied nonverbal message that he’s more important.

  Four years ago? Sure.

  Now? No way.

  Andres drops the orders in front of him and begins making the mom’s latte. I motion her to the far-right edge of the counter. The stroller wheel bangs into a small basket filled with one-pound packages of ground coffee and topples one over. Mercifully, the tape holds and it doesn’t spill out onto the floor.

  None of the men offers to help.

  Amanda stands up, comes over, and picks up the bag just as Mr. I’m Important grouses, “We’re in a rush,” in a voice that makes it clear he’s accustomed to being accommodated. I know that voice. “We have a $40 million deal on the table and the development team is stuck here in what is supposed to be an innovative coffee experience, but it’s looking pretty rinky-dink to me,” he sniffs, shifty-eyed.

  He sounds exactly like my ex, Steve, who was a raging, self-centered, all-consuming jerk who expected the world to conform to his reality, where he was the most important person on earth.

  I smile at Mr. I’m Important sweetly, with a grin that egomaniacs think is a sign of submission but everyone else knows is trouble.

  Andres ignores him. He already knows the drill.

  “Amanda, how about you? Drink?” I ask, raising my voice just enough.

  Her eyes take in the tense, pompous businessman. Given the fact that we’re both married to billionaires who are at the top of the corporate food chain internationally, we’ve seen more than our share of arrogant jerks. Sometimes we get whiffs of it at home, but ego popping is an art form we’ve both refined.

  Can you blame us? Have you met our father-in-law?

  “I would like a triple shot, half skim, half heavy cream, with ground Madagascar vanilla bean soaked in bourbon, and a touch of chai steamed into it,” she says.

  Andres looks at her, turns away from Mr. I’m Important, and winks.

  We all swoon just a teeny bit, including the mom.

  I know for a fact that Amanda only drinks breve lattes and breve cortados, so the fancy overpampered poodle drink she ordered will go straight into the sink after Andres delive
rs it, but it does the trick.

  It stalls.

  “I’m Shannon,” I whisper to the mom, who is rocking in place as if she were holding the baby, now fast asleep in her stroller. “What’s your name?”

  “Shelby,” she says.

  “Like Steel Magnolias?” Amanda gasps, eyes bright.

  “Yes,” she says with a well-practiced sigh. “My mama was watching it the day she went into labor.”

  “How exciting!”

  “I don’t know about that, but it’s family tradition, I guess.”

  “Her name is Shelby, too?”

  “No, no. I mean naming the women in our family after movie characters who die. My grandmama was watching Gone With the Wind when she went into labor with my mama, so...”

  “Your mom’s name is Scarlett?” I ask, laughing.

  “No! Grandma wasn’t that cruel. Her name is Melanie.”

  “If you have to be named after anyone in that movie...”

  “Yes,” Shelby says with a shaky smile. She looks down at her little girl. “I broke tradition. We named her after my husband’s family, an old Mayflower name.”

  “Triple whole-milk latte!” Andres calls out. Shelby reaches for the drink and hands him a five-dollar bill.

  I wave it away. “It’s on the house.”

  Our other barista, Dave, gets through two drinks before reaching Mr. I’m Important’s order. Holding up a white towel, he points to Andres and says, “Break!” and promptly leaves. Dave is an anarcho-primitivist and freegan who hates all corporate lackeys and will take every opportunity to undermine them. He lives in a commune loft community down the street and makes artisanal chocolate in his bathtub.

  We eat it anyway. It’s that good.

  “Hey! Wait!” Mr. I’m Important says to Dave’s back. We’re lucky no middle finger appears as Dave departs.

  Seeking Andres’ attention, the suit snarls, “You’d better make my drink next. The mommy crowd is cute but I have better things to do than stand here and watch snot-nosed kids get their faces wiped by women who couldn’t cut it in business and are now being supported by my Harvard classmates.”

  Without missing a beat, Andres turns to him and begins speaking in Catalan.