Page 10

Harrison

I brace myself, preparing for her reaction to my suggestion.

The words just came out of me, without thinking, and logically, I know it’s asinine. Why would Lovie want me when she has an entire book full of donors to choose from?

But instead of a look of consternation, instead of the anger I was expecting, Lovie’s face holds something like…thoughtfulness.

Today she’s wearing a white blouse that crosses over her chest, the sleeves short around her biceps. Her skirt is a pinkish-clay color, with a ribbed material that I want to reach out and drag my finger across. Her bag—a functional black leather tote—is now situated in the crook of her elbow.

We’re in the hallway outside her office, the floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the setting Baltimore sun, the shining down with golden light that filters in through the windows. It’s a sight, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Lovie.

I’d made my way up here determined to talk her into signing off on the program, after I caught her watching me down on the ice. People happen upon me practicing all the time, and I usually never let it get me out of the flow.

But I’d felt her eyes on me, and known it was her up there before looking to confirm it.

It made me think about the other day in the supply closet. About the look on her face when she said no to my program. Like she just needed a good push to say yes.

So I finished up my practice early, showered, and took the elevator to her floor.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t also thinking about being alone with her in her office. That I’d be open to convincing her in some other way.

“I mean,” I hear myself saying now, as I reach out and rest a hand on the wall, leaning against it for support. “I’d be willing to do it. If you need someone.”

“Really?” she asks, then readjusts, shaking her head and pushing her hair behind her ears. “No, what am I saying? That would be completely unprofessional.”

“What’s unprofessional about a colleague helping you out?”

She pauses, considering, then to my surprise, she begins to actually consider the proposal. “I mean—you’d have to get tested. And I’d wanted to see the genetic markers, to make sure there’s nothing we might be passing on.”

“Of course,” I say, feeling a grin spreading over my face, “and I assume you’d want to see a baby picture of me, as well?”

The blush that spreads over her face is worth the joke, even when I told myself I wouldn’t be cracking a single one about this. Then her expression changes, taking on a serious edge.

“Not to be blunt but—you don’t want a baby, do you?”

“No.” The word comes out of me like an automatic response, and I don’t give myself more time to think about the answer. At this point in my life, the answer has to be no. What would that even look like? To have a kid at my age?

Maybe at one point it was an option for me. Not anymore.

So why did I say it? Because I like Lovie, or because I want to sway her, convince her to say yes to my program proposal?

“No,” Lovie repeats, studying me. “Are you sure about that?”

“I’m sure,” I keep my face level, letting out a little laugh for good measure. “That time in my life has passed.”

There’s the slightest sting in my chest when I think about Lovie wanting a baby—and how much it reminds me of Eliza wanting a baby.

Most of the time, I’m able to keep myself from thinking about it, but right now I see my ex-wife clearly.

Eliza, lit up from inside when we first talked about both wanting kids.

We were sitting on an outdoor patio, and I remember the sun lighting her up, dancing through her flyaways and drenching her yellow sundress.

“I mean,” she’d said, picking at the napkin at her place, her eyes eventually wandering up to meet mine, “obviously it doesn’t have to happen right away. But I’ve always wanted to be a mother.”

Then, later, her careful patience when my career needed to come first. The years going on, eventually talking about hormone treatments and IVF. The doctors talking to her about “geriatric pregnancy risks”.

How a baby just never panned out for Eliza and me. Maybe if it had, we could have stopped everything from imploding. Maybe if Eliza had done more than picked at her napkin, told me what she wanted?—

I stop myself before I go back down that rabbit hole. Another lost Stanley Cup that I can’t stop replaying in my head, no matter how much the sting of the loss has numbed over the years.

It’s not like I’m pining for Eliza. In fact, when I think of her, the most I feel is a dull ache. My hate is for losing something.

Lovie Waters is nothing like Eliza. Bold, headstrong. And right now, she’s looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read. Like I’m not sure if she’s going to take me by the hand or punch me in the face.

Would Lovie’s pregnancy be considered a geriatric pregnancy as well?

She opens her mouth to say something, but at that moment, there’s the gentle creaking of a cleaning cart coming around the corner. Before it can reach us, Lovie pulls out her keys, unlocks her office, and gestures for me to come in.

This entire exchange is already going so much differently than I thought it would.

Inside, her office is plain, nothing aside from a single picture on the desk to indicate it belongs to any one person. Some files sit in the corner, and the blinds are lowered, so the city is just a hazy idea behind them.

When she closes the door behind her, she doesn’t bother to turn on the light, leaving us in the gentle, diffused glow of the setting sun.

The look on her face when she faces me again is familiar—brow wrinkled, eyes slightly unfocused. It means she’s hard at work, thinking.

“I’ll have to call Dr. Cohen,” she says, “and see how much it might be if I come in with my own sperm sample. But the savings could be enough for it to make sense. For us to go through the hassle.”

I blink at her, my mind working back through the conversation, to figure out where the disconnect was. Lovie needs to save money, and I’m willing to bet every interaction with that clinic is going on a bill somewhere.

Plenty of people get to make a baby for free. Eliza and I were trying at one point—so why should Lovie have to pay, just because she’s having the baby on her own?

Besides, I can’t lie—I want to help her. It's the process of making a baby that first caught my attention. Especially when it comes to Lovie.

“Well, if the point is to save money,” I ask, “why deal with Dr. Cohen at all?”

“What?” Lovie asks, crossing her arms and taking a step back from me, tipping her chin up in that defiant way that drives me fucking insane. “Because Dr. Cohen is my fertility doctor? And I’ll have to ask her about the process if I’m providing my own donor.”

Gently, I nod and prod, “But what if you don’t have to pay Dr. Cohen at all?”

“I’ve already paid her—I’m on fertility enhancing drugs. That’s the first step.”

“Okay,” I lower my voice, leaning in closer to her. Her eyelids lower, her pupils locking on mine and blowing wide.

This is what I love about Lovie Waters—the look she gets on her face when I’m near her. Like she just can’t help herself. It’s intoxicating.

After a beat passes, I go on, “So, let’s put those fertility drugs to the test. See if we can’t do things…naturally, first.”

“Harrison,” she hisses, something breaking in that lusty look as she takes a step back, the backs of her thighs hitting her desk as she shakes her head. “I can’t believe you—we agreed that you wouldn’t—that would be so unprofessional. It’s not happening.”

I tilt my head at her. Lust is written on her face in the way her lips are parted and the way her lashes flutter.

This is the same woman I met at the Portland Jetport, waiting for her flight.

Uptight, and just begging someone to give her permission to relax.

It’s like all she’s waiting for now is another invitation to first class. “As much as you want to?”

“Ha,” she breathes, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ears again. “No. I definitely don’t want to.”

“Are you lying to me, Lovie?”

“No.” It’s another breath, and she’s already unraveling for me, her chest falling and rising. My chest fills with a giddy feeling, like the uphill climb of a roller coaster. It’s due to the knowledge that I’m about to do something very fun.

“Then why are you leaning toward me?” I ask, knowing my voice sounds rough and not caring. I see the way her lashes flutter, the flush on her face. How much she likes the sound of my voice.

I’m used to women melting for me. But watching Lovie Waters come undone—it’s something else entirely.

She opens her mouth, but says nothing, her eyes flicking up to mine from under her lashes, and I don’t waste any more time.

When our bodies crash together, her hunger is evident in the way she tugs at the bottom of my shirt, skating her hands up and under the fabric, over my stomach, which tightens under her fingers.

“Fuck,” I mutter, already picking her up and setting her on the desk. It doesn’t stop her hands, which tighten on the hem of my shirt and yank, pulling it up and over my head.

I break the kiss with her, and my body moves on its own, dropping down to my knees.

It feels like the victory pose after scoring a tight goal, being on this level and looking up to find Lovie staring down at me, her hair wild, her eyes blinking, her hands gripping the edge of the desk like she might leave this reality without the tether.

“What are you?—”

I don’t waste another second. Instead, I lean forward and press my lips against her damp panties, making it perfectly clear what I intend to do.