smile and a proud “Yes, I am.”
Paul, 37: “I call exactly three days later. You don’t want her to think you’re too into her. Women like a man with an edge.”
Robert, 28: “I don’t even realize I’m saying it.” (In other words, what Jim said.)
Griffen (yes, that Griffen), 32: “I mean I’ll call.”
Me (smiling ): “But when will you call? Tomorrow? In three days? Two weeks? When you’re bored? If you want sex?”
Griffen (smiles back and taps my nose with his finger ): “When did I call you after our first date?”
Me: “The next day at work. You said you had a great time and asked me out again for the weekend.”
Him: “I’m a stand-up guy, huh? You’re pretty lucky.”
Me (kissing his neck ): “Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes.”
And then we had sex. Great sex.
That flirtatious little conversation over chocolate fondue and strawberries, a few glasses of white wine and a lot of sexual innuendos was one month ago. I was pregnant then.
I’d been pregnant for just about our entire relationship.
But it wasn’t the fondue or the wine or the sexual innuendos.
I was pregnant because of a large iced mocha.
And because my air conditioner had conked out yet again.
And, indirectly, because of my Don’t-You-Dare-Do-It sister, Ally.
Two months ago, on a hot, humid late August morning, the kind that wakes you up with its stickiness, I’d decided to spend the sunlight hours at the very air-conditioned DT*UT, a coffee lounge around the corner from my apartment. I took a cold shower, threw on a tank top, jeans and my flip-flops that annoyed even me with their clickety-clackety on the sidewalk, twirled my hair up into a messy bun, grabbed a bunch of competitive women’s magazines and a pad of paper and headed out. I planned to write a “What the Competition Is Doing and What Wow Woman Should Be Doing” memo to Astrid, since it was my month to report on the competition. After the stifling heat of my apartment and the sauna outside, the cool air in the coffee lounge was almost too cold, and I ran back home for a meshy cardigan.
I was standing at the condiments counter with a large iced mocha into which I was stirring an extra packet of Sweet’N Low, when someone backed into me.
The cutest guy I’d seen in a long, long time.
“I am so sorry,” he said, grabbing a wad of tissues and handing them to me, his expression full of apology. He grabbed another wad of tissues. “I hope your sweater isn’t ruined. It’s nice.”
I beamed. Was there a stain on my sweater? Was I standing in a coffee bar? I had no clue. I felt as though I’d been transported to dreamland. That was how instant the chemistry felt. To me, anyway.
I looked down at myself. My new pale pink Banana Republic cardigan, the one Ally had bought me because she’d been offended by the ratty black one I’d shown up in for lunch a couple of weeks ago, was soaked with a combination of espresso, milk, chocolate syrup and whipped cream.
From the breasts down.
He was looking at the stain. At my chest?
“Here,” he said, reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet and handed me a card. “Call me when you get the bill for the dry cleaning. I’ll pay for it. That sweater looks expensive.”
“It’s really no problem,” I said. “Easily could have been the other way around.”
He smiled. And a tingle shot up both my legs.
Thick, silky blond hair. Real blond. Baby blond. But brown eyes. Pale brown. And long, boy eyelashes. One dimple, in his left cheek. He was tall and lanky, with delicious shoulders, and dressed guy Gap-y in army green cargo pants and a white T-shirt and sneakers.
I realized I was staring and hoped I wasn’t salivating. “You could—”
“I’m really sorry again,” he interrupted, “but I’m so late. I have to go.” He pointed to the card he’d given me. “Call me when you get the bill and I’ll send you the money. I’m good for it.”
And before I could say another word, he was out the
Paul, 37: “I call exactly three days later. You don’t want her to think you’re too into her. Women like a man with an edge.”
Robert, 28: “I don’t even realize I’m saying it.” (In other words, what Jim said.)
Griffen (yes, that Griffen), 32: “I mean I’ll call.”
Me (smiling ): “But when will you call? Tomorrow? In three days? Two weeks? When you’re bored? If you want sex?”
Griffen (smiles back and taps my nose with his finger ): “When did I call you after our first date?”
Me: “The next day at work. You said you had a great time and asked me out again for the weekend.”
Him: “I’m a stand-up guy, huh? You’re pretty lucky.”
Me (kissing his neck ): “Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes.”
And then we had sex. Great sex.
That flirtatious little conversation over chocolate fondue and strawberries, a few glasses of white wine and a lot of sexual innuendos was one month ago. I was pregnant then.
I’d been pregnant for just about our entire relationship.
But it wasn’t the fondue or the wine or the sexual innuendos.
I was pregnant because of a large iced mocha.
And because my air conditioner had conked out yet again.
And, indirectly, because of my Don’t-You-Dare-Do-It sister, Ally.
Two months ago, on a hot, humid late August morning, the kind that wakes you up with its stickiness, I’d decided to spend the sunlight hours at the very air-conditioned DT*UT, a coffee lounge around the corner from my apartment. I took a cold shower, threw on a tank top, jeans and my flip-flops that annoyed even me with their clickety-clackety on the sidewalk, twirled my hair up into a messy bun, grabbed a bunch of competitive women’s magazines and a pad of paper and headed out. I planned to write a “What the Competition Is Doing and What Wow Woman Should Be Doing” memo to Astrid, since it was my month to report on the competition. After the stifling heat of my apartment and the sauna outside, the cool air in the coffee lounge was almost too cold, and I ran back home for a meshy cardigan.
I was standing at the condiments counter with a large iced mocha into which I was stirring an extra packet of Sweet’N Low, when someone backed into me.
The cutest guy I’d seen in a long, long time.
“I am so sorry,” he said, grabbing a wad of tissues and handing them to me, his expression full of apology. He grabbed another wad of tissues. “I hope your sweater isn’t ruined. It’s nice.”
I beamed. Was there a stain on my sweater? Was I standing in a coffee bar? I had no clue. I felt as though I’d been transported to dreamland. That was how instant the chemistry felt. To me, anyway.
I looked down at myself. My new pale pink Banana Republic cardigan, the one Ally had bought me because she’d been offended by the ratty black one I’d shown up in for lunch a couple of weeks ago, was soaked with a combination of espresso, milk, chocolate syrup and whipped cream.
From the breasts down.
He was looking at the stain. At my chest?
“Here,” he said, reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet and handed me a card. “Call me when you get the bill for the dry cleaning. I’ll pay for it. That sweater looks expensive.”
“It’s really no problem,” I said. “Easily could have been the other way around.”
He smiled. And a tingle shot up both my legs.
Thick, silky blond hair. Real blond. Baby blond. But brown eyes. Pale brown. And long, boy eyelashes. One dimple, in his left cheek. He was tall and lanky, with delicious shoulders, and dressed guy Gap-y in army green cargo pants and a white T-shirt and sneakers.
I realized I was staring and hoped I wasn’t salivating. “You could—”
“I’m really sorry again,” he interrupted, “but I’m so late. I have to go.” He pointed to the card he’d given me. “Call me when you get the bill and I’ll send you the money. I’m good for it.”
And before I could say another word, he was out the
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