I take note that the parenting section is ten times the size of the pregnancy section. Maybe that’s an indication that growing the baby is not the most challenging part of this process. All the hard stuff comes later. That’s Ellie and Josh’s part, and I will get to be fun Aunt Brooke.
I’m about to reach for a book when a title in the parenting section catches my eye.Eat, Sleep, Poop. Then the one beside it,Baby Poop: What Your Pediatrician May Not Tell You. There are at least a dozen different titles concerning poop culminating in one titledOh, Crap Potty Training. I guess my friends weren’t wrong, there seems to be a lot to discuss where baby poop is concerned. I make a mental note to put together a poop themed gift—books, diapers, and wipes—for the next baby shower I’m invited to. Fingers crossed, it’s for Ellie.
I load myself up withWhat to Expect When You’re Expecting, which according to my internet research is the pregnant woman’s bible. And another one about eating right for your baby, because eating right for myself is hard enough. They don’t have any books specifically about surrogacy so I take the other books up to the counter to check if they have any others they can order. On my way, I grab the new Tana French paperback. Her mysteries are my favorite. They’re a heart-pumping workout I don’t have to leave my couch for. I fan the book pages in front of my nose. I love the way books smell. New books, old books, library books and newspapers. One of my top five favorite smells in the world, right behind fresh cut grass and gasoline.
I set my books on the counter and Paula, the salesclerk, according to her nametag, begins tapping away on her computer to see if there are any other books to order. My bladder is starting to scream with the two mimosas I drank at brunch. Dang it, I should have gone to pee at the restaurant. I excuse myself and use the restroom while she continues her search. On my way back, I stop in my tracks when I see Gina, an obnoxious woman that teaches at the same school as Ellie, at the counter talking to Paula. Shit. I remember Ellie telling me she had just bought a house in my neighborhood.
Gina is actually a lovely woman, if you don’t mind anything you say being repeated to the first hundred people she talks to. I know Ellie shared her fertility woes with Gina early on, because she is a mom and Ellie thought she would be a good person to talk to. Gina told people without Ellie’s permission and Ellie has had to deal with all the looks of pity from people she didn’t even want to share her personal issues with. I met her at a school bake sale once where she roped me into an hour-long conversation about heirloom tomatoes. She makes a mean double-fudge brownie, but Gina is the last person I need to see me buying pregnancy and surrogacy books. Thank goodness for the wall that juts out to separate the bookstore side from the coffee and wine bar, which is also where the bathrooms are located.
Gina’s chatting up Paula and hasn’t seen me. Hopefully it’s not about gardening, or she’ll be there all afternoon. Now would be a good time to get that coffee I wanted, so I make a quick turn to head back toward the bar. My about-face is sudden, which makes it impossible to see the person getting up from the stool at the counter until I’m smashed up against him. I don’t have much time to get my bearings before I realize that there’s something wet now between us. Once I take a step back, I can see the crinkled plastic cup, its lid askew and the contents, a frothy green smoothie type thing, oozing over the edge of the cup.
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
There’s a little on the floor, a little on me, but most of the damage is on him, and that’s when I look up for the first time to seehim.
Thick, dark hair, bright blue eyes, a jaw line that could cut glass. Wow. He’s next level hot. I then notice he’s dressed casually in khaki shorts and a blue golf polo, one that fits perfectly to showcase his broad shoulders, muscular arms and chest. Whatever this green concoction is, everyone should be drinking it. Green smoothie, it does a body good. I’m almost positive I’ve seen that ad somewhere.
He turns to set his cup back on the bar and it snaps me out of my preoccupation of ogling him and into action.
“Let me get something to wipe with.”
There’s a stack of napkins in a console along with coffee stirrers, so I reach for a handful and start wiping.
“I can get it.”
His hands attempt to catch mine, but I’m too quick. I’ve got his shirt mostly mopped up but there’s really no fixing this without good old-fashioned soap and water. I wad up the used napkins, toss them in the trash and grab a clean set, determined to not leave until he’s at least not dripping green smoothie on the floor.
“Oh, wait, I missed a spot.”
The thick green liquid has dripped, leaving a spot the size of a quarter near the front pocket of his shorts.
“Let me just…”
A firm, but gentle hand wraps around my wrist, holding me back before I can reach the rogue drop.
“I can take it from here,” he says and the sound of his voice gives me goosebumps.
My eyes shoot up to meet his gaze. He raises his eyebrows and it finally occurs to me that maybe I shouldn’t be rubbing down a stranger, even if it is under the pretense of cleaning up a mess I made.
“Sure. Right.” Makes total sense that he doesn’t want my hand inches away from his crotch. Message received.
I’m feeling a little embarrassed as he takes the napkins from my hand and wipes his shorts. I watch every move, of course. ‘Cause I’m a weirdo.
“That will have to do,” he says and I’m mesmerized by the tone of his voice.
“You look good.” My eyes do a complete body scan, culminating at his face. “I mean you look better than good.”
His eyebrows do that raising thing again. The one where I’m sure he’s thinking I’m a complete sociopath. His blue eyes light with something I’m thinking is amusement—it could be fear, but I’m thinking it might be amusement.
“Better than you looked with green smoothie on your clothes.” What the fuck is wrong with me?
A glance over my shoulder tells me that Gina is still at the checkout with Paula. Ugh, I still need to delay. Then it occurs to me that I should pay for this guy’s drink, since he’s wearing half of his first one.
“Sorry, again.” I lift my hands and motion about, “I’ve got ninja-like reflexes. They’re a danger to the public.”
He smiles. I like the way the skin by his eyes crinkles. He seems a bit older than I’m used to dating. I mean he’s definitely not old, but he seems like a guy I wouldn’t find out at the bar on Saturday night. Someone a little more put together judging from the Rolex on his wrist and the brown leather loafers on his feet. Loafers have never looked so sexy.
“I can see how they might cause problems,” he comments and winks and I almost drop to my knees.
