The Knocked Up Plan(2)

“Ladies,” I say, in a serious tone. “Soldiers on the dating battlefield. Comrades in bras. Let’s all say a prayer tonight. A prayer for Rachel.” I bow my head. “If you’ve been lucky enough to climax with a partner, I ask that you send some of your orgasmic energy to Rachel in Murray Hill. Sisters in sexy times, we so desperately need all of your collective focus and energy on the great mountain ahead that Rachel seeks to scale, whether with her current partner or a brand new one.” I look up, and Jamie still has her hands steepled together in plaintive prayer. “And just remember—sex is good, love is great, and when you bring them together they’re even better.”

How’s that for a tagline?

After we play the credits and hit end on the recording session, I raise my eyebrows at Jamie in question. “Don’t even tell me you had ten orgasms last night like you usually do.”

Jamie laughs as she rises and walks around the desk. “Just two last night,” she says, in her cheery, chipper tone that matches her bright blond hair and blue eyes, as well as the big, fat, sparkling diamond on her left hand. Ah, to be so young and hopeful.

I had a ring on my finger once upon a time.

I gather my notebook, laptop, and phone, and head for the door, leaving Jamie behind since she works on the next show. As I head down the hallway of Hanky Panky Love, the dating division of the lifestyle media giant I work for in a role that's expanded from columns to also include the radio show, a masculine voice calls out to me.

“Hey, Nicole.”

A smoky, sexy, masculine voice, I might add.

Ryder Lockhart stands in the doorway of the studio next to mine, his arm resting on the door. That’s one lucky door.

If someone needed a photograph for a catalog of the casual, cool, confident male, Central Casting would serve up this man. The white button-down shirt that hugs his delicious biceps is peeled up at the cuffs, revealing strong and worshippable forearms. The front can’t hide how flat and firm his abs are. I must thank the maker of that shirt in my daily prayers. His black jeans are neatly pressed and fit just so yummily on his hips. For the record—yummily is not an adverb, but it should be. I’ll work on my campaign to Merriam-Webster, starting tomorrow.

His eyes are full of naughtiness as he meets my gaze. “Clearly you haven’t tried the Wheelbarrow with the right man,” he says.

I tap a red manicured nail against my bottom lip as if I’m considering this. “You think that’s the issue with the Wheelbarrow? Not the fact that I’d be upside-down during nookie?” I ask ever so innocently.

A lopsided grin shimmers across his fine lips. Yeah, they’re yummy, too. He simply suffers from an extreme case of handsomeness.

“I do, indeed, think that’s the biggest hurdle. There are certain advantages for the fairer sex when it comes to that position, but it requires a partner who knows exactly how to hold on properly,” he says in that deep, gritty voice. He could read the phone book and make it sound like foreplay, which means everything he says makes you feel like a cat in mating season, even if he’s talking about changing the toner in the copy machine. I’d probably have a dirty dream about toner if he did.

But his filthy-fantasy-inducing voice is only one-quarter of the assets he possesses for wooing the ladies. The other three quarters? A thick head of soft and wavy light brown hair, cheekbones carved by the gods, eyes that inspire dreams of tropical waters, a body handcrafted by his own rigid discipline, and a brain shaped and chiseled by Stanford.

Fine, that was more than four quarters. Well, what-the-hell-ever. He’s got more than his fair share of chickadee-charming tools. It’s my job to notice this stuff.

Balancing my laptop and notebook on my hip, I shove my copper-colored hair off my eyes. “Is that your way of inviting me to take your wheelbarrow out for a ride around the garden?”

His lips curve up in a mischievous grin. “Nicole, don’t you know? You can ride this ride any time.” That’s where his teasing ends. “But holy smokes, the end of your show.” He clutches his hand to his chest as if he’s in pain. “Were you about to cry, too?”

“Oh, it was awful, wasn’t it?”

“So sad,” he says, shaking his head. “Almost makes me want to take on the job for Rachel myself.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“I’m considerate like that.”

“You’d be a Good Samaritan of orgasms, then?”

“Perhaps it’s my true calling,” he says, in a completely serious tone.

“Patron Saint of the Big O?”

He snaps his fingers and points at me. “Yes. That’ll go on my new business cards. Maybe I’ll even make house calls to administer my special brand of medicine.”

I make a stop sign midair. “You’re the worst. Seriously the worst.”

“But I’m the best at Ping-Pong. Are you all set for the match later this week?”

“I’m always ready for the matches,” I say, then pretend to whack a white ball with an imaginary paddle. We play on our company team in a tournament-style game that raises money for local kids’ charities. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise—Ping-Pong is a game that, if played well, is great for your ass. “Incidentally, I have a tip on the guys at RBC that we’re playing against. One of them has a powerful but ridiculously wide swing. So much that his teammate is constantly jumping out of the way.”