The Knocked Up Plan(31)

He turns and walks the other way, and I briefly contemplate finding the nearest boxing gym and signing up for lessons right the fuck now. I blow out a long, frustrated stream of air that does nothing to release the coiled tension in my body.

When I spin around to head to my office, Nicole is walking toward me. She looks good enough to eat in her tight jeans and a pink sweater that hugs her breasts deliciously. My eyes shamelessly tour her body—her curvy hips, her long legs, her gorgeous face.

The tension in me unwinds, and I breathe again.

But it’s short-lived when an unpleasant notion touches down. I hope to God Nicole didn’t hear that exchange. I don’t want her to know exactly how short a leash I’m on. It doesn’t exactly cast me in the best light.

“Hey,” she says, her blue eyes soft. “You okay?”

I try to school my expression, to erase any residue of annoyance. “Definitely.”

She shoots me a skeptical look. “Are you sure?”

I’m not going to air my dirty laundry with her. She didn’t ask me to knock her up so she could hear about my shitty encounters with my boss. I change the subject. I let my gaze drift purposefully down her body. “Have we got a date with your uterus tonight?” I ask in my best dirty tone, even though there’s nothing sensual about the word uterus. “If memory serves, we were going to try position number three, so we don’t get addicted to position one.”

“Ooh,” she says with a naughty edge to her voice. “But position one is so good.” She inches closer. “I love getting on my hands and knees for you.”

A groan rumbles up my chest, and my dick springs to attention. “And now you’ve made it virtually impossible for me to work the rest of the day.”

She wiggles an eyebrow. “But before we try position three, I think we should tackle something from your list.”

“Cupcake tasting?” Cal will like that. I’ll talk about cupcakes on air like a goddamn boy scout.

“I have something else in mind. Can you be ready by seven?”

Color me intrigued.

I say yes.



I lunge to the right, skidding across the court as I reach for the racquetball, slamming it to the wall. The blue orb screams back at Flynn. He grunts as he attacks it with a ferocity that sends it spiraling to the wall once more.

I huff and scramble for it.

We keep up a relentless pace, serving and slamming, slamming and serving, until finally, fucking finally, my friend misses.

“At last,” I say, breathing hard as I reach out to clasp his hand.

“Damn it.” Flynn stares daggers at me through his racquetball goggles. He’s wildly competitive, which is all the more amusing because he was never a high school athlete, nor a college one.

Flynn is a former nerd.

Actually, he’s still a nerd, and like many of them, he’s a rich one. If you believe the magazines, he’s a rich, hot, available nerd, making him one of New York’s most eligible bachelors or something, thanks to the lady-killer grin, black glasses, stubble beard, athletic build and fat bank account.

He’s a member at this racquetball club, and I’m his guest. Rich, hot, available, and generous. I don’t mind that I’m the recipient of his guest pass largesse.

Flynn points the racquet at me. “One more game?” The man is intense, determined, and pretty much addicted to both exercise and competition.

I shake my head as I grab my gym bag from the corner of the court, pulling off the goggles. “I need to call it a night, man. I’ve got a date.”

That piques his interest as he takes off his goggles. “Who’s the lady?”

“Someone from work. She’s my Ping-Pong partner.”

“That sounds vaguely dirty. Does she play with your—”

I slice a hand through the air. “Nope. Cutting you off. Don’t go there.”

He sighs in frustration. “Seriously? I can’t make a ball joke?”

I clap his shoulder. “Love you, man. But I’ve told you a million times. We need to send you back to humor school.”

“You don’t want to hear my new knock-knock joke?” he asks as I push open the door and we head into the hall.

“What have I told you about knock-knock jokes?”

“But I think you’re wrong. Just try this one. Knock, knock.”

I groan as the tread of our sneakers echoes in the hallway. “Did you try it on Dylan first?”

Flynn scoffs at the mention of his brother, who’s the co-founder of the company they run. “No way. This is solid gold knock-knock shit. I’m not wasting it on my twin brother.”

“Fine. I’ll bite. Who’s there?” I ask reluctantly.

“A pencil.”

“A pencil who?”

“Never mind. It’s pointless.”

His delivery is one hundred percent dry. When his joke fully registers, I laugh lightly. “That’s your first not terrible joke.”

He pumps a fist. “Progress. See? I can learn.” He clears his throat as we head down the steps. “Listen, I need to ask you for advice.”

“Sure. My advice is if you’re going to be addicted to knock-knock jokes, find more of that kind.”

“I have a date tonight, and since you’re the dating king . . .” He scratches his jaw as we near the first floor of the club. “Listen, I’m going to sound like a gigantic douche for this.”