The Knocked Up Plan(50)

I laugh but then quickly correct myself. “I meant seriously as in you seriously don’t need anything? I’m happy to help.”

She scoffs. “Night sickness is best not seen by someone who might have found me attractive at one point.”

“He still does,” I say as we head into the stairwell.

But she’s heaving and coughing, so I doubt she heard me. When she stops, she asks, “Is there anyone else who can be your partner?”

I glance at Flynn. “Yup. I’m looking at him now.”

We say good-bye, and I point at Flynn. “You’re my new Ping-Pong partner tonight, and I am counting on you to kick unholy ass one hundred percent of the time.”

He pumps a fist. “I will, and trust me, I won’t make any ball jokes. Or knock-knock ball jokes for that matter.”



Two hours later, we’ve crushed the competition, and Flynn is a happy motherfucker. Wish I could say the same about myself. While I’m glad we won, I keep thinking about Nicole, alone in her apartment with her no-fun nausea.

But I do my best to enjoy the moment.

We head to the bar to toast our victory, and while we order, a woman in a slinky red dress at the end of the bar stares at Flynn. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice she grabs her cell phone, looks at my buddy, quickly taps on the screen, then looks at him again. Recognition dawns on her face.

As the bartender delivers our drinks, Slinky Dress makes her way to our end of the bar. “Hi,” she says, cutting in front of me to chat with him. Her voice drips with honey. “I couldn’t help but notice you from the other end of the bar. You have the most gorgeous green eyes.”

I arch a skeptical brow. She noticed his eye color from across the bar? Or perhaps she googled Flynn Parker’s vitals?

Flynn smiles. “Thank you. Your brown eyes are lovely, too.”

He’s such a gentleman, and I’ve got to look out for him.

“I love this place,” the woman says. “It’s so close to where I live. The vibe here is great.”

As she chats up Flynn, I give them some space so I can conduct both research and recon. I google morning sickness treatments while keeping an eye on Slinky Dress. Something is off about her. The woman’s dress looks cheap, as if it’s from a discount mall, judging from the weird stitching down the side. Meanwhile, she’s telling Flynn she works at an advertising agency, planning campaigns for all sorts of high-end consumer products.

Her coat is draped on the empty stool next to her. The corner of a white ticket pokes out of the pocket. Her back is to me as she talks to my buddy. “It’s so thrilling being young and living in Manhattan, isn’t it?” She drops her chin in her hand, surely batting her eyes at Flynn as I find a site that gives me an idea for something—a small thing—that I can do for Nicole.

“The city’s awesome. What part do you live in?” Flynn asks.

“I’m in the Village. I walked here tonight after work.”

That’s when the alarm bells ring. Holding my phone as if I’m simply trying to get a better signal, I lean closer to her coat and peer at the white paper in the pocket. It’s a New Jersey Transit ticket with today’s date on it.

I hit send on the online order, toss some bills on the counter, and clear my throat. “Flynn. We need to get out of here.”

“That’s okay. I’ll hang a bit.”

I tip my forehead to the door and give him a meaningful stare. “You were going to help me move my TV stand.”

“I was?” He blinks, then a second later, it hits him. “Yes, I was.”

Once we’re outside, he says, “What was that about?”

As the cold snaps my face, I pull up my collar. “Just a little live catfishing. That woman was from Jersey. She doesn’t work on Madison Avenue. She watched you from across the bar, looked you up on her phone, figured out who you were, and made her move. I bet she’s a gold digger.”

His jaw drops. “Shit, man. You are good.”

I shrug. “Sometimes the radar works.”

He points at me. “That radar of yours is spot on. Like when you told me to assess a woman’s interest like an algorithm. I tried that strategy on a date recently, and the woman had Trojan horse written all over her, so I moved on.”

“Good. I don’t want anyone taking advantage of you.”

“I appreciate that,” he says as we walk toward Seventh Avenue. He’s quiet for a minute. “You know . . . a buddy of mine is recently divorced. He’s eager to get back out there. Throw his hat in the ring. I should have him talk to you.”

“Always happy to help a brother out.”

“I didn’t mean for help. I meant as business for you, asshole.”



A little later, as I walk Romeo around the block, my phone rings. Nicole’s name flashes on the screen, and it’s as if a light flashes in my chest.

I answer it. “All Day Sickness Solutions, at your service.”

She laughs. “Grape Gatorade is my favorite. How did you know?”

“Took a wild guess.”

“It tastes like heaven. Thank you.”

“Is it helping?”

“If tasting good helps, then yes.”

“I wish there was something I could do for you.” My heart feels like a compass pointing uptown. It aches with the need to go help her.