The Knocked Up Plan(59)

But I drop back down with Penny’s next words. “Are you going to amend your agreement?”

Right. We have a contract. We have no expectations. He has no parental rights.

I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ll see how it goes.”

And later that night, it goes like this.

I slide into my new black, lacy bra. It makes my breasts rise even higher. The swells of flesh are visible against the lace. I take aim, snapping a few shots.

I send one to him.

His reply is instantaneous.

Ryder: You’re an angel. And I want to bury my face between those beauties.

More replies rain down, rapid fire, ping after ping on my phone.

Ryder: Kiss them, suck them, pinch them.

Ryder: Worship them.

Ryder: Kiss you everywhere.

Ryder: I want my tongue everywhere on you.

Flames lick my body, and I do the next logical thing. He doesn’t even ask for it. But I take off the bra. And I snap another photo. No nipples. But plenty of flesh. I hit send.

Ryder: If you don’t hear from me, assume I’ve died and gone to heaven.

And so have I, because minutes later, I’m starfished on my bed, my new vibrator playing his role, as I call out Ryder’s name when I come.

Attraction has always been the easy part. I’ll figure out the hard stuff some other night.





Thirty-One





Ryder

Time slows and speeds at once.

The trip is both amazing and frustrating.

I finally feel as if I have my groove back when it comes to work. The show is a blast, and the events Hanky Panky Love has set up in cities around the country energize me. We’re not talking Tony Robbins stadium-sized crowds, but a couple-dozen attendees soon turns into fifty, which turns into a cool grand. I do the radio shows live from the stage, taking questions from the audience, and everyone has a blast. Cal even sends an email telling me he’s pleased.

That’s all he says. Literally.



* * *



From: Cal Tomkin

To: Ryder Lockhart

Re: Your work



* * *



I’m pleased.





* * *



Honestly, that’s all a man needs from the guy who signs his paychecks. The next thing I know, my lit agent sends an email, too, and tells me sales for my book ticked up, and Got Your Back is going into another print run. It’s been ages since that’s happened. I tell my agent I’m thrilled, but we need to change the bio on the jacket. It takes me forever to write a new one, which is slightly embarrassing since it’s so short.



* * *



Ryder Lockhart loves his family, his dog, and spending time with good friends and good people.



* * *



It’s the truth, and it’s also true that my life now doesn't hurt like it used to.

One night in San Francisco, after a workout at the hotel gym and a hot shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and stride across the room to grab my buzzing cell phone.

A bead of water slides down my chest as I open a text from Nicole. Nerves tighten my gut. There’s this ever-present worry now that any message from her could bring bad news. I’m not a pessimist by nature, but I’ve accepted this worry.

I want good news from her. She had a doctor’s appointment at the end of her day, and I asked her to tell me how it went.



* * *



Nicole: Everything is good! The doctor says I’m officially fat.



* * *



Ryder: Ha. You’re not.



* * *



Nicole: No, I am. It’s the medical definition. She also said it’s totally normal that I ate spicy pumpkin curry, a jar of artichoke hearts, and a whole pineapple for dinner last night.



* * *



I laugh as I sink onto the edge of the mattress.



* * *



Ryder: Calling your bluff. You did not eat an entire pineapple.



* * *



Nicole: But a jar of artichoke hearts is plausible?



* * *



Ryder: Fair point. Plus, pineapples are delicious. I’ll believe your tropical fruit tales after all.



* * *



Nicole: I might also have fruit on the brain. She said the baby is the size of a papaya.



* * *



Ryder: How do they come up with this stuff? Anyway, got pics of the papaya?



* * *



Nicole: You really want to see them?



* * *



I’m smiling as I answer. How can she think I don’t want to see them?



* * *



Ryder: Yes. Show me the papaya. Please.



* * *



My knee bounces as I wait. I’m an addict, craving a hit. A minute later, an image loads in my text messages, and I slide my finger against it, clicking it open. My chest does funny things, like a jig. I stare at the grainy black-and-white image. I can see the shape of a nose, the jut of a chin, and perfect tiny hands with matchstick fingers. That's all I can make out, and it blows my mind that a doctor or ultrasound technician can actually identify the gender, so I decide to tease her.