Plan B (Best Laid Plans #2)(2)

Ugh.

I'm not mad, not really. It takes two to tango and all that. I should have brought my own condoms. Or picked a guy smart enough to use them properly. Did it break? Was it old? Google tells me condoms are ninety-eight percent effective in theory, but that in practice horny men are idiots and on average about fifteen out of one hundred people using nothing but condoms will get pregnant.

Yay me.

Okay, I'm a little mad. I'm peeing on sticks and asking how much caffeine is in a chai tea latte. Meanwhile he's living his life and drinking all the caffeine he wants.

It doesn't change the fact that someday this baby is going to ask about their father and I'll need to have answers. Not how was I conceived answers, Lord help me, but who's my daddy answers. I can provide my son or daughter at least that much since I've already fucked up their two-parent, white-picket-fence childhood. It's my responsibility, this baby, but someday, if and when this child wants to meet their father, I'll need to facilitate that meeting.

In order to facilitate that someday meeting I'll need to be able to get in touch with him. I know, you'd think that would be the easy part, reaching him. You'd think the hard part would be spitting out the words, 'Hey, remember me? I'm pregnant.' I'm not saying that part will be easy, but it'll be easier than reaching him has been.

It turns out my one-night stand is the heir to an American chain of department stores founded on family values and low prices. I've got a secret for you. There's nothing 'family values' about Kyle Kingston. By which I mean he's a dirty bastard. Deliciously dirty. I suppose that's why they keep him off the promotional materials for KINGS. Their ads are nothing but families and retired couples smiling at each other over the low prices of canned green beans and paper towels. I suppose an advertising campaign featuring Kyle with a value pack of condoms isn't the market they're after.

The problem is, guys like that don't have a Facebook account. Or Twitter. No Instagram or Pinterest or even a personal website. There's no way to reach a guy like that.

Must be convenient for ditching the casual hook-ups.

Just like he ditched me.

Asshole.

Do you have any idea how aggravating it is to be unable to reach someone? It's the twenty-first century. I know who he is, where he works and the city he lives in, yet I can't reach him. It's infuriating. It's ten times worse than when a friend accidentally puts their phone on silent and you're forced to wait hours for them to realize and notice your text messages.

I tried calling the corporate office—that got me nowhere. Which should come as a shock to no one, but you can't just call a major corporation and ask to speak to the guy in charge. Hell, you can't even call a small company and ask to speak to, well, anyone. I thought about using the 'contact us' box on the store website because none of the other categories applied to me. No, I don't have a problem with an order. No, I don't have a question about a warranty. And no, I don't need help processing a return.

Oddly, ‘your CEO knocked me up’ was not an option on the website. After ten minutes of frustration I exited the contact us screen and placed an order for pre-natal vitamins instead. And a tote bag made out of recycled water bottles. I wanted to hold a grudge but they really do have great prices.

It's time for Plan B.





3





Daisy





Remember that movie about the two guys who crashed weddings in order to pick up women without having to pay for drinks or dinner?

This isn't that.

This is a pregnant girl crashing a retirement gala so she can get a moment to notify her baby daddy.

I wouldn't normally stoop to such a level, crashing a retirement party of all things, but I'm desperate. Besides, it's not like I'm staying for dinner. I'm just gonna slip in and out. No one but Kyle will even know I was there. I probably won't even have an appetizer, unless a waiter walks past with a tray of pickles or something and I can't resist. Just kidding, I don't have a cliché pregnancy pickle craving. It's more of a cliché craving for everything that isn't a pickle.

Anyway, that's my plan.

If he's there.

I think the chances are good that he'll be there because his grandfather is the guest of honor at this shindig and my internet sleuthing tells me that Kyle just took over as CEO of the family company.

Family company as in KINGS, the largest retail chain in America.

Recently promoted, as in the week after he knocked me up.

His promotion to head of the company is the only reason I know who he is and where to find him. I got his name that weekend, but it didn't mean anything to me. Why would it? He was just a guy I'd met while passing through Philly, and his last name was Kingston, while the retail chain was called KINGS.

When I realized I was pregnant I Googled him, hoping it'd lead me to a Facebook profile with his picture so I could send a quick message and be done with it. Done with him. Instead the first search result was a story in the New York Times accompanied by the KINGS logo and a professional business photo of Kyle. The accompanying article announced the retirement of Kyle's grandfather, company founder William Kingston, and named Kyle as the new CEO of Kingston Enterprises.

Kingston Enterprises, which owns all six thousand KINGS locations in the United States. Locations ranging in size from corner convenience marts to supercenters and warehouse clubs. The penny finally dropped and I understood two things. Firstly, Kyle Kingston was the heir to a retail empire bearing his name. And secondly, he was going to be impossible to get hold of.