Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 29132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Viv laughed harder. “Go, girl. I got this. And I’ll get you a refill on your coffee.”
“Bless you,” Yasmin said, bolting toward the back of the diner.
She was in the ladies’ for maybe three minutes—five, tops—but when she emerged from the bathroom, shaking her hands lightly at her sides because the dispenser was out of paper towels, her wait had ended. There he was, sitting at the corner table with his hands folded and a pensive expression on his face, Mr. Super Smarty with his super squirmy sperm that the doctor had assured her made her chances of getting pregnant the first time around very good.
And he was every bit as handsome and tall and intelligent-looking as she’d been promised.
He was also familiar. Very familiar.
Cursing beneath her breath, Yasmin ducked back into the bathroom hallway, out of sight, her heart pounding as her mind raced, making the connections. It made sense now. His e-mail was TheArkIsAMyth because his name was Noah. Noah O’Sullivan, Bruce’s sexy cousin who was apparently every bit as smart and accomplished as the other O’Sullivan in town.
Her knight in faded blue jeans with the dancing dark brown eyes and the butt that wouldn’t quit, who she had been looking forward to decompressing with tonight, was the reason for her stressful morning.
And you’re the reason for his crazy morning.
Crazy, Yasmin, that’s the word he used.
There’s no way he’s going to say yes and your date night just went down in a blaze of ugly, black, sperm-sample-scented smoke.
She cursed again, gazing down at the simple brown tee shirt and khaki linen pants she’d chosen for this meeting. The voice of doom was probably right, and her outfit certainly wasn’t going to help her case any.
She was dressed to deliver meals on wheels to the elderly, not seduce a man into seeing her side of an argument. If she’d known Noah was the man she was meeting, she would have put on her flirty green sundress and peacock feather earrings. She hadn’t missed the way he’d looked at her yesterday. The man was interested, and she wasn’t above using that interest to get what she needed from him.
Might not be as hard as you think, girl.
Play your cards right and you can probably get what you need from Mr. O’Sullivan the old fashioned way. If you know what I’m saying…
The thought made her cheeks go hot.
Yasmin would be lying if she said she hadn’t entertained some late night fantasies about what it would be like to have Noah O’Sullivan’s big, strong hands sliding across her skin, his full lips warm against hers and his taste on her tongue, but that wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t want a baby daddy; she wanted a sperm donor who had no legal rights to her child.
She couldn’t be trusted to pick out a solid, steady, non-serial-killing boyfriend, let alone a father for her unborn baby. She needed Noah’s sperm with no strings attached, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t use all the tools at her disposal to get it.
There wasn’t time to run home, but her favorite secondhand clothing boutique filled with fabulous eclectic-chic outfits was just down the street. If she could sneak past Noah and out the door, she could run down the street, buy something seductively cute, yet still respectable-woman-who-should-be-trusted-to-raise-a-child to wear and be back in ten minutes. Fifteen tops. She would be a few minutes late to the meeting, but it would be worth it to know she was dressed for success.
Decision made, Yasmin leaned forward, letting her hair fall around her face as she crept slowly out of the bathroom hallway. She moved down the row of happily chatting, laughing diners at the back of the restaurant, deliberately avoiding the corner booth and aimed herself for the door, the clink of silverware and the hum of conversation covering her footsteps.
She had made it past the hostess stand and could practically taste the freedom of the sidewalk outside when a bright blue blob attacked from her left flank.
“Yasmin! So good to see you, sweetheart!” The blue blob—Mrs. Feeney, a member of her mother’s book club and proud participant in the Lonesome Point Sunshine Society, a group of citizens committed to spreading sunshine and good will around town—enfolded her in a soft, smothering hug so intense her feet left the ground. “So glad you’re back in town to stay!”
“Hi, Mrs. Feeney.” Yasmin grunted, fighting the urge to squirm free and make a run for the door. She couldn’t afford to cause a scene or attract Noah’s attention, and Mrs. Feeney would definitely cause a scene if Yasmin tried to escape without at least a few moments of friendly banter. “How are you? And Teensy?”
Teensy was Mrs. Feeney’s ancient Chihuahua, an adorable little white dog who suffered from Hanging Tongue syndrome and numerous other ailments her owner was always eager to share with anyone willing to listen.