Falling for My Son's Best Friend(3)

By: Cassandra Dee


So surreptitiously, without telling anyone, I’d researched the process and looked into the best donor banks. It made me a little nervous honestly, going to the fertility clinic and clicking through page after page of information about potential baby daddies, nothing but words, words, words, plus a childhood picture if you were lucky. And so far, I hadn’t found anyone I liked, despite spending hours studying each profile, reading each one carefully, weighing the pros and cons of each man. There was Donor 162, who was tall with blonde hair and blue eyes, but his hobbies were puzzles, crosswords, and Sudoku. Nothing against that, but it just sounded unbelievably nerdy to me, even if the guy’s IQ was sky high.

And then there was Donor 1798, who was of mixed Greek, Latin, and Mediterranean heritage, and spoke six languages after living in thirty countries as a war photographer. But that was the thing. What if my child wanted to find his father one day? What were the chances that the war photographer would still be alive? So I shut the door on that donor too, sighing and exasperated. There were so many guys, but the descriptions didn’t do them justice, it was so difficult to describe a person via an application. And frankly, I was starting to give up. What seemed like it would be easy, plucking a resume from a stack, was actually turning out to be a huge chore, sobering and dispiriting.

But I wasn’t here for that tonight. I was here to drink, dance, get out, and let loose a little after years with my nose to the grindstone, home alone with my cat most nights. So I glanced around, waiting for Ang, hoping I didn’t look too desperate.

And whaddya know, but another senior citizen came up to me. Why was I attracting these ancient guys? This one looked like a fat cat, an investment banker with French cuffs and striped suspenders, his face red and glistening.

“Hey,” Mr. Cat growled. “What’s up?”

Was that all? Was that how he courted women, hoping to get laid? But maybe he was relying on his fancy Ferragamo loafers, the Hermes belt, the gold ring on a chubby pinky.

“Hi,” I said politely. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, I’m Patrick,” he said peremptorily. “Architect over at Hudson Bay. You heard of it? We did the World Trade Center, built that up after the planes took it down.”

I nodded, trying to look impressed. The city had been shaken after the attack, and the new Freedom Tower was a source of pride for us all, a hallmark of how far we’d come since the attacks. But the new WTC took ten years to build and had involved thousands, if not tens of thousands of people across two administrations. There was no way this guy had done it alone. But Patrick wasn’t waiting for an answer, nor was he exactly humble.

“Yeah,” he boasted. “Bloomberg was shit and Di Blasio wasn’t much better, without me there would be nothing,” he said. “Without me spearheading the effort, we’d still have a construction pit in the ground.”

That made me pause. In fact, I’d heard nothing but positive things about our two mayors with respect to the rebuilding effort, why was this guy denigrating them? It was hardly the way to introduce yourself to a new lady, putting others down as much as possible. So I tried to excuse myself, mumbling something about my friend waiting, how I needed to get back to her. But the portly man was insistent and slapped a hand on my waist.

“You look curvy, just my type,” he sneered. “I can make it good for you chica.”

What the hell? I looked at his meaty fist on the curve of my hip, sitting their possessively like it belonged there. Ugh, there was a sweaty handprint forming on the fabric of my dress, I wanted nothing but to get away. So I made my excuses, more forcefully this time.

“Um, I’m sorry,” I said frigidly. “But I’m not looking for whatever you’re offering.”

And Fat Cat goggled his eyes at me again, pulling me closer, that meaty hand still clawing at fabric of my dress, making my skin crawl with disgust.

“Come on little lady,” he leaned close, the alcohol stench from his breath blowing in my face. “Come on, let ole Pat put his dick in you, it’ll feel good in that tight cunt.”

And I gasped, about to grind my high heel onto his foot, make him squeal like a pig on a roast when suddenly I was pulled away and into safety, into the arms of an alpha male.

“Sorry buddy,” came a low, growling voice, “but she’s with me.”

I looked up to see the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. Tall, with dark hair and deep blue eyes, his chest was broad and wide, arms toned, long legs encased in black slacks. And a white smile flashed although it was anything but friendly. Instead, the man looked about to growl, to jump the fat architect and beat him to a pulp upon the slightest provocation, he just needed a good excuse.

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