Page 38 of A Really Bad Idea

“It could take a while. Getting pregnant, I mean. Not the sex. I’m sure you will take an ample amount of time. I mean … never mind.”

That soft chuckle pours through the phone again, and it does nothing to soothe my nerves. “Then, it takes a few tries. How about this? We give it a go the old-fashioned way for six months, and if it doesn’t work, then it wasn’t meant to be.”

I rub my eyes and then bury my head in my hand. “This won’t be awkward at all.” My sarcastic tone is used with amusement. “Okay, so when and where shall we meet?”

“Come again?”

“To have sex. Where are we doing this?”

“Excuse me, Miss Duvane, but I am not some cheap slut you can just schedule sex with,” he states, half-joking, half-serious. “I have rules.”

My head pops up. “Rules?”

“One, no planning sex around your ovulation calendar. That causes stress, and stress can lead to infertility.”

I nod my head like a soldier. “Yes, sir. I’ll leave the thermometer at home. What else?”

“No sex with anyone else while we do this. We don’t want a Maury Povich situation.”

“Same goes for you. No sex with other women while we’re creating a life. You might want to clear that social calendar.”

“Already clear. That brings me to my final rule.” He takes a beat before speaking his last amendment. It’s probably only a second, but it feels like an eternity as I wait for the final stipulation to our baby-making plan. “Three dates.”

I curve a brow and drop my knees. My book falls to the floor. “Huh?”

“I won’t hop into bed with you until you go on three dates with me.” He’s dead serious.

“Christian, that’s ridiculous. We’ve known each other for twenty-three years.”

“That eager to get in my pants?” he teases.

I’m thankful he can’t see me blush because he would have a field day with my reaction.

“No!” I shout and reel it back in. “It seems like a waste of time and money to go out on formal dates.”

“I want to do it right. Usually, I take a woman out before becoming intimate. You’re no different. In fact, you’re even more special, so, please, do me the honor and have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow?” I blanch at how soon he wants to start on these dates, which will ultimately lead to sex.

Sex. With Christian.

“Yes. A meal with just you and me,” he explains. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“I can meet you—”

“It’s a date. I’ll pick you up,” he states forcefully.

I look down at the floor and my book that has landed cover side up. The hunky hero with a sexy torso is looking back at me. It’s reminiscent of Christian’s abs, which I snuck a peek at the other night. Ones I will surely touch when we … oh, wow. I haven’t touched another man since Brock. Maybe three dates is a good segue into getting my anxious mind used to the fact that this is really happening.

“Okay. Tomorrow at eight. What should I wear?”

“What do you usually wear on a date?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been on a first date in nine years.”

I can hear his breath against the phone as he smiles on the other end. “Wear the black dress you wore to your parents’ anniversary party.”

That dress is form-fitted with spaghetti straps and a low hemline. It’s also pretty fancy, so I assume we’re going somewhere nice.