The Proposition(2)

Emma threw her hands up in exasperation. “Case, considering my biological clock is clanging, rather than ticking, I think it’s a little late for all that.”

“But you’re not even thirty,” Casey protested.

“I know that, but I’ve wanted a baby since I was twenty. I want—no I need—to have a family again. Losing my parents and not having brothers or sisters—” Her voice choked off with emotion.

Casey rubbed Emma’s arm sympathetically. “You’ve still got lots of time for babies. And the husband could still come along. ”

Rolling her eyes, Emma said, “Might I remind you of the idiot parade I have had the misfortune to go out with in the last six months?”

“Oh, come on, they weren’t that bad.”

“Are we grading on an extreme curve or something? First, there was Andy the,” she made air quotes with her fingers, “practically separated accountant whose wife tracked us down on our date and proceeded to go mental on him in the middle of the Cheesecake Factory.”

“Shit, I remember him now. Didn’t the cops get called?”

“Oh yes. I had to call Connor to come get me because they were both arrested for disrupting the peace!”

“So there was one bad seed in the mix,” Casey argued.

“Then there was the mortician who regaled me all during dinner about the ins and outs of embalming, not to mention I think he had a pretty unhealthy attachment to some of his dearly departed clients.”

Casey made a gagging noise. “Okay, I’ll admit that necrophilia could turn anyone off from dating for awhile.”

“Awhile? How about a freaking lifetime, Case?” Emma shuddered. “Thank God, it was one date, and he never touched me.”

“So two bad eggs. There’s a whole city of men out there, Em.”

Emma swept her hands to her hips. “And I guess you’re having selective amnesia about Barry, the dentist?”

Casey scrunched her face up as in pain. “Is he still in jail on those voyeurism charges?”

Emma bobbed her head. “Thankfully, the state is pretty tough on asshats who set up hidden cameras in the men’s locker-room at the gym!”

“Well, those are the extreme cases.”

“Frankly, some of the other girls in our department think I need to write a book on bad dating experiences!”

“Now wait a minute. You’ve gone out with some decent guys, too.”

Emma sighed. “And the instant they realized I wasn’t going to bed with them before the appetizer arrived, they bolted for the door. If we actually made it through dinner, then the stench of my marriage and baby desperation drove them away.”

Casey grinned. “See you’re going about this the wrong way. You need to give in to the idea of throwing caution to the wind and having mindless sex to conceive.”

“I don’t think so.” Emma shook her head. “Just because Connor bailed on the idea of sperm donation, doesn’t mean I’m giving up. Somehow, someway, I’m going to have a child to love.”

***

Aidan Fitzgerald rubbed his blurring blue eyes. He peeked through his fingers at the clock on the computer screen. Damn, it was already after seven. Even if he wanted to finish the project, his brain was too fried. He could barely make out the words in front of him. He turned off his computer, secure in the thought that his newly elevated promotion of Vice President of marketing meant he could wait until the morning and not have someone bitch at him for slacking off.

With a groan, Aidan rose out of his chair and stretched his arms over his head. He grabbed his bag and headed to the door. As he flipped off his office lights, his stomach rumbled. There was probably nothing at the house to eat, so he’d probably need to pick up something on the way. For a brief instant, he wished there was a woman waiting on him with a home-cooked meal. He quickly shrugged the thought away. A couple of meals weren’t worth the hassle of long-term relationships. In the end, he was much happier with begging dinners off one of his married sisters. At least until they launched into one of their tirades about how he couldn’t be a bachelor for the rest of his life, and at thirty-two, it was time for him to settle down and have a family.

“Bullshit,” he muttered under his breath at the thought. The attractive cleaning lady down the hall raised her head.

She then gave him an alluring smile. “Goodnight Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“Goodnight Paula,” he replied. He smacked the button for the elevator, fighting the urge to close the gap between them and strike up conversation. He raked a hand through his sandy blond hair and shook his head. Talking to Paula would most likely lead to some tryst in the storeroom closet, and as much as he would enjoy that, he was getting a little old for those kinds of hook-ups.