Fair Game: A Football Romance (95 page)

She’s Paris Hilton spoiled—no, she’s Kim Kardashian spoiled, maybe worse. She’s also fabulously gorgeous, and surprisingly, with all the drinking she seems to do, she’s in incredible shape.

I slam the laptop shut and grab my keys. Why am I sitting around wasting my time researching people I’ve never met and will never know? There is no connection between the rich, worldly Wilds and me other than that damn surrogate profile. The tree thing is just a weird coincidence that I pathetically linked to an emotional event in my life during a moment of weakness.

I need some fresh air and ice cream to clear my mind of raves and sex tapes, and I could use a night out with a man, but that’s not an option for at least another year with a pregnancy looming on the horizon. Lord, I can’t imagine the basket case I’ll be by then. I’m already falling for a married stranger from my prospective parent profiles and stalking his wife online! What’s it going to be like when I’ve been abstinent for almost a year and hormonal?              

Chapter 11

Liam

Fucking Amira isn’t here yet. I’ve been circling the parking lot looking for her Jaguar for five minutes, and there’s no sign of her. She’d better show up. I don’t even want to be here. I have a thousand things to do today.

After giving up, I drop the keys to my Touareg into the valet’s hand and take a deep breath in and release it slowly. Amira is testing my patience more than usual lately, and it’s making me want to start scheduling another European tour just to get away from her. Having a kid is going to seriously change how I tour. I’m not leaving our baby alone with Amira for a minute. She hates kids, and she doesn’t know the first thing about babies. But I do.

I had a baby brother when I was five. I loved helping my mother take care of him. I held him and told him stories. My happiest memory is snuggling with Mom and Dylan in her big, warm bed on a Saturday morning, watching it snow outside. I was too little to know where we were stationed, but it was somewhere in the Midwest. Dylan died when he was one year old. My father killed him. I know he did. When he came home from being deployed for the last time, he was out of his mind. Before he left, he wasn’t a bad father—more of an absent one—but when he came home from Afghanistan, he wasn’t my father at all. Dylan’s death was ruled as a case of SIDS and no one was ever convicted of his murder. Life was never the same. Mom and Dad got divorced after a couple of years of him knocking her around and making her think Dylan’s death was her fault. I hated him for becoming the monster that singlehandedly demolished our family. I never want to be anything like that man.

Inside the dimly lit restaurant, a young, wide-eyed hostess greets me and mentions that she loves my music. I love my fans, but today I wish I could be a little more anonymous. I don’t want this baby story leaking to the press just yet, but the agency insisted on a public meeting place.

The cute little hostess leads me to a table, and I notice the tip of a tattoo peeking out from underneath the collar of her shirt. It’s a tree—
my tree
, the DJ Freedom tree used on my first album cover.

“Hey, do you have a pen?” I ask. She pats down her pockets until she comes up with one and hands it to me with a big smile. A waitress walks by, and I tap her shoulder while I wink at the hostess. Hostess fan girl giggles.

“Could I borrow a piece of paper?” I ask the waitress.

“Uh, yeah,” she says, giving me a once over before ripping a piece off a pad on her tray.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem,” she says, full of indifference and absolutely no recognition. I hope she’s going to be our waitress.

I write a little note, sign the paper, and hand it to the star struck hostess just as Amira joins me.

“Giving signatures, Liam? God, can’t we have a quiet dinner without one of your groupies butting in?” Amira pulls out her own chair and sits down without even looking at the poor hostess.

I ignore her and move so that my back is to Amira and I’m shielding fan girl.

“Don’t mind her. She’s crabby until she has a couple of drinks.”

I lean over and kiss her on the cheek and whisper.

“Thanks for being a fan.”

Her hand floats up to her cheek, and she silently turns to leave while Amira makes a snide comment under her breath.

“You need to learn your place, Amira. I love my fans. Everything I do, I do for them. If you’re uncomfortable with that, then just keep your fucking opinions to yourself, you got it?”

“Li-am, I just don’t like to share you.”

She’s using her wretched baby voice. Fuck, I hate the baby voice.

“Let’s start over, Amira. The surrogate is going to be here soon, and I’m guessing you want to make a good impression since your future is riding on this baby.”

She snorts as scrolls through Instagram on her phone. Our waitress approaches, and thankfully, it’s the one who didn’t seem to know me a few minutes ago, but I have a feeling somebody’s filled her in since then. She’s appropriate and professional, but something in her eyes says
hey, I know you now
.

“There will be one more joining us, a woman in her early twenties. Could you bring her back when she arrives?” I say.

“Of course. Can I get you anything to drink while you wait?”

“Bring me a long island iced tea,” Amira says without looking up from her phone. The waitress takes Amira’s rudeness in stride, writing down her order without a word before she looks to me for my order. I like her. We’re going to get along well. I can already tell.

“Just water, please.”

My order earns me another snort from my wife.

“You’re so boring, Liam. Why don’t you ever have any fun?”

With one eyebrow raised high, the waitress leaves us alone to get our drinks.

I lean on the table and lower my voice.

“Shut up, Amira, or I’ll leave, and you can get a fucking job at McDonalds and live in public housing.
Would you like fries with that?
”

She slams her phone down and glares, but she quickly switches her attention to someone standing behind me.

“Um, excuse me. I think there’s been some confusion. I was supposed to be meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Weaver tonight from Joyful Connections, but you’re Mr. and Mrs. Wild, aren’t you?”

I’d recognize that soft, melodic voice anywhere. I’ve been looking forward to seeing the woman connected to that voice for twenty-four hours. We had an immediate connection during our conference call, and Amira made it painfully clear that she wasn’t having any of that.

Amira dominated the spotlight, and poor Lourdes could hardly get a word in edgewise.

I glance up and immediately feel drawn to the woman standing at the head of our table. As soon as our eyes meet, her hand flies to her throat to fondle a charm on her necklace, a charm of a tree. She’s the same woman who took my breath away that day at Cecconi’s, the woman who brought every cell in my body to attention by simply existing. I’m naturally drawn to her like one end of a magnet to another. This is the woman who turned me into a babbling idiot with a massive hard on. How could the universe be so cruel, bringing her into my life this way? And why is she wearing a necklace with my trademark on it? There are a million other women who could be our surrogate, but this one . . . this one is supposed to be more. She’s supposed to be mine.

Amira is saying something, and Lourdes yes, that’s her name. She’s looking at her but the only thing I can hear is my heart pounding in my chest. The urge to reach out and touch her silky toffee skin is overwhelming as she gestures with her hands while she speaks. I want to reach out and take one of them and pull her into my lap so I can look at her closer, feel her, smell her.

I’m not supposed to, and I shouldn’t, but I do anyway. I push out my chair and stand, which in hindsight might not have been the smartest idea. My cock stiffened the moment I heard her voice, the same way it did during our conference call and the day I saw her in the restaurant. My plan is to simply shake her hand and offer her a seat, but what I end up doing is entirely different.

I take her hand. She’s not offering it, but I take it anyway. I have her attention now. Her eyes are wide as she looks at my hand holding hers, and I lean in to kiss her on the cheek and softly say, “Nice to meet you.”

“Liam!” Amira says, raising her voice.

I ignore her and breathe in the faint smell of coffee and cinnamon in Lourdes’s hair. I don’t drink coffee, but I might start if it reminds me of her. I move back, and she shakes herself from my surprise attack, stepping away and pulling her hand from mine. She doesn’t speak. Her mouth opens and closes and opens again, but no words come out. I’ve affected her. Good.

“Please have a seat . . . Lourdes, isn’t it?” I say, pulling out a chair for her.

“Li-am.” Amira is seething. I can see her out of the corner of my eye, and I should care, but I don’t. I really don’t. She wanted this. She wanted a baby to save her fortune. Well, now she’s gonna get one, and I’m going to enjoy the company of this gorgeous creature for the next ten months provided she chooses us.

“This is my wife, Amira,” I say absently, waving my hand in her direction. She’s still speechless but offers a timid hand to Amira, who gives it one quick jerk. I glance at Amira when Lourdes looks at the chair I’m offering her. I widen my eyes and then narrow them with a lift of my brows. What does she expect me to do, be rude? I’m being a dick to Amira, which is unlike me. I’m usually more discreet. I have a talent for smoothing over problems and hoping they will just go away, like Amira. I really wish she would just go away, but she’s like one of those tiny fibers that gets stuck in your eye. The one you can’t quite find, but it hurts like hell. You keep digging and rubbing, but it’s still fucking there.

Lourdes finds her voice.

“I um, like I said, I think there has been a mix-up or a miscommunication. I’m supposed to meet with the Weavers.”

“The Weavers, yes. But we spoke to you yesterday on the phone. They must have mixed up our names at the agency. Sit,” I say and pull out the chair a little farther. Lourdes eyes Amira for acceptance, and Amira nods toward the chair, even though she’s digging holes in her palms with her long, pointy manicured nails.

“Okay. I’ll stay for a minute, but I really should keep an eye out for—”
              “The Weavers,” I say, finishing for her.

“Yes.” She sits, and I help scoot her in. The hem of her dress hikes up on her thigh, and I have to sit down. There’s no hiding what’s going on in my pants anymore.

Amira leans back into her chair and crosses her arms over her chest as if to say
ok, stud, you like her, so you start the interview.

So I do.

“So, Lourdes, tell us a little about yourself. Are you a fan of mine?” I say, pointing to her necklace that she is fiddling with again.

She drops the chain, and the tree lays flat against her silky neck.

“Um no, sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your charm. It’s my trademark,” I say, pointing to her neck.

“Oh, uh no. My boyfriend gave it to me in high school for graduation.”

“See, Liam? Not everybody knows who you are,” Amira says with satisfaction.

I give her a quick, hard stare and return my attention to Lourdes.

“So we know you have a son and you’re in college. Tell us more. What are you majoring in?”

The waitress brings us our drinks before she can answer and asks Lourdes what she will be having.

“Water is fine. With lemon, please.”

She’s so fucking polite and sweet, and that voice—she could make a million doing relaxation therapy recordings. I’d love to record her and use it in a mix. I hope she chooses us just for that—well not just for that, but partially for that.

When the waitress is gone, I prompt her again.

“So, college?”

“Oh yes, sorry. I’m going to Berkeley. I’m going to be a lawyer.”

Amira coughs.

“Really? That seems boring,” she says before she sucks hard from her Long Island. Please God, don’t let her get drunk. She’s bad enough sober.

“No, not at all. The law is fascinating and flawed, and I want to change that—the flaws, I mean.”

“I hope you do,” I say, and I mean it. The legal system is more than flawed. It’s fucked, and my dead baby brother is proof.

“So what do you do for fun?” Amira asks. It figures that she’d ask about fun and I’d ask about education.

“I don’t have a lot of time for extracurricular activities with a son and school, but I like to run and read and work in the kitchen of a homeless shelter.”

Amira snorts and nearly sucks her drink dry. She’s well on her way to being drunk after sucking down a Long Island in two drinks.

“That’s very admirable, Lourdes. There aren’t too many people our age who consider working with the less fortunate fun.”

“You can say that again,” Amira says, waving to our waitress and pointing at her glass. Shit, here we go, drink number two. I swear, I’ll take this poor girl and leave if she gets angry sloshed, which is sort of what I’m expecting. Lourdes bites her lip when Amira makes her snide comment, and my blood boils. How stupid is that woman? She needs a baby to keep her inheritance, and here’s the perfect woman to give her one, and what’s she doing? Acting like the spoiled little rich bitch that she is.

“I enjoy cooking, even though I’m not very good at it. I usually work in the kitchen at the shelter. I have good parents, and I’ve always had a roof over my head, so it’s hard for me to comprehend having nothing. If I were ever in that position, I would be grateful for the help. Do unto others and all that, ya know?”

Lourdes smiles and adjusts her silverware until they are aligned on the bottom and straight up and down in perfect parallel rows, and even then, she continues to make minute adjustments. This must be something she does when she’s nervous. It’s adorable.

“You just revived my faith in humanity a little bit,” I say.

“It’s nothing,” she says.

It’s not, but I don’t want to make her uncomfortable saying so.

“What brought you to surrogacy?” I ask.