That’s either judgement or shock in her voice, but my hackles go up just the same. “Only obscenely attractive felons.”
“I can’t tell if you’re messing with me right now, but I’m not in the mood.”
“Hand to God.” I reach over and swipe one of her crackers, crunching it loudly to spite her. “Not messing with you, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe.”
“Not messing with you, toots.” I savor the bright flash of fire in her eyes. “Your whole family knows about it. We discussed sperm donation over dinner while talking about Peter and Lucy’s secondary infertility struggles.”
“Great,” Hazel mutters, nibbling a cracker. “It’s refreshing to know you’re so sharing with your semen.”
“I’m an open book.” I can’t resist taking a jab. “And hey, you didn’t even have to hit a clinic to get some of my grade A baby batter. You’re welcome, babe.”
“I’m not your babe.” Hazel grits her teeth. “The sperm people know about your criminal history?”
It’s like she’s trying to catch me in a lie. “Yes, Hazel. The fertility clinic where I donate is aware of my record.” I can’t resist adding this next part. “Turns out there’s a high demand for the DNA of a drug-free, ridiculously healthy, six-three adult male with blue eyes, an IQ of 140, and no family history of disease or dysfunction.” I watch her face closely as my words sink in. “Don’t look so shocked.”
“I’m not.” She so clearly is, it’s absurd. “If you don’t know your father, how are you certain there’s no family disease or dysfunction?”
“My mother had copies of some of his old medical records.” Something I hoped might help track him down, but nope. Another dead end.
Hazel’s still reeling from the sperm donor thing. “I just—I’ve never met anyone who’s donated sperm.”
“Families are made in all kinds of ways.”
“So you might have children out there somewhere?”
“I don’t think of it that way, no.” I’m not sure why, but creating life with Hazel feels different from some clinical procedure in a lab. “But yes, the last time I donated, the clinic said several couples requested me based on my profile.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not judging. And I’m really not surprised there’d be such a demand for your…” She trails off, blushing, so I fill in the blank.
“Sperm, jizz, love juice, man milk, cock gravy?”
“You’re disgusting.”
Why is her look of dismay such a turn-on? “You didn’t seem to think I was so disgusting when you were begging me to?—”
“Can we not do this right now?” She looks vaguely green, and since my shoes are still damp from the soaking she gave them, I decide to let it drop.
She must be thinking along the same lines I am. Glancing at my feet, she makes a face. “Sorry again about your shoes.”
“You say that a lot, don’t you?”
Her eyebrows go up. “Apologize for puking on people’s footwear?”
“You say you’re sorry a lot.” I survey her face, enjoying the angles and planes. Our kids will be lucky to get her DNA. “Don’t you get tired of apologizing?”
“Maybe there’s a lot to apologize for.”
“I think you should break the habit.” Like I’m in a position to make life suggestions. “Here’s an idea—every time you say ‘sorry,’ I get an extra vote on the names.”
“For the babies?” She shoots me a dubious look. “I didn’t know we were voting.”
“You thought you’d decide on your own?” Figures.
“No, I guess—I don’t know. Maybe you name one and I name one?”
That makes me snort. “That’s how we’d end up with twins named Beatrix and Clover.”
