Page 19 of The Mistletoe Mix-up

“Only twenty-five percent of men don’t use condoms during one-night stands, and the chances of conception are twenty percent during ovulation.” She realized that she sounded like an encyclopedia, but there was no way an arrangement like that would be feasible. “We would have to continue the arrangement until it took, which increases the likelihood of feelings developing, and I’m looking for a detached arrangement.”

“So, you want me to hand over my DNA to a clinic so that they can use it to impregnate you? Exactly what do I get out of this?”

Wren cleared her throat. “I am willing to compensate you for expenses, like mileage when you go to the clinic.”

Steve grabbed his drink and downed the rest of it before he took a long, bracing breath. “As interesting as this has been, I was just looking for a little dinner conversation before getting laid. This is a bit”—he paused, as if searching for the least insulting word—“much for me.” He pulled out his wallet and dropped a fifty-dollar bill on the table. Once he was on his feet, he gave her a rueful smile. “Good luck with your quest, though.”

Larry came back to the table with the contract. “Do you need a copy of this NDA?”

“Believe me, friend, I’m not telling anyone about this,” Steve said, shrugging into his jacket and heading toward the door.

Larry set the contract and receipt down on the edge of the table. “Here you go, Wren.”

“Thanks, Larry. I have one more coming in about fifteen minutes. What time are you off?”

“I’ll be here until ten, so don’t worry.”

Larry walked away, leaving Wren to play out the exchange in her mind. Maybe she should try a one-night stand and roll the dice. She’d never have to talk to the man again or tell him that he had a child.

Wren shook her head. She wasn’t going to lie to anyone, even a lie by omission. Plus, at least the clinic would check for any STDs. She wasn’t about to trust the word of a man if she didn’t know that he was clean.

She pulled up her dating profile, which was a picture of her from behind in a boudoir shoot she’d done for her thirty-fifth birthday. The black negligee she wore was backless with strings crisscrossing along the open back. She had her feet crossed under her butt, and she lifted her blond hair so it appeared to be falling from her fingers.

It was tantalizing and sexy, and it had worked to get the attention of plenty of men on the site. Poor Steve probably felt like he’d gotten the old bait and switch. Maybe talking about her needs in person was a bad idea, and she should lay it all out on her profile? It had crossed her mind, but she was afraid of getting a bunch of weirdos reaching out and messing with her. Plus, she didn’t want anyone to recognize her and talk about it.

Wren read over her profile, starting with the tagline. Thirty-something professional seeks unique agreement with open-minded individual.

Wren didn’t think that sounded misleading. She glanced over her main profile and wrinkled her nose. Maybe she should just lay it all out and see what happened.

She highlighted and deleted everything, typing, Hi, I’m just looking for an absent baby daddy with healthy sperm and good genes. Must be educated, gainfully employed between the ages of twenty-five and forty. I am not seeking a partner but someone who will be willing to donate to a clinic of my choice, sign over parental rights, and never speak of this again.

Wren took a deep breath and hit submit, her stomach twisting in knots. This was the right thing to do. Better to not waste anyone’s time.

“Hello,” a man said, and Wren glanced up as he came up alongside her table. He had dark, curly hair and a fluffy salt-and-pepper beard.

“Hi.”

“I’m Carl Bevin. We were supposed to meet at eight, but I got here a little early.”

Wren quirked a brow, pulling out the background check and social media dive she’d done on him. Although there was a resemblance, the Carl Bevin she pulled was marked as six foot on his driver’s license, topping this man by several inches, and probably a good ten years younger.

“Really? You don’t look much like your pictures, Carl.”

“So, it’s a bit outdated.” He took the seat across from her, grinning. “Damn, you’re gorgeous.”

“May I see your driver’s license?” Wren asked.

“What for?” Faux Carl asked, reaching for the appetizer Steve had left and popping a hunk of fries and toppings into his mouth.

“So I can verify you are Carl, since I pulled his background check,” she said, taking the folder with Carl’s information out of her bag and setting it on the table, “and some things don’t add up.”

Faux Carl’s eyes widened. “You did a background check? What are you, a cop?”

“Yes.”

Carl stilled with his hand hovering over the fries. “Really?”

“I am. Would you like to see my badge?”