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The Fertility Factor

Год написания книги
2018
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The center’s receptionist, Josie, was a cute, petite brunette with an abundance of blond streaks, who favored denim clothes. Her bright smile was the first thing people saw when they entered Manhattan Multiples.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Lara said to both of them from a few feet away.

“No problem.” Carrie, a tall brunette with a slight build, led the way to the center’s entrance. “I’ve been telling Josie about my latest dating fiasco,” she said while pushing open one of the double glass doors. A man bumped shoulders with Carrie, as he plowed his way through the crowd. “I’m looking for a prince among frogs.”

Lara knew where there was one—Dr. Derek Cross. Handsome, rich, charming. She kept the thought to herself. Never had he indicated interest in her, but from day one, she’d felt a tightness in her chest whenever he was near. Her secret crush was her business, no one else’s. She liked her job, wanted to keep it.

“I can’t believe how hot it is,” Josie said.

“Neither can I,” Lara agreed when they stopped at a curb for a red light. A summer heat wave for the past two days had left New Yorkers cranky.

“That’s a great outfit, Lara.”

Josie nodded her agreement of Carrie’s comment.

“Thanks. I didn’t think scrubs would play well today.” For the upscale restaurant near the center’s Madison Avenue address, she and Carrie had changed outfits.

It was their splurge week. Instead of the deli nearby, the three women strolled to a pricey restaurant with rosewood paneled walls, crystal, linen and enormous flower arrangements. Inside, the buzz of conversation and the clink of silverware filled the room.

Even after they were seated at a table for four, Carrie continued to rattle on about her date two nights ago. “He bought me a hot dog. That was his idea of a big date. Then we took a taxi to the theater. He was out of money. I ask you. Why did he suggest the taxi if he couldn’t pay for it? Because he knew he couldn’t. How insulting.”

Lara sipped her water and absently listened to Josie offering sympathetic words to Carrie about her tale of woe.

Josie poked a fork into the shrimp salad just delivered, but paused with the fork in midair. “Lara, are you sick? You’re awfully quiet.”

“I’m in trouble,” Lara answered, frowning at her Caesar salad.

As if playing a child’s game of Red Light, Green Light, they both froze.

“You’re pregnant?” Carrie mumbled, her mouth full.

“You would have told us if you were, wouldn’t you?” Josie asked.

“I’m not pregnant,” Lara said, “and that’s what’s really wrong. Time is running out for me.”

“To get pregnant, you mean?” Josie asked.

Lara nodded. “I used to believe that I had plenty of time to think about a husband, about tying myself down, about children. But I’m thirty-eight. I feel pressure now to get pregnant soon, before it’s too late.”

Carrie shook her head. “Oh, you’ll be okay.”

Did they really understand? Lara wondered. Carrie perhaps did. She was thirty-two and divorced. But Josie might not understand her desperation. Often Josie had scoffed at the idea of having children. But then Josie was only twenty-five. She could afford to be a free spirit for a few more years.

“Anyone would want you,” Carrie said.

Lara laughed. How sweet she was. “No, they wouldn’t. Men my age want sexy young things with thighs of steel.”

“You have thighs of steel.”

Lara nearly snorted. “They’re not Jell-O—well, maybe firm Jell-O.”

“I’ve seen you in a bikini,” Josie cut in. “Most women would die for your figure, Lara. You’re pretty enough to be a movie star.”

“She was a movie star,” Carrie reminded her.

Lara had strived for a long time to earn her living doing something she loved—acting. But like others with “pie in the sky” dreams, she’d faced the truth several years ago. Though she’d known a more glamorous life, had acted in a Broadway play, even a few movies, she doubted she’d make it big as an actress.

“I don’t know how you could give all that up,” Carrie said.

“It wasn’t that glamorous. Where are you performing this week, Josie?”

“Goodfellows.” At night Josie hung out at coffee shops or smoky bars where she read her poetry. “It’s an upscale bar in the West Village. Will you come? It’s not far from your place.”

“I’ll try.” Lara had saved diligently and had invested well to afford a one-bedroom apartment in the West Village building, complete with a doorman.

“Me, too,” Carrie said between bites of her chicken sandwich.

They stayed longer than they should have and rushed back toward the center at Madison Avenue and Seventy-eighth Street. Lara said goodbye as the other women were about to enter the center, said she had an errand to run. She had time before the first afternoon appointment arrived. The truth was she wanted to be alone. She needed time to think.

She wandered into Central Park, found a bench. She’d been deadly serious with her co-workers. Her usual optimism had waned with her friend Gena’s early-morning, tearful phone call. Lara had ached for her. The news had stormed her with doubts and despair about her own ability to get pregnant.

In two years she’d celebrate her fortieth birthday. She didn’t have time anymore. She needed to get pregnant now.

“It’s lunchtime, Mancini. What are you doing sitting here, alone?”

The male voice jerked her head up. Even with sunlight in her eyes, she knew who stood before her. Light glowed around him, but she saw the easy, half smile tugging at a corner of his lips.

“Hi.” Mentally she prodded herself to act normal. That was no easy task. Derek Cross tripped every feminine instinct within her. “The park’s a good place to think.” He’s your boss, your boss, your boss, Lara repeated to herself like a mantra.

Beneath dark, straight brows, his deep-set, hazel eyes narrowed with concern. She ranked his eyes as one of his best features. Cool, unreadable—sometimes. Filled with unmeasurable warmth during other moments, like today. “Are you okay?”

The light breeze tossed his dark-brown hair. She thought he was even sexier with the strands slightly disturbed, mussed in much the way they’d look from a woman’s touch. “Yes, I’m fine.” The world is spinning, and I’m getting older. And all I can think about is how sexy you look. The black polo shirt clung to muscled biceps and a lean, flat belly. She’d just known he would have such a well-toned body. Denim curved around a tight butt and followed long, strong-looking legs. A shiver inched its way up her spine. She wouldn’t drool, she promised herself. It didn’t matter that she was much too old for such nonsense. He made her hot, all six-four of him. “Have you had your lunch yet?”

He tipped his head slightly in a questioning manner.

Mentally she moaned. Did he think she was asking him to have lunch with her? “I mean—” Oh, this was insane. She was an intelligent woman who managed to snag even a stranger’s attention with interesting conversation, so why was she acting like a ninny? “I just finished having it. My lunch.” Scintillating, Lara. This will undoubtedly be the last time he talked to her about anything except a patient. At the office he’d always been all business. “With Josie and Carrie.” She needed to get a grip. “Do you know them?”

His eyes held an amused smile. “Yes, I know them.”

“I—” She paused, vowed to drown herself if she blushed. She needed to pretend they were at work. Tongue-tied was not normal for her. If anything, she’d been accused, mainly by family, of being gabby.

“Do you need anything?”

Oh, what a question.

“Is there something I can do to help? If there is, tell me,” Derek added while he braced the bicycle he’d ridden to the park against the bench.

She shook her head, wished he’d stop asking. She might tell him that she was frightened. She wanted to hold a baby. She ached to hold her own baby. “Are you here with your son?” she asked, and strained for a smile. He’d make beautiful babies, she decided. The boys would have that long, straight nose, that strong, sharply angled face. They’d be as gorgeous as their father.
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