Jessa James - The Baby Mission

Milo doesn’t care that I went out drinking last night. He rubs his chin against my hand again, meowing in his raspy voice, demanding pets. I scratch the top of his head, and he bursts into a full purr, rumbling happily.

“You’re the worst,” I say to Milo. He climbs up onto my chest, his weight slight. Even after having him for a year, he hasn’t ever gotten any bigger than ten pounds. “I do not appreciate you at all .”

He kneads the blanket on my chest a bit, then hops off me. He heads to the end of the bed, looking back at me with anticipation. I heave a sigh at his attempt to lure me into the kitchen, to feed him some canned food.

“You have plenty of dry food,” I say, scowling.

I roll over and sit up, making a pathetic noise. At the moment, I feel every one of my thirty three years, and then some. I really am not twenty years old anymore, and I have the hangover to prove it.

I pull on a t-shirt over my panties, the first step of many to get this day started. I check my phone and see that it’s only nine. Normally I would completely panic, but I know that I have the day off.

Well, maybe not off-off, but I planned on working from home today anyway. I glance at my email for a second, then heave a disgusted sigh and turn the screen off. There are a dozen new emails, a dozen voicemails, and two dozen texts waiting for me.

I pad across the bare cement floors of my loft apartment, shooting a glare at the two banks of floor-to-ceiling windows that provide amazing light. Aside from my bedroom, the apartment has a home office, a spare bedroom, and a huge kitchen-slash-living space. I paid a king’s ransom for it, but I can’t complain much. Not even when there’s too much sunlight.

I pee, panties around my ankles, door open, and eyes shut against the light, and I force myself to think. My brain isn’t really working though, so I strip my clothes off and turn on the shower. The steam starts to build up, caught in between the cool, dark tiles and the glass door.

I lean my head against the glass for a moment. I think about last night, and everything comes back in a rush.

The roof. The party. Jett.

God, I couldn’t even leave with grace. Not without Jett pulling me into his arms, kissing me, making me blush. He’s so tall, with near-black hair done in an undercut. A red plaid shirt and jeans that fit, and boots. Dark blue eyes, a royal blue. He had a serious beard, which I’m very into.

Oh, and his tattoos…

He’s tatted on every visible inch of skin, from his neck to the unbuttoned vee at his neck, down to his fingers. I bite my lip as I slip into the shower. God, I will think about those tattoos when I get bored and lonely, that was for certain.

I stand under the shower for longer than I should, thinking about the reasons I can’t have a man like Jett in my life. Oh, there are so many reasons.

One, I don’t have the time to devote to a real relationship. I have a serious job, and most guys can’t appreciate a woman who works as hard as I do.

Two, I don’t want to deal with the games that come part and parcel with dating a handsome guy. They are so much frickin' work.

And third, I want a baby. No, I need a baby, stat. And none of the bs and drama of a baby-daddy, either.

I pour some shampoo in my hair, and lather it up. I know that I seem career-obsessed, but I woke up six months ago with this urge . Babies started suddenly seeming cute to me, out of the blue. I found myself lingering at baby-centric window displays, and laughing at funny baby videos on Facebook.

Then I had a close friend have a baby, a little girl. It was the first time that I held a baby, smelled a baby’s head. For the first time, I started seeing myself as more than just the doting aunt. I wondered if it was possible that I might want a baby.

Since then, I’ve started seeing babies absolutely everywhere. Not only that, I’ve been to see the gynecologist and the fertility specialist. Once I found out that I was physically capable of having a child, I became a little obsessed.

Can you blame me, though? Who wouldn’t want the chance to have a child, to pass on all the love and care that I didn’t get as a kid? The foster care system did poorly by me, but that won’t happen to my child.

I rinse my hair, growing impatient. No time to fuss over what my therapist calls my crisis of faith in my true self . I get out of the shower, realizing that Olive should be here soon.

Milo slinks around my feet, meowing up a storm.

“I’m not feeding you any canned food!” I tell him. “No matter how cute you are, or how much noise you make.”

I hurry through the dressing and grooming, still tousling my wet hair with a towel when the door buzzes. I dash to the front and check the camera. Olive smiles up at me, her bright red hair unmistakable. I buzz her up and unlock the door.

I wander to the kitchen island to get the coffee, then move over to the kitchen counter to start the coffee maker. As I’m fussing over the settings, Olive comes bursting in. She’s dressed down per my request, which means that she’s wearing last year’s Versace and her third best Louboutins.

I’m in jeans and an oversized crop top, but hey. To each her own, right?

I smile at her. She can wear whatever she wants; the girl is five feet tall, weighs next to nothing, and has a heart of pure gold.

“Hey!” she says, brandishing a pink pastry box. “Guess who brought chocolate croissants from Amélie’s?”

“Oh, you are a lifesaver,” I tell her. “I was just glad that we don’t have to be in the office today. I’ve just put the coffee on.”

Olive smirks. She’s a kick-ass defense attorney with my firm, and paid very richly for it.

“Coffee sounds amaze-balls,” she announces. “And it’ll go really well with the croissants.”

I take the box from her, opening the lid to inhale the yeasty goodness. I can feel Olive looking at me. She won’t demand details, but the way she drums her fingertips against the kitchen counter says she really wants to know about last night.

I glance at her. With her pixie-ish features, her abundant freckles, and her wide-set green eyes, she is almost too adorable to keep anything from.

“How was your date with Roberto?” I ask, cocking my head to the side. Milo hops up on the counter, and I automatically shoo him off.

She motions for me to bring the pastry box to her, and selects one. “It was okay. It’s only the third date, so I have nothing new to report yet.”

She looks at me meaningfully, and takes a bite of her croissant.

“You want to know about last night?” I sigh.

“Omigod, I really, really do,” she says, struggling to seat herself on one of the stools that are on the other side of the island.

I screw up my face. “His name was Jett, he was ridiculously hot, and he turned me down for sex.”

“He what ?” she asks, outraged.

“It was super embarrassing,” I say with another sigh. “Although he did make sure he got my number…”

“Wait, did he do that before or after he turned you down?”

“Ummmm… after,” I say, moving to get a couple of mugs down.

“Girl! That’s pretty damn hot,” she says. She takes a bite of the croissant, and moans appreciatively. “God, this is good.”

“You’re getting crumbs all over that slinky little black number,” I point out.

She brushes the crumbs off her sleeveless chiffon jumpsuit and shrugs. “So what kind of hot was he? Describe him.”

“Mmmm…” I think about it as I get out the milk. The coffee finishes, and I pour us two steaming, amazing smelling cups. “He was really tall. He had short, dark hair, and a killer smile. And he had a crazy amount of tattoos.”