Jennifer Mikels - The Fertility Factor

“No, I don’t.” She hesitated then realized she could have talked to co-workers about this at lunch. Why hadn’t she? Why did she feel like sharing her heartache for a friend with him? “I received a call from a high-school friend this morning and—” Her words remained unfinished as the elevator moved a few inches, then jerked to a stop again.

“Hello,” a male voice yelled down to them. “Anyone there?”

“Yeah, Frank,” Derek called back.

Lara was touched that he knew the name of the building’s security man, a retired police detective.

“It’s Derek Cross and Lara Mancini.”

Lara mentally groaned. The gossips would have fun tomorrow with that news. She could imagine the whispered words. Guess who was stuck in the elevator? Alone. For hours.

“Dr. Cross, I’ll get maintenance right on it,” Frank yelled. “You two will be out in a jiffy.”

“Thanks, Frank,” Derek called back. Swinging a look at her, he shrugged. “We’re stuck. He’ll get maintenance—”

“Right on it,” she finished for him. Now what? “Looks as if we’ll have plenty of time.”

“Finish telling me about your friend.”

As long as she didn’t think too much about them, about the excitement that tingled her skin whenever he was near, she’d make sense. “She’s the same age as me.” When Gena had called, panic had rushed through Lara. Gena’s problem could easily be her own. “She has endometrioses.”

“She’s been to a specialist?”

“Yes. The doctor told Gena she might need a hysterectomy.”

“No kids?” Derek asked, leaning against the back wall of the elevator.

“No, she doesn’t have any. Learning about Gena has made me aware that time is getting away from me.”

“You have time.”

“Not really.” If he’d kiss her, just once, maybe she’d stop thinking about it. “I’m thirty-eight.”

“I assume you mean the biological clock is ticking.”

Lara nodded. “Having children matters to me. A lot. I can’t wait any longer.”

“I didn’t know there was someone special in your life.”

This wasn’t something she wanted to admit to him. “There isn’t.”

“Are you talking about artificial—”

Oh, this was too much. Embarrassing. She sounded as if she was a charity case, couldn’t attract a man. “No, no,” Lara cut in. “I won’t do that. But I’ve made a decision.” She might as well level with him, tell him what he’d probably learn via the center’s gossip grapevine. “Within the next six months, I’ll make every effort to find Mr. Right, to get married. So within the year, I’ll get pregnant.”

“You make that sound easy.”

She nearly laughed. “It isn’t or I wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

“You’ll forget about love and orange blossoms and whatever else?” He smiled again. She realized she loved the way his lips curved in a slow-forming smile. “Are you thinking about a sperm bank?”

Lara rolled her eyes at him. “I can’t go to a sperm bank or do in-vitro fertilization.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Won’t. I come from an Italian-American family that believes motherhood is sacred. They’d never understand if I had a baby any way but by the traditional way.”

“So you’re looking for—”

Why had she revealed so much to him? “Mr. Right,” she finished for him. “You sound skeptical. Don’t you believe there is a Mr. Right?”

“Could be fantasy.”

“You’re a skeptic about love?”

“For me.” He frowned as if he was surprised he’d told her that. “No man is perfect, Lara.”

“No, but someone could be perfect for me.”

He arched a brow. “I guess that’s realistic. What will you do? Look for someone you have a lot in common with?”

“That would probably be best. I have a few annoying traits.”

The tease was in his eyes again. “You do?”

“My family claims I talk too much.” He probably thought so, too. But she rambled when nervous or excited.

“But you’re interesting.”

Interesting. Her pulse thudded. “And I laugh a lot.”

“Cheerful.”

To say she wasn’t pleased by his take on her would have been a blatant lie. “I drive some people crazy because it takes me a while to finish jobs. I have good intentions, but no one ever said you couldn’t enjoy yourself while doing chores. Right?”

He shrugged. “I’m from the do-it-and-get-it-done school.”

He wouldn’t understand. Someone like him would think she was silly.

“What do you mean when you say it takes you a while? Why does it?”

She had no choice now except to be honest with him. “I like to sing and dance. What my family will never let me live down is the time I was in the kitchen singing ‘What’s Love Got To Do with It,’ while I was supposed to be drying dishes.”

Puzzlement veed his brows.

“I was standing on a kitchen chair with a turkey baster in my hand.”

“A turkey baster?”

“It was my microphone.”

He laughed, a deep rumbling laugh.

Enjoying herself, she went on, “Since then, the running joke in my family is—expect Lara to take an hour to do a ten-minute task.”

“Love them, don’t you?”

Was she imagining that he sounded envious? “Immensely. And I know they love me. If they’re enjoying themselves, I can be the brunt of their tease.”

“What kind of questions will you ask to find out if some guy is Mr. Right?”

“I…I never gave that a lot of thought. He’d have to be caring.” She was a people person who’d take a walk on the weekend just to talk to neighbors. “I suppose I’ll ask what kind of music he likes. I like fifties and sixties hits the most, but will listen to almost any other kind of music. What do you listen to?”

“Classical. Opera.”

Lara nodded, not surprised. He probably went to the symphony before he was three. An exaggeration, she knew. But this man had led a life a world apart from hers. “I might ask my Mr. Right candidate what the last movie was that he saw.”

“That might not tell you anything about him.”

“Why not?”

He chuckled in private amusement. “Because the last movie I saw had a big mouse and raccoon in it.”

“Oh, I saw that, too. Cute, wasn’t it?”

“I saw it because of my son. Why did you?”

With a turn of his head, the light overhead illuminated the strong lines of his face. She’d like to touch it, run her fingers over his cheek, his jaw. “Nieces and nephews,” she answered.

“I guess it would be important for Mr. Right to like Italian food.”

He was perceptive. “I had it before baby formula.” A man who didn’t like Italian food would hate holidays with her family, any meal. Regardless of what was served, pork loin or ham or turkey, her mother always served a side of spaghetti or ravioli. And she would be insulted if the man didn’t at least sample everything on her table. “I’d like it if he skied.”

“You ski?”

Lara shook her head. “I don’t, but I’d like to.”

“So anyone who skis gets points?”

She laughed at how silly that sounded. “Yes, I guess so.”

“What else?”

Was he, too, trying to keep conversation going? Never had they shared so much personal information with each other. “I like lazing around on days off, having breakfast in bed while I read the newspaper. Do you?”

“I get up at five to run in the park. Who serves you breakfast in bed?”

“No one.” She knew what she was going to say would sound dumb. “I get up, make breakfast, bring it on a tray to the bed and pretend it was served. Sounds silly, huh?”

“No. You must have a great imagination.”

Excitement stormed her as she watched his eyes briefly fall upon her lips. “I acted for a while.”