Straight Up Love (The Boys of Jackson Harbor Book 2)

When my phone wakes me up, I’m aware of a few things all at once.

One, whoever’s on the other end of that call is a total asshole.

Two, I have a hangover to top all hangovers.

Three, I’m in Jake’s apartment.

This isn’t the first time I’ve slept over. While I don’t drink to excess often, when I do, it’s at Jackson Brews, because that’s what you do when your best friend owns a bar. I drink downstairs, and when I’m ready to pass out and don’t want to walk home, I borrow his couch.

But this time I’m not just in Jake’s apartment—I’m in his bed. And that would be fine, because Jake’s the kind of guy who’d rather take the couch and let his guest have the better night’s sleep, but I’ve always insisted on sleeping in the living room. But last night’s coming together for me one piece at a time, and waking up in his bed seems . . . significant.

I told the girls about the baby and my decision to finally take my life into my own hands and start a family. I told them my reservations about sperm banks but how badly I wanted to carry a child. They told me to get Jake’s sperm.

And . . . he said yes? Did he give it to me last night?

I sit up in bed, and my head pounds. Next to me, my phone buzzes to let me know I have a voicemail, and I press my palm to my forehead. Why is it that subsequent drinks seem like such a good idea when you’re buzzed? Lots of things sound like good ideas when alcohol’s involved. More liquor. Dancing on tables. Asking friends for sperm.

I spot the turkey baster in bed beside me and groan as I slink back down under the covers. Surely he didn’t jack off into a cup and let me put that to use.

First of all, awkward. Second of all, what drunk me thought was a brilliant idea, sober me recognizes as a disaster. I’m not leaving Jackson Harbor, and neither is Jake. Even if he was willing to hand over his sperm, carrying his child would change things between us. Wouldn’t it?

So why am I in his bed?

The sound of footsteps spurs me to open my eyes, and I see Jake leaning in the bedroom doorway.

“Good morning, birthday girl,” he says.

“There’s nothing good about this morning,” I mutter. “I feel like death.”

Jake’s shirtless in a pair of jeans, the tattoos on his arms and chest on full display.

Intellectually, I can appreciate his body. It’s not the sort of body you’d expect on a total nerd, especially not one who drinks as much beer as he does. But there’s no gut in sight. He and his brothers spend too many hours together at the gym to let that happen. Also, they have freakish genetics that make them all ridiculously good-looking. Yes, intellectually, I can appreciate the body of the man in front of me.

But attraction isn’t an intellectual thing. Attraction is an emotional thing. And emotionally, I think of Jake as my best friend. That’s it. And that’s been it for a long time now. So when a girlfriend of mine looks at him and purrs, or tells me how badly she wants to get in bed with him, I get why. I’m not blind to his appeal. I just don’t get jealous. And that’s good, since he’d laugh in my face if I did.

“Why did you let me drink so much?”

He folds his arms, and tension ticks in his jaw. “Because I didn’t know you were pregnant, for one.”

For the second time this morning, I sit up straight in bed, and for the second time this morning, the rapid movement makes me grab my skull.

“It’s kind of bad to drink when you’re pregnant,” Jake says.

“You don’t think I know that?”

“I’m not judging. I just would have thought—”

“I’m not pregnant.” Am I? Did I use the turkey baster? God, I feel awful.

“Last night you told me you were going to have a baby.”

“I am.”

He scowls at me. “So which is it?”

I shake my head and immediately regret it. “Could I have some Tylenol? And a cup of coffee, and some water, and, I don’t know, maybe one of those knives for hara-kiri?”

He disappears, and when he returns, I’m lying down again, and he has everything but the knife. Go figure. He places it all on the bedside table by my head. “Are we going to talk about this?”

“I am so hungover and you’re not making any sense, so no. I’ll pass on the chat.”

“I’m not making any sense?” He props his hands on his hips. “You told me you were pregnant.”

“I didn’t. I told you I was having a baby. There’s a difference.”

“How exactly?”

“I don’t know. Something with verb tense, and conditions, and . . . don’t make me talk grammar this early in the morning.”

“It’s ten o’clock, Ava.”

I grab the Tylenol from the bedside table and use the cold bottle of water to swallow it down, grimacing when it hits my stomach. “I want to have a baby, Jake. And last night, I told you about it because . . .” The only thing that could make this conversation more awkward is if he were holding the cup of jizz in his hand while we discussed the possibility of him handing it over to me. I take a breath and spit it out. “I need some . . . help.”

“With what?”

“Why are you making this so hard?” I throw a pillow at his chest. “Just go away. I’m tired and I feel like death, and last night was totally a mistake.”

“I’m not trying to be thick-skulled here. I’m just a little slow to understand what you mean.” He takes a deep breath and pastes on his most patient smile. “You want a baby. You’re not pregnant.”

“I’m not pregnant,” I say softly. The words never hurt less. Not at the beginning of my marriage, when my husband would pull me into his arms and promise we’d have better luck next time. Not in the middle, when the pink minus sign on those stupid sticks slowly formed a wall between us. And not even at the end of my marriage, when I was heartbroken by his betrayal and everyone told me I should be grateful we didn’t have kids involved. They always hurt the same. Not pregnant.

Jake exhales, and his shoulders sag as he turns away from me. “Fuck. That’s good news.”

Jake

“It’s terrible news,” Ava says, but the words come out in an uncharacteristic screech. “If I don’t start a family now, do you realize my chances of conceiving go down every year after thirty? Do you understand how hard it’s going to be for me to get pregnant?”

When I turn back around, she’s crawling back down the bed and pulling the covers over her head. “Can we talk about this?” I ask.

“No,” she says, her voice muffled.

I cross the room and pull the blanket off her head. I know she’s hungover, but I can’t just walk away from this conversation. I barely slept last night, freaking torn up about her pregnancy and all its implications, and now she’s telling me she’s not pregnant. She just wants to be, and she wants my help.

What the fuck does that mean?

“Talk.” I fold my arms across my chest.

“I want a family, and I’m sick of waiting for Mr. Right to come along, so I’m going to do it on my own.”

“And you want my help?” Hell. I’m trying really hard not to jump to conclusions here. Emphasis on hard.

“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean . . .” She takes a deep breath. “It sounded like a good idea last night.”

Doing baby-making things with Ava sounds like a good idea to me every minute of every hour of every damn day, but I’m quite aware that doing that with me doesn’t cross her mind nearly as often. Okay, or ever. “Last night, when you asked for my help, you meant you wanted me to get you pregnant?”

She scowls. “Are you being dense on purpose?”

“I promise I’m not.” But if ever there was a conversation where I’m going to need things spelled out for me, this is it. “I just want to make sure I understand.”

She presses her palm to her forehead. “I just wanted you to jack off in a cup and hand it to me. Not the weird way.”

Right. Because that wouldn’t be weird. “I’m sorry.” I hold up a finger. “Give me a sec.” I walk around the room, scanning the ceiling and the corners. I check behind the lamp and crack the closet to look in there.

“What are you doing, Jake?”

I spin on her. “I’m looking for the camera—the one you planted before you Punk’d me. Is that show even still a thing? Because I’m sure I’m being Punk’d right now.” I crouch and look under the bed.

“You’re not being Punk’d! Quit being an asshole!”

I stand, fold my arms, and set my jaw. “You’re telling me that last night you wanted me to jack off in a cup and give the contents to you.” My gaze lands on the turkey baster in bed beside her. Of course. It all makes sense now.

Christ. This is what my life has come to. This is what happens when you pine for your best friend for years instead of forcing yourself to move on. She wants your sperm. Not you. Just your swimmers. I feel like the kid who realizes he’s been walking around school with a “kick me” sign on his back. “You can’t be serious, Ava.”

“No. I’m not serious now. I was drunk, and it seemed like a good idea then. Now, I’m sober and I don’t want your sperm. It’s a bad idea, and I know it’s a bad idea. I’m sorry.”

And then, fucking dammit, she starts crying. She uses her thumbs to wipe her tears away, but her chest shakes, and it’s like taking an ice pick to the chest.

“Why can’t I just be like everybody else?” she asks, her voice unsteady. “Why can’t I find a nice guy who wants to knock me up? What’s wrong with me that my only relationship that lasted longer than five minutes was a marriage that was clearly doomed to failure from the start?”

Dammit. “Ava . . .”

“What?” Rolling to her side, she grips the blankets in her fists and stares at me. “You know I suck at relationships. I really, really suck.”

In my experience, it’s not so much that Ava sucks at relationships. The problem is more that she doesn’t really give them a chance. She meets a nice guy, and he’s either a jerk—so she doesn’t want to see him again because she married a jerk once and learned her lesson—or he’s too interested, which makes her suspicious that he’s a crazy person, because who would be interested in her? It’s all sorts of fucked up, but that’s just who she is—the most confident woman I know in every aspect of her life but romance.

She swings her legs to the side of the bed and cradles her face in her hands. “Oh, this is so stupid. I can’t believe I even said anything to you.”

“Well . . .” I clear my throat. “I guess I’m flattered?”

She peeks at me between her fingers. “You guess you’re flattered? I asked to bear your offspring, and you guess you’re flattered?” She groans.

I lower myself to sit on the bed beside her. “Are you serious about this baby thing?”

She drops her hands and nods. “I’ve thought about it for a long time, but I was hoping I’d find somebody. Like any other girl, I’d prefer to do it the old-fashioned way, but it’s getting kind of late for that.”

“You’re only thirty, Ava. There’s still time.”

She drags her bottom lip between her teeth. “My mom had three miscarriages, months of infertility treatments, and finally me. She had to have the same treatments to have Colton. It’s not going to be easy for me to conceive. I know it seems like I’m rushing into this, but I’m not. There aren’t many things in my life that I’m sure of. I am sure I want to be a mom, and I’m not willing to wait and see if it ‘works out.’”

Swallowing hard, I take her hand in mine and squeeze. “What are you gonna do?”

“I’ve talked to a fertility clinic about a sperm donor, but last night, I was freaking out about my kid having a crazy man’s genetics, so Teagan suggested I ask a friend. I could get the sperm free and know my child wasn’t genetically inclined to develop a fetish for Barbie heads or something.” She attempts to smile, but in her miserable state, it looks more like she’s baring her teeth than feeling joyful. “I’ll be fine, Jake.”

“You’re gonna raise a kid on your own, though? Do you know how hard that’s going to be?”

“Yeah. I do. But I don’t have any doubt in my mind that it’ll be worth it. I would never regret a child.”

If this were one of the novels Ava likes to read so much, I’d kiss her hard, climb over her on the bed, and tell her that I’d give her babies, and I’d be by her side. If this were one of those books, she’d secretly want me in return.

But I put myself out there for Ava once before and, in the process, found out exactly how she felt about me.

So here we are. Sitting side by side, both desperately wanting something the other can give, and unable to make it happen.

“Too bad we didn’t make one of those pacts when we were kids,” I say. When she screws up her face in question, I say, “You know, one of those if we’re not married by thirty, we’ll marry each other things.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “It would be kind of like marrying my brother.”

I press my hand to my chest. “Ouch.”

“No offense.”

“It’s just emotional castration. No worries.”

She rolls her eyes. “And anyway, don’t you want to marry some hot young thing who can give you wild sex every night?”

“Yeah. Definitely.” Wild sex with Ava sounds amazing to me. Too bad she’s not talking about herself.

“I should get home. I have a thousand things to do before my shift tonight.”

“Including research on artificial insemination?”

She nods, then studies my face. “Are you going to be okay with this? I know there are people who don’t approve of a woman starting a family on her own, but—”

“Since when have I ever not been right by your side when you needed me? This won’t be any different.” Except it will. Because somehow, her decision to start a family on her own feels like the final nail in the coffin of Ava-and-Jake. Ever since her divorce, I’ve been holding on, waiting for her to see me differently, to give me a chance. But now . . .

I release her hand and stand. “Want me to make you some bacon and eggs? Salt is good for the hangover.”

She lies back down instead of getting up like she said she was going to. “Yes, please.”

I pinch her nose and head to the kitchen.

“Jake?” she calls when my feet hit the hallway.

I stop and turn, hope wobbling around in my chest like a newborn foal. “Yeah?”

“Would you put some cheese in my eggs?”

I take a deep breath, as if that might help me steady myself after this emotional rollercoaster of a morning. “Anything for you, Av.”