Josh and gemma make a ba.., p.1
Josh and Gemma Make a Baby, page 1
Josh and Gemma Make a Baby
Sarah Ready
Also by Sarah Ready
Stand Alone Romances:
The Fall in Love Checklist
Hero Ever After
Josh and Gemma Make a Baby
* * *
Soul Mates in Romeo Romance Series:
Chasing Romeo
Love Not at First Sight
Romance by the Book
Love, Artifacts, and You
Married by Sunday
* * *
Stand Alone Novella:
Love Letters
* * *
Find these books and more by Sarah Ready at:
www.sarahready.com/romance-books
* * *
Sign up to receive bonus content, exclusive epilogues and more at: www.sarahready.com/newsletter
W.W. CROWN BOOKS
An imprint of Swift & Lewis Publishing LLC
www.wwcrown.com
* * *
This book is a work of fiction. All the characters and situations in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to situations or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real locations are used fictitiously.
* * *
Copyright © 2021 by Sarah Ready
Published by W.W. Crown Books an Imprint of Swift & Lewis Publishing, LLC, Lowell, MI USA
Cover Illustration & Design: Elizabeth Turner Stokes
Interior Illustrations: Sarah Ready
All rights reserved.
* * *
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
* * *
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021914218
ISBN: 978-1-954007-18-5 (eBook)
ISBN: 978-1-954007-19-2 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-954007-22-2 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-1-954007-21-5 (large print)
ISBN: 978-1-954007-31-4 (audiobook)
To you. Yes, you.
Thank you.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
A note from the author
Acknowledgments
Join Sarah Ready’s Newsletter
Also by Sarah Ready
About the Author
1
When I was a little kid, I worshiped Josh Lewenthal, now, I couldn’t care less about him, I just need his sperm.
I’ll be the first to admit, I have no idea how to go about getting it, but as my obscenely sexy boss, famed self-help guru Ian Fortune, always says, “anything is possible if you put your mind to it.”
That’s my motto for this year. Starting today, January first, I’m going to believe that anything is possible—that magic can happen. And after thirty-two years of being average in nearly every way, magic will be a welcome change.
Josh and I grew up in a small river town a few hours north of New York City. It’s the type of town that has a Christmas tree in the square, a pumpkin carving contest in the fall, and an ice cream social in the summer. The houses are cookie-cutter cute, the yards are golf course green, and everybody waves hello. It’s a kid-friendly, all-American paradise. My family fit right in.
Josh moved to town with his dad when he was eight. Within days my mom warned me to stay away from him.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because he’s not the sort of boy that nice girls play with.”
“Why?” I asked again. I was in that “why” phase that all kids go through.
“Because I said so.”
Well.
My mom was right. I was a nice girl. She dressed me in pink poufy dresses and pigtails to prove it. But instead of listening to my mom I snuck out of the house and went and found Josh Lewenthal. I guess there’s a lesson there. Even when I was little I couldn’t take “because I said so” as an answer.
I found Josh kicking a ball in his backyard. He told me the reason nice girls couldn’t play with him was because he knew how girls got babies in their bellies. To prove it, he smacked a kiss on my mouth. I was terrified for weeks that I was going to blow up like a balloon and pop out a baby. After a month I realized that Josh Lewenthal was full of crap and that my mom had been right.
But that didn’t stop me from idolizing him. My brother Dylan and Josh became best friends. And like little sisters around the world I wanted to do everything they did and be everywhere they were.
When I was sixteen my big sister Leah came home from college for Christmas break. Within days she told me to stop ogling Josh.
“Why?” I asked. I was still in the “why” phase.
“Because if he catches you looking he’ll steal your underwear.”
I didn’t know what she meant. “Why?”
“Because he collects underwear for a hobby and pins them on his bedroom wall. He has almost every girl’s undies in this whole town. He’ll tear them off you and then do things.”
Leah lowered her voice to a whisper. “Marie Johnson said his hands are like an octopus’s. Everywhere at once.”
I was appalled and then intrigued. But, “I don’t think he’ll want my underwear. Dylan is his best friend. Plus, I’m not really into that kind of thing.” You know, being a nice girl and all.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Leah, full of big sister knowledge. “He just has to look at you and you’ll rip your undies off for him. He’s that good. An octopus, Gemma. You better stop ogling him.”
I was skeptical, to say the least.
But six months later, while I was cleaning up my parents’ garage after Josh and Dylan’s joint high school graduation party, Josh told me he’d miss me while he was in New York for college. Then, lo and behold, he stole my underwear. Metaphorically, of course.
For the second time in my life, I spent another few weeks terrified that I was going to blow up like a birthday balloon and pop out a baby.
After weeks of toe-numbing worry followed by my period and sweet sagging relief, I realized that Josh Lewenthal was not worth my fascination/worship/idolization, that he was in fact an immature/emotionally constipated user.
I didn’t see him again for six years.
By the time he came back to town I’d been married, divorced, and was long past mooning over fantasies.
I had an apartment in the city and my current (amazing) job, social media marketing coordinator for acclaimed self-help guru Ian Fortune. And I had goals. Lots of goals.
I mean…today I have goals.
Okay. A goal.
And Josh Lewenthal, the man who knows how to make a baby, is integral to my success.
2
It all started two days after Christmas when my mom called to remind me about the annual Wieners and Wine New Year’s Resolution party. She dialed my work phone and instead of checking the caller ID like a normal person, I answered.
“Ian Fortune, Live Your Best Life Starting Now Enterprises, this is Gemma speaking—”
“Gemma, sweetie. It’s Mom.”
Across the office, Lavinia looked up from her computer. I could almost see her ears twitching as she tried to eavesdrop. She was hired six months before me, and for years now she has falsely acted like my supervisor.
Lavinia is forty-five, she has steel-gray hair, and a mouth that looks like she popped a lemon in it fifteen years ago and never took it out. She blames me for all printer jams, sagging office plants, and overflowing recycling bins—none of which are my fault. She also blames me for the office fridge running low on lime-flavored sparkling water, which is my fault. What can I say, I’m an addict.
I shrugged at Lavinia and turned slightly away from her eagle-eyed stare.
“Why hello, Mr. erhm…Berners-Lee.” I pulled a name from my subconscious that seemed vaguely familiar and probably had to do with the internet. “I’m so glad you called. Yes, I do have a moment to speak about SEO.”
I sensed Lavinia tilt her head and run her laser eyes over me.
“Is that snoopy co-worker listening in? Well, sweetie. I was only calling to make sure you are coming to the Wieners and Wine party this year.”
Ah. Of course.
Every year, even though I haven’t missed a single New Year’s day party in my entire life, my mom calls to make sure that I’m coming.
Unfortunately, for the past seven years my mom has also tried to set me up with a different middle-aged, partially balding, pleated pant-wearing single man. This year my brother Dylan warned me that she’s invited a fifty-year-old with a toupee for my dating pleasure.
“I actually can’t come. Something’s happened at wor
Mom is the queen of sniffing out half-truths and lies. “You’ve heard, I’m so sorry, honey. Don’t let it bring you down.”
This wasn’t the response I was expecting. “Heard what?”
I glanced at Lavinia. She was pretending to type, but I could tell she was still listening in. She wore a frown of disapproval. I hunched down in my desk chair and propped the phone against my shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it, honey. We all know Jeremy is a bad apple. Just because he has another baby doesn’t mean he’s happy.”
I let out a startled cough and pulled the phone away from my ear. I hadn’t heard that Jeremy had another baby. That’s three now.
I coughed again and hit my chest. Lavinia started to stand in concern but I waved her off. The last thing I needed was her coming over.
“I’m sure he’s miserable wiping up spit up and changing dirty diapers. Just look at your sister, she has four kids and never gets any sleep. Honestly.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Every time I thought I was over my ex-husband and what he’d done, I was proven wrong. I swung my swivel desk chair around, away from Lavinia’s probing stare, and faced the far wall covered in a mural of Ian’s motivational sayings.
The words melted into an image of Jeremy holding his newborn baby in his arms. An ache spread through my chest so that I couldn’t respond to my mom.
“I’m sure that woman’s breasts are sagging horribly. And I bet she won’t be able to lose the baby weight. Serves her right.” My mom always calls Jeremy’s wife that woman. I don’t blame her. I’ve never been able to say her name either.
After six months of marriage I found them spread eagle, going at it like rabbits on our dining room table. My mom promised that affair relationships never last, but ten years, and apparently three kids later, it seems that I was the interloper, not that woman.
“I’ve invited someone for you to meet at the party,” my mom said. “His name is Mort. He’s got a wonderful career. Makes scads of money. And better yet, he’s mature, only fifty mind you, and he doesn’t want kids. Not a one. He’s perfect for you, Gem.”
“Ah,” I managed to squeak out. Apparently, the fifty-year-old toupee wearer didn’t have plans for children.
Every year it’s the same. I trudge into the Wieners and Wine Party, gorge myself on mini barbecue wieners, lime Jell-O salad mold, and processed cheese balls, wash it all down with boxed wine and try to ignore the assessing stare of my mom’s latest “set-up.”
It’s exhausting.
“Do we have to? Maybe we could…skip a year?”
She didn’t respond. I listened as she walked from the kitchen, down the hall, and closed the door to her craft room. I could hear the wreath of silver bells tinkling as she shut the door. Mom went into her craft room whenever she had something to say that she didn’t want my dad to overhear. He was retired and liked to sit in the kitchen watching gameshow reruns.
“I saw Mimi Butkis last week. I invited her and her son Gregory to the party.”
“I don’t want to date Greg Butkis.”
“That’s the point. Mimi said that…” Her voice got all low and pinched. “Mimi said that it’s known around town that you’re desperate. No one wants to date a mid-thirties chubby divorcee with questionable fashion sense and a bum uterus. Gregory Butkis might not come to the party. Mimi said he’s looking for a wife, not a pity date. I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t want to tell you this, but Mort’s the best you can do.”
What?
“What? Why?” I whispered.
And it sort of seemed like the universe whispered back, because I said so.
And that was the moment.
That moment. Right there.
The exact moment I realized the entirety of my hometown thought I was a dating pariah, with no prospects, no future, and that even Greg Butkis, used car salesman, sleaze extraordinaire, was beyond my reach.
And honestly, when was the last time I had a decent date in the city? It’d been years. Years. My mom was…right.
Last Monday, Ian said, if you can imagine it, you can do it. I posted it with a cute kitten background to all our social media pages. It got nine bazillion likes.
Well, at that moment, when I was on the phone with my mom, I started to imagine a different future for myself.
A future where I didn’t depend on horrible hookups, pity dates, or the questionable roll of the dating dice.
Besides, I already rode the marriage boat, it tipped over, capsized, and I nearly drowned. No. In the future I’m imagining, I see me fulfilled, happy, loved, with…a family.
A baby.
She’s there in my heart, she’s been there so long, like a song that I started singing but was never allowed to finish. I’ve been waiting for her, and in this imagined future, I see her in my arms. I’m singing her our lullaby.
Ever since the surgeon told me I’d never have children I’ve been mourning that future I couldn’t have. I was still married to Jeremy when I found out. He said he didn’t care, didn’t need or want kids. Two weeks later he was mating like a monkey on the dining room table. So, it was a moot point. I never followed up or went to a doctor to see what could be done.
But it’s been ten years. And unlike when I was sixteen and I dreaded what might come after Josh Lewenthal took my virginity…now at thirty-two, I want a family, a baby. Someone to cuddle, to go on bike rides with, to kiss bruised knees, to lie in the grass and look at clouds with, someone to love. I’ve been wanting it for years now.
I’d been waiting to find the right man. But unlike the carefree, I’ve-got-all-the-time-in-the-world dating scenes of my early twenties, or even the post-divorce dating app-fueled manic weekend hookups of my mid-twenties, my thirties have brought…Morts. I’ve seen it all. Men who are married and hiding it, men on their third divorce, men who live in their mom’s basement, men in their fifties having a midlife crisis who want to date a younger woman. All Morts.
I’ve been waiting for a good man to help make my dreams come true.
But, at that moment, I realized my dream doesn’t have to include marriage. Or a man.
Single women have babies all the time. I don’t need a fifty-year-old toupee-wearing man to have a future of happiness. I can make a future of happiness for myself.
Maybe, I can have a family. Maybe I can finish singing that lullaby.
I just need an egg, some sperm, and a doctor to help make the magic happen.
I can control my own destiny.
My mom wasn’t finished talking. “Josh Lewenthal will be at the party,” she said. “Did you know he has his own business? He draws web comics. Isn’t that strange? He’s moved back in with his dad. He’s living in the basement. The poor dear. Coming from a broken home. Be nice to him. You weren’t nice to him last year.”
“Okay, of course, Mr. Berners-Lee. Thanks for calling, I’ll talk to you soon,” I said, attempting to cut my mom short.
My mom sighed. “Bye, sweetie. See you in a few days. Wear something nice.”
I swiveled around and hung up the phone. Lavinia watched me from her desk. Her glasses were perched at the bottom of her nose. “Who was that?”
“Mr. Berners-Lee. About our SEO.” I grabbed my mouse and clicked it haphazardly.
“Mr. Berners-Lee?” she asked, sounding incredulous.
I looked around the office. No one else was paying any attention.
“That’s right,” I said. “He had some pointers.”
“Tim Berners-Lee had some pointers for you?”
