Page 14 of Nine Month Contract
I eye the other patrons scattered around me. They’re drinking in small groups, and the acoustic guitar player performing in the corner tonight is pretty loud, so hopefully, no one will be able to eavesdrop.
I wonder what this gal I’m about to meet will think of this place. The Mercantile is dark and dilapidated in that perfect dive bar way. It’s an old three-story building with the lower half all belonging to the bar. Judy lives upstairs, and I think there’s one other vacant apartment on the third level.
She’s got some rustic charm here, with the walls covered in wainscoting and mismatched tables and chairs scattered throughout. The artwork is all old pictures from the ’50s that match the retro tassel chandeliers that hang in random spots. I have to duck to avoid knocking my head into them. Plus, there’s a cabinet chock-full of old vinyl records that Judy has to yell at people not to touch when they’ve been drinking too much.
Out front, some Edison lights hang over the small patio area, where a lot of road bicyclists stop to refuel themselves in the summer. And in the back is a beer garden with picnic tables and a gazebo that gets pretty busy in the summer. We don’t get tourists through here much. It’s usually just neighboring townspeople looking for a changeof scenery or the 4-wheeler crowd out here to enjoy the unpaved mining roads. Frankly, Jamestown is like this perfect uncut gem of a community that I’m happy to call home…even if they all love to gossip.
If this potential surrogate isn’t at least marginally impressed by the splendors of this place, then she’s not fit to carry my baby, just like all the others I’ve met.
The bell chiming above the door has me glancing over to see a woman walking in, looking flustered and out of sorts. I don’t know for sure that it’s my girl, but every head turning to gape at the outsider makes it pretty fucking likely that it is.
Her face is covered by her hair as she digs inside the large tote bag hanging from her shoulder. I use this moment to take a physical assessment of unlucky number thirteen.
The setting sun slices through her long, curly chestnut hair. The frizzy, wild strands are kind of a perfect match to the frenzied energy she just brought into the bar as she continues to curse under her breath and struggle with something in her bag.
She’s a decent height…maybe five foot ten or better—hard to tell if those cowboy boots she has on are heeled or not. I have to admit that the fact that she’s wearing boots is intriguing on its own. None of the other ladies I interviewed looked like this one. They looked like women dressed for a job interview, so at the very least, I like that this one is different. Even down to her body, which…well, I wouldn’t call her small, but I wouldn’t call her big either. She’s sturdy.
I like sturdy.
Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with me? You’d think I’m picking out a prized heifer at the Boulder County Fair. I’ve been on this surrogacy hunt way too fucking long. My brain is short-circuiting. If this woman is to carry my child, I shouldnotbe looking at her like I want to ride her.
I shake off my inappropriate thoughts and force myself to stop gawking and get up to say hello, my knees cracking as I rise. My boots are heavy on the scuffed wood floor as I approach. “Are you Trista?”
“Yes,” she chirps, her head snapping up like she’s been caught texting in class.
When our eyes connect, a rush of adrenaline surges through me—through my gut, specifically. I swallow the lump in my throat and reach my hand out to her. “Wyatt.”
Her hand is currently tucked deep inside her bag, so she offers me her opposite hand, making for a very awkward handshake. She rustles around with something that sounds like a wrapper in her bag and winces.
When we disconnect, her round eyes venture unabashedly down my body, her lips parting as she takes in my frame. The bag drops off her shoulder, and I hear a strange yip come from her before she begins coughing violently and whacking her chest.
“Excuse me,” she says, her voice gruff from the cough attack as she points at her throat and repositions the bag back on her shoulder. “I sucked some spit into the back of my throat, and it went down the wrong pipe.”
My brows furrow as I gesture to my table over by the stone fireplace. “Can I get you a drink?”
“A drink would be great,” she replies desperately, and I watch as she storms past me to the spot, carefully tucking her bag alongside the chair like she’s carrying a million dollars in cash.
I hesitantly take the seat across from her and gesture to Judy, who comes over in a hurry, likely sensing the awkwardness.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” she says, pointing at my beer with a wink. “Not knocked up yet, right?”
“Coming right up.” Judy shoots me a curious look and takes off for the bar.That’ll get the rumors flying.
Still distracted by her bag, I decide to take the lead on this meeting…which I fucking hate. The beauty of the agency was that they managed all these meet and greets.
“I hear you met my niece,” I offer stiffly.
Trista laughs at that and finally gives me her full attention. Her smile is actually pretty captivating. Her upper lip curls at the top in an interesting way. “Yes, I certainly did.”
“Hopefully, she wasn’t a total pain in the ass,” I state with a sigh, leaning back in my chair. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about allthis. She was very persistent about helping me, and I’m not good at saying no to her. Ever.”
“There’s no need to be sorry.” Trista’s brows knit together as her eyes sweep across my face in a way that feels disarming. “She seems like a sweet kid. And she didn’t force me to come here. I’m interested in the potential behind this arrangement.”
“That’s…good,” I reply stiffly, my hands finding my beard out of nervous habit. This is so much more awkward not having a moderator.
“I heard you’ve interviewed a lot of candidates,” Trista offers, drumming her long fingers softly on the beat-up wood table.
“Yeah, I’m afraid so,” I reply with a huff. “And they always seem to feel like…”
