Makin' Bacon Read online

  Riley frowned into her teacup. “This needs a little kick. Or we could skip the tea and go straight to wine. Then we could call it the Cork-and-Screw Book Club.”

  “That’s depressing. The only screw I want is the good kind.”

  Petra’s snort included a tiny spray of tea out her nose. “Ouch! That stings. Not the good screw. I’m pretty sure that would mean I got a UTI or an STD.”

  “Which is TMI.” Wally added several more snacks to her plate. “Hmm. What do you think of The Homegrown Café Book Club? We can call it THC for short.”

  Hysterical giggling filled the dining room, but a sinking feeling threatened to swallow Tate whole. “Oh my God. That’s why Mrs. Crenshaw thought I put pot in my split pea soup! Why didn’t somebody tell me?”

  With tears running down her cheeks, Petra drew a cannabis leaf—or buckeye, depending on the observer—in the apple dip. “Actually, it’s probably good for marketing with all the legalization of recreational marijuana. And everybody’s touting CBD as a miracle cure for whatever ails you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure I want to be known as the weed supplier in town, especially with the baby plans.”

  Riley leaned back in her chair and picked up another spanakopita bite. “Hey, how goes the search for a sperm donor?”

  A smile snuck up on Tate as she filled the tea ball. “I may have found one.”

  “Woo-hoo! Can we see his profile? How old is he? Does he have all his hair?”

  “Well…” She set the timer on her phone for three minutes and dropped the ball into the pot. “He isn’t in the database.” And I have a date with him.

  Petra frowned. “You mean he’s some random guy off the street?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve met him.” Tate willed her brain to filter what came out of her mouth. “He’s in his thirties. Um, tall. Athletic. Has a full head of hair and seems kind and thoughtful. I can get character references before I make a decision.”

  “Sounds like he might be worth dating.” The waggle of Petra’s eyebrows implied a date wasn’t exactly what she had in mind.

  Only once. “Uh-uh. Too young.”

  “How young? Thirty? Thirty-one? You know that’s legal, right? Who cares if he’s younger? More stamina. Less chance of erectile dysfunction. And if he doesn’t care how old you are, why should you care how young he is?”

  Heat crept up Tate’s neck. “Mid-thirties. I have no plans to sleep with him.”

  “Who said anything about sleeping?” Riley stretched her arms above her head and arched her back, with a pop punctuating the motion. “Ah. You know what they say about best laid plans.”

  Leaning her hip against the counter, Wally giggled. “Yep. The best plans usually include getting laid.”

  Another round of boisterous laughter filled the room, and Tate’s thoughts wandered off into the land of sex—and possibly more—with Big Jim Cochon again. At least her friends hadn’t played Guess the Sperm Donor.

  Riley’s penetrating gaze threatened to burn a hole in Tate’s filter, but Petra spoke before Tate could incriminate herself. “A lot of guys come into the butcher shop. What’s his name?”

  No, no, no. Do. Not. Tell. Them. “You do know the process is usually confidential, don’t you? That’s the whole point of going through an IVF clinic with a donation center. The donor doesn’t know who the mother is, the mother doesn’t have actual identifying information about the father—let alone meeting him—and he has no legal claim to the child. No strings to get hung up on. No complications. I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime.”

  Riley drew a tadpole in the dip with a slice of pear. “Then how are you going to get this guy to give you his swimmers? Ask the center to call him? Sneak into his house and clean up with a turkey baster after he jacks off?”

  Wally sucked in her cheeks, barely able to pucker up past her grin. “I can recommend a baster with really good suction and ejection.”

  Wild laughter almost drowned at the chime of the timer, but Tate turned toward the teapot instead of letting her friends see another hot blush bloom across her face and neck. Steam rising from tea ball as she removed it probably added to her redhead’s curse. “I don’t know yet. I’ll think of something. Or find someone else.”

  Petra stabbed half a mac-n-cheese ball and paired it with half a spanakopita bite. “But you said he’s perfect. Why would you—?”

  “I didn’t say he was perfect. I said I might have found someone. That means I have options.”

  “Yes, the option to tell him the truth and see what first-choice donor says. I’m sure you can have Georgie draw up a contract if he agrees. If not, there are plenty of other fishies in the sea.”

  Tea splashed out of the spout at Tate’s attempt to pour. “Tell him? How in the world do you ask someone you barely know to give you some of his sperm?”

  Riley reached around her to aim the pot. “With words. How about…I’ll pay you a thousand dollars, or whatever the going rate is, for one hand job’s worth of your sperm?”

  “Hmm…” Petra held out her cup for a refill. “That sounds an awful lot like solicitation to me. Buying and selling semen on the street is most likely illegal.”

  “Then have Georgie approach him.” Riley’s eyes widened a millisecond later. “Oh, yeah. That would definitely work. You remain anonymous because your lawyer is your representative. What do you think? Brilliant idea, isn’t it?”

  With a shaky hand, Tate set the teapot on the table and made a hasty retreat. “Wally, would you mind taking care of refilling everybody’s cups? I need a trip to the restroom.”

  The steady click-click-click of high heels behind her sent Tate’s heart to her stomach. Only Riley in her trademark stilettos made that sound. “Me too.”

  Should I try to distract her?

  Riley’s tight-jawed frown as Tate held the door open for her nixed the idea. Dealing with her cousin’s scheming was likely distraction enough. Besides, Riley would see through any attempt at deflection.

  Tate willed her bladder to keep her from being a liar, but silence—other than the crinkle of paper from the stall next door—suggested her friend might have had an ulterior motive for tagging along.

  “Fucking perimenopause. If there’s a God, he’s definitely a man, thinking every woman wants a damn uterus. I’m sick to death of bleeding for no reason.”

  “Do you need a tampon? I have some in the bathroom by my office.” Oh, come on, bladder. Cooperate.

  “Thanks, but I have one. Gotta be prepared when your body is revolting against you. At least the cooler weather is canceling out the hot flashes. Mostly.”

  A telltale sound came from the stall next to Tate’s and then the whoosh of the toilet flushing offered cover for her little white lie. She seized the opportunity, waiting until the last gurgle to pull up her leggings and press the handle.

  At the double-sink vanity, Riley applied a fresh coat of stiletto-red lipstick and fluffed her blonde curls while Tate washed and dried her hands.

  Almost there.

  As Tate turned toward the door, her friend hurried around her and blocked her way. “It’s Big Jim, isn’t it? If it isn’t, it should be.”

  The curse struck again, probably far worse than any hot flash Riley had experienced. “What makes you think that?”

  “Red, I can’t be the only one who saw the way he looked at you earlier. All smitten-eyed and besotted. He wanted to carry you off to his itty-bitty pig farm in the sky and protect you from the world. Oh, and make cute little Jimmys and Taters with you.”

  “Do not call me Tater.” A frown and a glare yielded a snicker from Riley. “And no man has ever looked at me ‘all smitten-eyed and besotted.’”

  “Uh-huh. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. He wouldn’t refuse you anything, especially not the chance to make your wish—and his—come true.”

  “But…”

  “Yes, he has a very nice butt. All you have to do is tell him what you want. Ask and you shall receive. I ca
n practically guarantee it.” Riley finally opened the door, leaving Tate to overthink her options as she returned to their book club gathering, especially when she had a date with him in less than forty-eight hours.

  Chapter 4

  “Hey, Jimbo, you in there?”

  Jim grunted through the last repetition on the bench press and then swiped at the sweat running into his eyes as he sat up. “Yeah.”

  The patter of tiny booted feet announced the presence of Beau’s three-year-old before she sprinted across the makeshift gym that occupied the south side of the pole barn closest to the house, leaving Beau in her wake. “Unca Jimbo!”

  “Hey there, Curlicue. Give me a sec to de-slime.” Jim grabbed the hand towel on the end of the bench and rubbed it along the neckline of his muscle shirt and down his arms. “What brings you out to the farm so early? The picnic doesn’t start until five o’clock.”

  “I wike swime. Mommy says it means baf-time. I wike bafs too.” As soon as Jim set aside the towel, the girl climbed onto his lap, her full head of rosy-blonde ringlets still bouncing. “She wanted-ed pieces and quiet, so me and Daddy had to go eat wunch at Aunt Tater’s res-ront.”

  Beau grinned. “Molly kicked us out of the house until three because she has a client report to finish before the party. Corey, remember what I said about calling Aunt Tate the right name?”

  “But, Daddy, you caw her Tater, and so does Unca Rett, Unca Arsh, and Unca Wevi. ’Sides, taters are my fave-rit, just wike Aunt Tater.” The stubborn jut of the girl’s jaw signaled her willingness to argue the point until the end of time, given the opportunity.

  She’s my favorite too, kiddo. Lifting his curly-haired armful as he stood, Jim shared an amused smirk with his best friend. “Want to go visit the piglets while I check on them?”

  Corey wiggled against him, her head bobbing and her legs trying to carry her to the pig barn. “I wuv the piggies!”

  “I know you do. Do you remember the rules? You have to hold your dad’s hand. The mommy and daddy piggies are a lot bigger than you, and they might hurt you by accident if you get too close.”

  “I ’member.”

  “Promise you’ll listen and follow my directions?”

  She flung her miniature arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “I promise, Unca Jimbo.”

  “Okay.” He handed her off to Beau, not even bothering to fight the fantasy of having a little girl of his own with her gorgeous mama’s red hair. At least that dream had a shot at reality now. “I need to put on my work clothes first. Back in a minute.”

  “Hurry!” Her clapping echoed off the partially finished walls.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hiding a laugh behind a cough, Jim crossed to the changing room for his shirt, overalls, and boots.

  Even with a quick-change, his visitors had disappeared from the gym by the time he returned. Following a joyous squeal outside, he found them at the playground he’d built the summer before his first cookout. Back then, he’d had high hopes his own kids would appreciate the clubhouse, swing set, climbing wall, and sandbox by now. His last best chance of marriage and family awaited him at this year’s event.

  “Unca Jimbo, can I see the piggies now?” Corey zipped into the tunnel slide and landed on her bottom in the grass a few seconds later. Then she jumped up and raced toward him, with Beau jogging along behind her. “Is it piggy time?”

  “You bet.” Jim set off at a measured pace, although the girl had no trouble keeping up with him. “What did you have for lunch?”

  “Tater soup and crackers and cheese. And a banana cupcake wif peanut-budder frossing. Daddy cawed it a muffin, but Aunt Tater says itsa cupcake ’cause of the frossing.”

  “Sounds like a cupcake to me.” He shot a grin at her daddy. “You should know better than to call it a muffin if it has frosting, dude. I remember you having that argument with Tate when we were kids. Carrot cupcake with cream cheese frosting, I think it was.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Muffin. Cupcake. Doesn’t matter what you call it as long as it tastes good.” Beau grasped his daughter’s extended hand as they neared the entrance to the farrowing barn. “Hey, speaking of Tate, she told Corey she’s coming to the hog roast.”

  “I invited her when I stopped by the restaurant the other day to see if I could have her food scraps.” Dropping to one knee in front of his honorary niece, Jim put on his serious face and crossed his fingers Beau let the subject drop into a bottomless pit. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, Unca Jimbo!” She bounced in place as she spoke, but then she stilled and raised her finger to her lips. “We haf to be quiet, in case the piggies are taking a nap. And I haf to hold Daddy’s hand the hoe time we’re in the barn.”

  “Good girl. When we’re done visiting, I’ll give you a piggyback ride to the car.”

  She flung her free arm around his neck before he could stand. “I wuv you as much as the piggies.”

  “I love you more than my truck.”

  Her infectious giggle triggered a chain reaction, spreading from her to him to Beau. “You’re siwwy, Unca Jimbo.”

  “So are you, Curlicue. Let’s go.” He led them through the outer office and into the prep area. “What do we do before we visit the farrowing stalls?”

  She scooted the step stool from beside the sink and held the rails as she climbed to the top. “Haf to wash our hands so the piggies don’t get sick.”

  “You’re going to be an excellent pig farmer when you get a little bigger.”

  Beau’s eyebrows rose as he turned on the water. “You plan on putting her on the payroll?”

  Grabbing a towel from the shelf, Jim grinned. “Maybe.”

  “What’s pay-row, Daddy?”

  “A paying job. Nothing you need to be worried about for quite a while.” Beau snagged the towel and helped his daughter dry her hands while he dried his own. “Come on. We need to be home by naptime.”

  “I don’t wike naps.” She hopped down the stepstool, barely sticking the landing, and then pushed it back to its spot beside the sink. “I haf too much to do.”

  “You mean like being grumpy all afternoon while I grade papers? Besides, we need to recharge for the picnic later. You want to be able to play with your cousins, don’t you?”

  Her lips scrunched into a thoughtful pout, but she reached for his hand instead of arguing. “A widdle nap.”

  Jim smothered a laugh and shoulder-bumped his friend. “Precocious little bargainer, isn’t she?”

  “You have no idea.” Beau fell into step behind him, Corey at his side.

  The animated girl gave way to a reserved child who stayed with her dad outside the pens to ooh and ahh over this week’s new piglets, even as Jim checked on the sows and their young. The toddler’s wide eyes and bright smile revealed a subtle resemblance to her favorite aunt, setting off a case of wild butterflies in his stomach.

  When he and his guests finally circled back to the hand-washing room, yawns and sleepy eyelids thankfully distracted his best friend from the usual ability to notice something was bothering Jim. “Think you can hold on while Uncle Jimbo gives you a piggyback ride to the car?”

  Corey nodded, but Jim had his doubts.

  He scooped her off the stepstool, leaving her facing frontward with a forearm supporting her legs and the other across her belly. “How about a kangaroo ride instead?”

  “I wike roos.” She rested her head against his chest, but it almost immediately lolled to the side.

  “Good idea.” Beau led the way out of the building and across the barnyard. As he opened the rear car door, he grinned over his shoulder. “Zonked out. Let me buckle her in and then we need to have a talk.”

  The butterflies morphed into a flock of buzzards. “A talk?”

  “Yep.”

  “About what?”

  “Hold on a sec.” He eased the seatbelt over his daughter’s head and clicked the metal latch into place. After an adjustment to the sliding clip at her chest, he climbed out of the car and closed the door.
The relaxed way he leaned his hip against the rear fender suggested a lengthy—and possibly unpleasant—conversation. Beau crossed his arms in front of him. “You and Tate, huh?”

  “Tate and I what?” Cold sweat crept along Jim’s neck, but a swipe of the bandana from his pocket didn’t relieve the sensation.

  “You asked her to Big Jim’s Annual Hog Roast.”

  “Well, sure. I told her your whole family would be here. I didn’t know if anybody mentioned it to her since nobody bothered to tell me she was the owner of the new café.”

  “And let you miss out on an opportunity to find out for yourself? She said you’re picking her up.” Beau’s unwavering stare drilled an extra hole in Jim’s head. “Like for a date?”

  Shit. “Is that a problem? Because our friendship is more—”

  “Of course it isn’t a problem. You’re one of the few guys I know who’s actually good enough for her.” A smirk replaced the unreadable mask on his friend’s face. “Besides, you’ve been in love with her since we were five.”

  “Have not.”

  “Have too, Jimbo. Cut the bullshit. I’ve watched you watch her from a distance forever.”

  “So I had a crush on her when I was a kid. That’s not the same as being in love with her.”

  “Don’t give me that denial crap. You haven’t had a date in…what? Three years?” Beau tossed his keys in the air and caught them without breaking his penetrating stare. “Since about the time I told you she was divorcing the weasel. I’m guessing it’s more than just a coincidence.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  A hoot of laughter sent a flock of starlings into flight from the nearby maple. “Buddy, you’re making excuses. Just tell her how you feel about her.”

  The buzzards in Jim’s gut circled over his dying bravery. “I can’t tell her I love her! It’s our first date.”

  “See? I know you better than you know yourself. This is why we decided not to tell you about the restaurant. You would’ve overthought talking to her and chickened out the first time you saw her.” Stepping closer, Beau landed a halfhearted punch on Jim’s bicep. “At least hold her hand and kiss her good night.”