Plan b a sexy marriage o.., p.1
Plan B: A Sexy Marriage of Convenience Romcom (Best Laid Plans Book 2), page 1
Plan B
Jana Aston
Copyright © 2019 by Jana Aston
ebook ISBN 9780998244464
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.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Edited by RJ Locksley
Cover Photo by Lauren Watson Perry
Created with Vellum
Contents
1. Daisy
2. Daisy
3. Daisy
4. Daisy
5. Daisy
6. Kyle
7. Daisy
8. Kyle
9. Daisy
10. Daisy
11. Daisy
12. Daisy
13. Daisy
14. Daisy
15. Kyle
16. Daisy
17. Daisy
18. Daisy
19. Kyle
20. Daisy
21. Daisy
22. Daisy
23. Daisy
24. Daisy
25. Kyle
26. Daisy
Epilogue
Also by Jana Aston
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
Daisy
The first time I saw Kyle Kingston I knew he was a mistake. A fun mistake, but a mistake all the same. I didn't know who he was, or even what his name was. I didn't know he'd manage to break my heart in less than a day. Or that he'd steal from me like a common pickpocket with overdue rent.
I didn't know he'd alter the entire course of my life, but I knew he wasn't a good idea.
I take solace in that, because it means my instincts are good. My habit of sleeping with jerks needs work, but at least I know they’re jerks. It's something, at least.
I was in the midst of a penis cleanse when I met him because when you're a fun girl men seem to think you don't care about commitment. They seem to think that just because you're not prone to tears and dramatics and ultimatums they can get away with the bare minimum of caring.
I was sick of being treated like shit. Tired of guys who forgot to call or who didn't pay attention when I talked. Guys who wanted to show me off in front of their friends on New Year’s Eve but couldn't seem to recall I existed by the time Valentine's Day rolled around. Guys who couldn't remember how I liked my coffee in the morning, or what flavors of ice cream I liked. Things that take almost no effort to recall if you care even an iota about the person you're sleeping with. At twenty-six I was too old for it.
By your mid-twenties you have to make choices about the kind of guys you date or before you know it you'll wake up married to a jerk and spend the rest of your life complaining about a husband who would rather play softball than help with the kids. Or one who runs you into financial ruin pursuing his lifelong dream of being in a band. Or one who can't keep a job because he's too misunderstood for corporate America.
No, thank you.
So I'd gone on a dick diet. I'd decided on six months. I have no idea why I chose six months—it simply seemed like an appropriate length of time to take a sabbatical. I was four months into it when I met Kyle.
Don't do it, I told myself. Do not do it. You can live the rest of your life without knowing what that man is like in bed. Walk away. Because I knew—before I even knew his name—I knew he wasn't hiatus-breaking-worthy.
Hiatus-breaking-worthy would be someone I could have a future with.
He was gateway dick.
One hit on his cock and I'd be back to jerks who forgot when my birthday was when I was trying to transition to the type of men who contributed to their retirement plans and had a burning desire to ask about my day.
In any case, one look at Kyle and I knew my four-month dick hiatus was shot to hell.
2
Daisy
Shot to hell, along with any plans I had for the immediate future—because he knocked me up.
Motherhood wasn't really in my short-term plans, but it's fine because I'm an adaptable girl. I've always been able to do anything I set my mind to and this won't be any different. It won't. Besides, I always imagined I'd have kids. Not this second, not like this. But of course I'd have them.
Someday.
It turns out someday is arriving in seven months.
Single woman to single mom. I've got this. I'll have to quit my job and buy expandable pants but I'm on top of it.
But first things first. I have to tell the guy who knocked me up that he knocked me up.
And that guy is impossible to get hold of.
Can you imagine?
I know who he is, I know his name, but I have no way to reach him.
Not to imply that I don't normally know the names of the men I sleep with. I do, I always do. I'm not that much of a slut—no offense to those girls, obviously. To each their own and all that, but I can count the number of one-night stands I've had on one hand—and that includes college, which everyone knows shouldn't even count.
I'm not helping my case any, am I?
Anyway, I'll tell Kyle. He deserves to know even though this is my problem, not his. Well, it's sort of his problem too, but let's face it—it's always the woman's problem. But he still deserves to know, I guess. No, he definitely deserves to know.
I don't want anything from him, not a thing. I can and will do this without him—but it's only fair he knows. Even if he is a first-class jerk and possible idiot. Even if it's totally unfair that he knocked me up. I take responsibility for breaking my dick diet, but the condom malfunction is on him.
So I'll tell him, because it's the courteous thing to do, like recycling. God, I can't stand people who don't recycle. Especially when the bin is right there, you know? You know those people? It's the worst kind of selfishness, to toss something into a landfill for eternity when you could simply toss it into the recycle bin located right next to the trash and it'll be repurposed into printer paper or a pair of millennial-approved sneakers. Also, recycling is crazy sexy, don't you think? I just read a book where the hero tossed an empty water bottle into a recycle bin and I almost came.
True story.
Anyway, the point is, I recycle—and when someone knocks me up, I tell him. Even though he fucked up his job with the condom. It's just like a man to fuck up the job with long-term consequences while excelling at the one providing instant gratification, isn't it?
Ugh.
I'm not mad, not really. It takes two to tango and all that. I should have brought my own condoms. Or picked a guy smart enough to use them properly. Did it break? Was it old? Google tells me condoms are ninety-eight percent effective in theory, but that in practice horny men are idiots and on average about fifteen out of one hundred people using nothing but condoms will get pregnant.
Yay me.
Okay, I'm a little mad. I'm peeing on sticks and asking how much caffeine is in a chai tea latte. Meanwhile he's living his life and drinking all the caffeine he wants.
It doesn't change the fact that someday this baby is going to ask about their father and I'll need to have answers. Not how was I conceived answers, Lord help me, but who's my daddy answers. I can provide my son or daughter at least that much since I've already fucked up their two-parent, white-picket-fence childhood. It's my responsibility, this baby, but someday, if and when this child wants to meet their father, I'll need to facilitate that meeting.
In order to facilitate that someday meeting I'll need to be able to get in touch with him. I know, you'd think that would be the easy part, reaching him. You'd think the hard part would be spitting out the words, 'Hey, remember me? I'm pregnant.' I'm not saying that part will be easy, but it'll be easier than reaching him has been.
It turns out my one-night stand is the heir to an American chain of department stores founded on family values and low prices. I've got a secret for you. There's nothing 'family values' about Kyle Kingston. By which I mean he's a dirty bastard. Deliciously dirty. I suppose that's why they keep him off the promotional materials for KINGS. Their ads are nothing but families and retired couples smiling at each other over the low prices of canned green beans and paper towels. I suppose an advertising campaign featuring Kyle with a value pack of condoms isn't the market they're after.
The problem is, guys like that don't have a Facebook account. Or Twitter. No Instagram or Pinterest or even a personal website. There's no way to reach a guy like that.
Must be convenient for ditching the casual hook-ups.
Just like he ditched me.
Asshole.
Do you have any idea how aggravating it is to be unable to reach someone? It's the twenty-first century. I know who he is, where he works and the city he lives in, yet I can't reach him. It's infuriating. It's ten times worse than when a friend accidentally puts their phone on silent and you're forced to wait hours for them to realize and notice your text messages.
I tried calling the corporate office—that got me nowhere. Which should come as a shock to no one, but you can't just call a major corporation and ask
Oddly, ‘your CEO knocked me up’ was not an option on the website. After ten minutes of frustration I exited the contact us screen and placed an order for pre-natal vitamins instead. And a tote bag made out of recycled water bottles. I wanted to hold a grudge but they really do have great prices.
It's time for Plan B.
3
Daisy
Remember that movie about the two guys who crashed weddings in order to pick up women without having to pay for drinks or dinner?
This isn't that.
This is a pregnant girl crashing a retirement gala so she can get a moment to notify her baby daddy.
I wouldn't normally stoop to such a level, crashing a retirement party of all things, but I'm desperate. Besides, it's not like I'm staying for dinner. I'm just gonna slip in and out. No one but Kyle will even know I was there. I probably won't even have an appetizer, unless a waiter walks past with a tray of pickles or something and I can't resist. Just kidding, I don't have a cliché pregnancy pickle craving. It's more of a cliché craving for everything that isn't a pickle.
Anyway, that's my plan.
If he's there.
I think the chances are good that he'll be there because his grandfather is the guest of honor at this shindig and my internet sleuthing tells me that Kyle just took over as CEO of the family company.
Family company as in KINGS, the largest retail chain in America.
Recently promoted, as in the week after he knocked me up.
His promotion to head of the company is the only reason I know who he is and where to find him. I got his name that weekend, but it didn't mean anything to me. Why would it? He was just a guy I'd met while passing through Philly, and his last name was Kingston, while the retail chain was called KINGS.
When I realized I was pregnant I Googled him, hoping it'd lead me to a Facebook profile with his picture so I could send a quick message and be done with it. Done with him. Instead the first search result was a story in the New York Times accompanied by the KINGS logo and a professional business photo of Kyle. The accompanying article announced the retirement of Kyle's grandfather, company founder William Kingston, and named Kyle as the new CEO of Kingston Enterprises.
Kingston Enterprises, which owns all six thousand KINGS locations in the United States. Locations ranging in size from corner convenience marts to supercenters and warehouse clubs. The penny finally dropped and I understood two things. Firstly, Kyle Kingston was the heir to a retail empire bearing his name. And secondly, he was going to be impossible to get hold of.
Then in a stroke of good luck or serendipity or cosmic intervention, I was invited to a conference taking place next week in Philadelphia. I figured two birds, one stone. Am I right? I could attend the conference and while I was in town, find Kyle. So I poked around the internet a bit, figuring maybe I'd get a second stroke of luck and find a home address for him. Camp out on his doorstep until he showed up, whatever it took. I know stalking isn't nice, but desperate times, desperate measures.
Besides which, who hasn't stalked? Everyone does it in one form or another. Looked through their boyfriend’s stuff. Listened in on a stranger’s conversation in public. And everyone with access to the internet has looked up something that's none of their business a time or five hundred. Totally normal.
So I looked. And looked and looked. Turns out my stalking skills are shit because I couldn't find anything on him other than the mention of a sister named Kerrigan. Matching K names are the only thing they have in common with the Kardashians because the Kingstons keep their lives private. I couldn't find a single social media account for the sister either. I'd been hoping to reverse-stalk him through her, but no such luck. Their parents are deceased, having passed away in a plane crash five years ago. There were a few old articles about that, but otherwise not much to go on. Until I ran across a mention of a retirement gala for William Kingston. Kyle was bound to be there, right? How could he not be, when he'd just taken over as head of the company his grandfather founded and was retiring from? Crashing this party was my best shot at speaking to him in person.
I'll admit flying to another state for the purpose of crashing an event in order to speak to someone is a bit creepy, and possibly a federal offense. That's how federal offenses work, right? Once you cross state lines to commit a crime it becomes a federal crime? Never mind, it doesn't matter. The hormones are making me dramatic. I'm not committing a crime, I'm simply exhausting every possible option in order to let Kyle know he accidentally left his sperm behind during our weekend tryst.
Fine. I'm clearly not quite over that, but I'm adjusting, I swear I am.
Besides, I've got the conference to attend so it's not like I've flown to Philly only to stalk someone. I've been wanting to attend this particular conference for a couple of years but have never managed to make it work with my schedule. Then two weeks ago they contacted me with an invitation to present at the conference, which is a huge deal. They're comping my room and the conference fees, plus it's a great opportunity for me to network.
So I pawned off my day job on my twin sister and headed to Philadelphia a few days early, intent on finding Kyle and getting that bit of unpleasantness over with.
I try not to groan as I make my way through the airport in Philadelphia. I've just gotten off a flight from Chicago and I'm jittery like a toddler on a sugar high because I've been cooped up and I'm nervous. This is it. The gala is tonight and if I can't locate Kyle then I'm out of ideas for getting in contact with him directly. The only option I'll have left will be to hire a lawyer to have him served with paperwork. I guess? Is that even possible? I don't want anything from him so maybe I can't hire a lawyer to be my personal message courier. I don't want his time and I don't expect him to help me change diapers. I just want to do the right thing by telling him and then move on. Maybe get his phone number in case this baby wants to call his or her father someday.
Why is doing the right thing so complicated? It's unfair really, on so many levels. But I'll do anything to keep this civilized, for the baby. Someday I'll need to be able to spin a suitable fairy-lie about where he or she came from. I've already decided on something like "we weren't a good fit for each other, but we got you and that's all that matters."
I sigh again and switch to tapping my right foot. That story sounds lame even to me, but I've got time to work on it. By the time this kid has questions a few years will have passed and the details won't matter as much. It'll be so far in the past that they won't need to know that "not a good fit" really means "one-night stand," because "Daddy's got a killer smile and abs for days."
By the time this kid cares enough to ask it'll be such old news that the facts can be fudged a little. And hopefully Kyle will have gained forty pounds and lost his hair.
Fine, that was petty. He'll probably only have gotten hotter as he ages in that way that men do and I'll be happy for him in the way that nice people are.
Unless I have to bring a lawyer into this. Any story involving a lawyer is hard to spin into something romantic. Besides which, I can't even imagine how much that would cost and what a production it would turn into. I'm not interested in a production. I'm not a big production kind of girl.
I wonder if he remembers my name? Did I even give him my last name? I don't think I did. I imagine his legal council covering this with him in a weekly meeting and want to die. "One last item on the agenda, Mr. Kingston. A Miss Daisy Hayden would like to notify you that you're going to be a father. She's requesting that you take a refresher course on condom usage and also that you return her camera." Would that ring a bell? Or does he steal from all his one-night stands? Weirdo.
