Chicago, September
The final night of the conference had devolved into exactly the kind of elegant chaos Simone usually avoided: dimmed chandeliers in the ballroom, half-finished apple martinis glowing like radioactive limes on every high-top, and a jazz quartet playing something sultry enough to make even the most buttoned-up executives sway. She and Marco had claimed a quiet corner after the formal remarks, their conversation loosening with every tart, vodka-laced sip. Four martinis? Five? The count had blurred somewhere between debating room service ethics and trading increasingly personal travel disasters.
Simone’s sleek black dress shimmered under the low lights as she leaned against the table, cheeks warm, inhibitions nicely pickled. Marco looked unfairly composed in his charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, long black locs still perfectly knotted. His hazel-green eyes had gone darker, heavier, fixed on her with an intensity that made the room feel smaller.
She took another sip, the apple bite sharp on her tongue, and the words tumbled out before her carefully curated filter could stop them.
“I’m doing it soon, you know,” she said, voice lower than intended. “The baby thing. Single motherhood by choice. Donor. Spreadsheets. The whole modern plan. Once I’m back in New Mexico wrapping the final details, then home to Miami. No more waiting for the right partner who never shows up.”
Marco paused mid-sip, glass hovering. She braced for shock, for awkward laughter, for the polite retreat of a man who’d just spent hours flirting with a woman who’d just announced her uterus had an exit strategy. But it didn’t come.
Instead, he set his drink down slowly, understanding settling over his features like he’d just solved a puzzle he’d already half-assembled. “Of course you are,” he said, voice rough around the edges from the drinks and something deeper. “That’s exactly who you are, Simone. You plan. You execute. You don’t wait for the universe to catch up when it’s dragging its feet. It’s… very you.”
Relief mixed with the buzz in her veins. She laughed softly, a little unsteady. “Most men hear that and suddenly remember an urgent email.”
“I’m not most men.” His hazel-green eyes held hers, something shifting behind them — warm and certain and slightly reckless. He stepped closer, crowding her space against the high-top without quite touching. “And the thought of some anonymous donor… some stranger who’ll never know what he missed?” His voice dropped. “I can’t fathom it. I won’t.”
Simone’s breath caught. “Marco…”
He leaned in, one hand bracing on the table beside her hip, his muscular frame radiating heat. The sandalwood and rum scent of him wrapped around her like a promise. “Let me be the one, Simone. No paperwork. No vials. Just us. I want to give you everything you’re planning for — the right way. My way.”
The words landed like something far stronger than apple martini. Raw. Direct. Delivered with a quiet certainty that made her knees feel suspiciously unreliable. Her pulse hammered, equal parts shock and liquid heat.
“What?” she breathed, staring up at him. “Are you serious right now?”
“Dead serious.” His free hand came up, thumb brushing her lower lip with deliberate slowness. “You want a baby. You want control. I get it. But I’m standing here telling you I want to give it to you. Messy. Real. No spreadsheet required.”
The ballroom spun gently around them — laughter, music, clinking glasses — but it all faded to background noise. Simone’s mind, usually so spreadsheet-sharp, short-circuited somewhere between this is insane and God, yes. The drinks had stripped away the pretense. All that was left was the pull that had started onstage and refused to let go.
She grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers with sudden decision. “My room. Now. Before I sober up and remember all the reasons this is complicated.”
Marco’s grin was slow, wicked, and entirely victorious. He let her lead him through the thinning crowd, his palm warm and firm against hers, thumb stroking the inside of her wrist like he’d done during their first handshake. The elevator ride was torture — silent except for their breathing, his body close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him. When the doors opened on her floor, she fumbled the keycard once, laughing at her own eagerness.
The second the hotel room door clicked shut behind them, Marco had her against it. His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that tasted like green apple and bad decisions done right — deep, hungry, years of restrained professionalism colliding in one heated rush. His hands slid down her sides, gripping her hips and pulling her flush against him.
“Tell me again,” he murmured against her lips. “Tell me no other man gets to do this.”
“No one else,” she gasped, fingers threading through his locs, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Just… God, Marco.”
He walked her backward toward the bed, shedding her black dress with efficient reverence, lips trailing fire down her neck and across her collarbone. The fabric pooled at her feet. Marco’s shirt followed, revealing the muscular chest and toned abdomen she’d only glimpsed through tailored fabric. He was magnificent — strong and purposeful, every inch the man who’d argued against her with such conviction and now wanted to rewrite her entire plan.
What followed was equal parts surrender and reclamation. His hands knew exactly where to find the edges of her composure and pull them apart. She gave as good as she got — nails, breath, his name in her mouth like a dare. The hotel room contracted to just the two of them, the low sounds of the city outside, and the particular electricity of two people who’d been circling each other for three days finally closing the distance.
When he finally stilled, they collapsed together, sweat-slick and breathing hard, his body curled protectively around hers. Marco pressed lazy kisses along her shoulder, his hand drifting down to rest with quiet possession over her stomach.
“Still think a donor spreadsheet makes more sense?” he murmured, voice laced with spent satisfaction and that signature wit.
Simone laughed despite herself, turning in his arms to face him. “Ask me again when the apple martinis wear off. Right now I’m having trouble remembering my own name, let alone my five-year plan.”
He kissed her then — slow, deep, and surprisingly tender for a man who’d just argued his case so thoroughly. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done negotiating tonight.”
The conference might be ending, but whatever this was between them had just begun. As Simone drifted toward sleep wrapped in his arms, the universe leaned in close — deeply amused at how spectacularly her single-mother plan had just been upended.