Page 3 of Dating the Billionaire

My heart is happy, full, as I forget about whatever to-dos were awaiting me, and get into my own bed.

The prospect of dating again has me thinking more about the women I’ve loved. Meredith. My own mother.

Bode’s bio mom.

Yes, even though I never met her, I have a deep, deep love for the woman who shares genetics with my boy. Whogavethose genetics to us. There is this voiceless, faceless, nameless bond I can’t quite rationalize or describe. It transcends logic. If we met in heaven or some other life someday, I’d swear that my soul would recognize her soul.

Meredith and I tried forever it seemed to have a baby. It wasn’t happening. We inquired about a donor. We chose who we chose based only on basic information they handed to us in a manila folder—her height, ethnicity, college education, nothing too meaningful, not even her name.

Basic information—and afeeling.

I’ve always been curious about the woman who gave us this gift. Always wished I could thank her.Impossible. It was all anonymous. Who she was. Who we were. I understandwhyshe might want to remain anonymous. I’m not sure she had a choice in that matter, anyhow. The clinic had only built one-way streets of information. Kept things simpler, that way.

Although—they did tell us they would send the donor a photo of her baby along with a thank-you note so generic I’d almost wished they’d have left it out.

Funny thing about being a parent, you look forward to your breaks from your children—honest to God, wealldo—and the second you have that break…all you can think about are your children.

So the next day, I attend the event. There are plenty of beautiful women here. Plenty of conversation to have. Yet my thoughts keep circling back to Bode. Worrying about him. Wondering about him. The usual.

And then—thereshe is. Sliding into the newly vacated seat opposite me. She has the most familiar face. Blonde hair. Those…eyes.

“Hi. I’m Danielle.”

“Stephen.”

“Hi,” she says again, shyly. A blush reaches up her cheeks and she ducks her head. “Um…sorry. I’m not very good at this.”

Is she kidding me?

I’m already blown away.

There’s a questionnaire between us with suggested conversation starters. I’ve referred to it now and again. But notnow. Why I’ve needed to defer to that list with some of these women, and not others, I can’t explain. But when you only have five minutes, it helps to have it.

Four minutes.

Three.

Time with Danielle has sped up in the most discomfiting kind of way. Tick, tick, goes the silence. Maybe she’s feeling drained from this…event…which feels more like marathon dating than speed dating.

My problem is I was tired before.

I’m not now.

My problem is, I can only think ofonequestion to ask Danielle…

And it isn’t going to be on our list.

Two

Danielle

I never thought I’d be caught dead at a speed dating event.

Idefinitelynever thought I’d be caught dead at a speed dating event…with mydad.

He’s hell bent on us both “getting back out there, having fun, meeting new people!”

Correction—he’s hell bent onmegetting back out there, et cetera, et cetera.

---