Plan B (Best Laid Plans #2)

Plan B (Best Laid Plans #2)

Jana Aston



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.



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.


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?


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.


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 to speak to the guy in charge. Hell, you can't even call a small company and ask to speak to, well, anyone. I thought about using the 'contact us' box on the store website because none of the other categories applied to me. No, I don't have a problem with an order. No, I don't have a question about a warranty. And no, I don't need help processing a return.

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.



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.

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