Chapter One

Present Day.

“Uterine malformation,” I repeated numbly, staring back at Doctor Bjorn.

I felt ridiculous. In my tight red leather pencil skirt and cropped white shirt, one leg flung over the other, my high-heeled Prada sandals dangling from my toes. Everything about me screamed woman. Everything other than the fact that, apparently, I couldn’t have children.

“That’s what the ultrasound indicated.” My OB-GYN gave me a sympathetic look, somewhere between a flinch and a grimace. “We ordered the MRI to confirm the diagnosis.”

It was peculiar that the thing I thought about in that moment wasn’t the implication of my condition, but rather how profoundly and oddly hairy Doctor Bjorn was.

Like a Teacup Pomeranian, though not half as cute, he appeared to be in his early sixties, salt and pepper hair covering most of him. From his bushy eyebrows and wild mane to the fluffy tufts on his fingers. His chest hair curled out of his green scrubs, like he was hiding a chia pet.

“Explain to me what it means again. Uterine malformation.” I cupped my knee, sending him a lip-glossed smile.

He shifted in his seat, clearing his throat.

“Well, your diagnosis is uterine septum, the most common form of uterine malformation. This is actually good news. We’re familiar with it and can treat it in various ways. Your uterus is partially divided by a muscle wall, which puts you at a risk of infertility, repeated miscarriages, and premature birth. You can see it right here.”

He pointed at the ultrasound photo between us. I wasn’t in the mood to make direct eye contact with my failure of a uterus, but I looked anyway.

“Infertility?” I wasn’t in the habit of parroting people’s words, but … what the shit? Infertility! I was barely thirty. I had at least five more years to make gorgeous, memorable mistakes with random men before I needed to think about having babies.

“Correct.” Doctor Bjorn nodded, still mesmerized by my lack of emotion. Didn’t he know I had none? “Paired with your PCOS, it could be an issue. I am happy to discuss the next steps with you—”

“Wait.” I raised a hand, waving my red-tipped French manicure back and forth. “Go back to that abbreviation. PC-what?”

“PCOS. Polycystic ovary syndrome. It says in your file that you were diagnosed at fifteen.”

Right.Things were a bit hazy when I got to the hospital that time.

“I’m guessing it’s not good either,” I deadpanned.

He swiped a thumb on his phone—to me it was a low point in my life, but to him it was just another Wednesday. “It could cause more infertility issues.”

Great. My womb gave Monica from Friends a run for her money. I wanted to pick a fight. I turned my wrath toward Doctor Bjorn.

“What does it even mean?” I huffed. “Isn’t uterine malformation an issue that develops over the course of a pregnancy?”

With another apologetic smile, Doctor Bjorn turned to the screen in front of him and frowned, his bushy eyebrows high-fiving one another. He clicked his mouse to scroll through my medical history. Stupid mouse with stupid-sounding clicks.

“It does say here that you had a spontaneous abortion at the age of fifteen.”

A spontaneous abortion.

Like I decided to go to coffee with a friend.

Doctor Bjorn looked so embarrassed that I was surprised he didn’t dig a hole in the carpet and disappear to the bottom floor. His eyes asked me if it was true. His mouth did not. He knew the answer.

“Oops.” I smiled grimly. “That’s right. Must’ve forgotten. It was a busy year.”

Doctor Bjorn stroked his furry arm. “Look, I know this is overwhelming—”

I let out a throaty laugh. “Please, doc. Spare me the we’re-here-for-you leaflet speech and let’s get down to business. What are my options?”

“You have plenty of options!” he announced, perking up. This, he could work with. Solutions. Facts. Science. “There are ways to ensure your future parenthood. If you are interested in becoming a mother, of course.”

I was tempted to say no, I wasn’t about the changing diapers or waxing poetic about stick figure drawings life. That motherhood was a force of disempowerment for women in a highly patriarchal society. To some extent, I even believed this post-feminist ideology. After all, I was a self-employed business owner whose life ambition was to piss people off. I would smash a pickle jar on the floor and eat it, glass and all, before I’d ask a man to open it for me.

But I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth.

The truth was, I did want to become a mother. With every fiber of my being.

It wasn’t sophisticated or ambitious or noteworthy, but it was true. Which was why a few weeks ago, I had paid my first visit to Doctor Bjorn to ensure my reproductive system was in pristine order and ready to go, whenever I decided to go for it. Needless to say, it wasn’t.

“Yeah.” I shrugged noncommittally. “I am, I guess.”

Doctor Bjorn cocked his head and frowned. He tried to decipher why, exactly, I was behaving this way. Like he was trying to sell me solar panels and I was blowing him off. Was I not an environmentalist?

“In that case, the first stage is to freeze your eggs.”

I shot him a sweet, impatient smile.

“Are you planning to carry your future children to term?” he asked.

“Can I evacuate them during the second trimester?” I yawned, checking my nails. “Don’t babies need to be fully cooked?”

“What I mean is, your age should be one of your considerations. Each passing year, the risk of a miscarriage or a premature birth rises.”

“What are you saying, exactly?” I pressed.

“You may want to consider surrogacy if you plan to have children later in life. Ideally, and considering the complications, if you’re ready, you should try to get pregnant right away. But ultimately, I don’t want you to feel rushed.”

A little too late for that, boo. I went from having five years to being tossed onto the highway of motherhood the minute he said that. Because, again—what the shit? This wasn’t my life. I was supposed to wait until thirty-five, choose a hunky sperm donor—I was even going to splurge and get the really expensive membership to the sperm bank so I could see pictures of these potential men—then pop out a couple kids and create my own mini family.

“Next month seems like a good time to get pregnant,” I heard myself say. “Let me see if I can move my waxing appointment.”

“Miss Penrose,” Doctor Bjorn chided, standing up to pour me a glass of water. He handed it to me. I gulped it in one go. “I know it’s not the news you wanted to hear. You don’t have to be brave here. It is okay to be upset.”

This, of course, was untrue. Breaking down was a privilege other people had. I was programmed to be fearless. Life threw curveballs at me left and right. I’d glided past them like a cartoon character with a smile on my face.

I picked up my Chanel tote from the floor. “If I need to get pregnant this year, I will. No man? No problem. I’ll get a sperm donor. I hear they’re tall, smart, and good with numbers. What more can you ask for in a baby daddy?” I let out a metallic laugh, standing up. The OB-GYN remained seated, still staring at me in complete shock.

Yeah, I know. I’m heartless. Emotionless. And, as of five minutes ago, clinically womb-less too.

“Don’t you want to think about it?” he asked.

“There’s nothing to think about. Time’s working against me. I’ll get a sperm donor and get it done.”

I also didn’t have the kind of money it took to use a surrogate. Plus, becoming pregnant was a part of the deal. In the past few years, I’d watched my friends and sister popping out kids like they were PEZ dispensers. Sporting round, beautiful bellies and eccentric cravings and giddy smiles as they mulled over the eternal question: pastel paint or wallpaper for the nurseries?

I wanted all those things.

Every single one of their mundane, trivial experiences.

Other than one.

The husband.

Getting married wasn’t in my plans.

Men were volatile, untrustworthy, and above all … a danger to me.

“Well, in that case …” Doctor Bjorn reached his hand out for me to shake. “I’m prescribing you with 50 milligrams of Clomiphene. You should take it starting the second day of your menstrual cycle the month you intend to get pregnant. Five pills, one for every day, for five days. To be taken at the same hour. Stay hydrated and watch your cycle. Ovulation tests are going to be your new best friend. When you find your perfect donor, let me know. I want to read through their medical history to see if they’re fit for you.”

“Wonderful!” I turned around, swaggering my way out of the room, bolting before he managed to sneak in another grave diagnosis about my body.

I waved the receptionist goodbye and got out of the building without any memory of doing so. I guess I was having an out-of-body experience.

I advanced toward my sporty BMW, when my cell phone rang. I fished it out of my handbag. It was my sister, Persy.

“Hey, Pers.” I greeted her warmly, no hint of distress in my voice. Pretending I had my shit together was an artform I’d perfected long ago.

“Hey, Belle. Where am I catching you?”

“Just got out of the OB-GYN.”

“Nothing like having your insides poked by a complete stranger with a magnifying glass.” She sighed with what I suspected was genuine longing. Dang, she and her husband Cillian were kinky. “Everything okay down there?”

I heard my nephew, Astor, making exploding sounds in the background. He loved imagining shit was blowing up when he was playing Legos. That kid was becoming ninety-nine percent tyrant, and I was here for it. Auntie needed brand new ice-breakers and having a dictator nephew was a great conversation topic.

“My vag is in immaculate condition, for someone who is overworked and underpaid.” I slid my designer sunglasses up my nose, strutting along the street. “Ya need anything?”

My sister and I spoke at least four times a day, but she didn’t normally ask me where I was. Maybe she wanted me to babysit Astor. Now that she had a newborn—baby Quinn, the most handsome little dude on planet Earth—she often needed a helping hand.

“Nope. Mom is coming over to take care of the kids. Cillian is taking me on a date. Our first since Quinn was born. I just had this weird urge to call you to make sure you’re okay. I don’t know what came over me,” my sweet, intuitive baby sister lamented.

Persephone “Persy” Fitzpatrick was everything I wasn’t—romantic, maternal, and a rule-follower.

Oh, and the wife of the richest man in America. No big deal.

I came to a halt, propping a hand against a red-bricked wall. Salem Street sprawled in front of me in all of its summer glory, sprinkled with bakeries, colorful cafes, and flowers spilling from hung baskets.

“No, Pers. You were exactly right. I needed to hear your voice.”

Uneasy silence filled my ears. When Persy realized I wasn’t going to elaborate on why I needed to hear her voice, she said, “Is there anything I can do for you, Belle? Anything at all?”

Can you have a baby for me?

Can you fix my uterus?

Can you erase my past, which screwed me up so thoroughly, so exhaustively, that I can no longer trust anything or anyone other than myself?

“Just hearing your voice is enough,” I smiled.

“Love you, Belle.”

“Right back at ya’, Pers.”

I slipped the phone back into my bag, smiling nonchalantly as though nothing was amiss.

And then … then I felt my cheeks wet with furious, unstoppable tears.

Was I full-blown crying in the middle of a busy main street? You bet your ass I was.

Bawling was more like it. Gasping for air worked too. My tears were bitter and hot, full of self-pity and fresh anger. The unfairness of my situation made my breath catch. Why was this happening? Why me? I wasn’t a bad person.

Actually, I was a pretty kick-ass one.

I donated to charities and babysat my friends’ kids and always bought Girl Scout cookies. Even the lemon-ups—which, let’s admit it—were so bad they should have been illegal in all fifty states.

Why was having a child going to be more difficult for me—if it was even possible—when everyone around me fell pregnant whenever their husbands so much as asked them to pass the salt?

Dejected, anxious, and confused, I stumbled straight into the temple.

No, not the place where you pray. A place called Temple Bar.

Getting drunk in broad daylight might not be the smart thing to do, but it sure was comforting. Plus, I needed to pregame before going to a party tonight. And I was definitely partying tonight.

I pushed the door open, stomped to the bar, and ordered a tall glass of whatever the hell would get me drunk in record time.

“An After Shock and a glass of wine coming right up.” The bartender saluted, slapping a polishing cloth over his shoulder and pulling a steam-filled glass from the dishwasher.

I slumped on a barstool, massaging my temples as I tried to process my new reality. It was either have a baby now or pretty much never.

Tourists and professionals lounged in green wooden booths, enjoying pints of Guinness, coddles, and Irish stews.

Irish folk songs belted from the speakers, jolly and full of mirth. Didn’t the world know I was hurting?

The place looked like an authentic Irish pub, with ornate high ceilings and liquor-soaked walls.

The bartender came back with my drinks before I could burst into spontaneous tears. I hadn’t cried since I was five, maybe six, and I wasn’t going to start turning on the waterworks regularly now that I found out I had to get pregnant at thirty while financially insecure.

I downed the After Shock in one go, slamming the glass on the counter and moving straight to the wine.

A tall, dark, and handsome type appeared in my periphery. He propped an elbow against the bar, his body tilted in my direction.

“Aren’t you Emmabelle Penrose?”

“Aren’t you a middle-aged man with enough life experience to know better than interrupt people when they’re trying to get drunk?” I snapped, ready for another round.

He chuckled. “Feisty, just like I thought you’d be. I wanted to say I appreciate your business model. And your ass. Both look great hanging from a billboard in front of my building.” He leaned forward, about to whisper in my ear.

I swiveled on my stool, grabbing his wrist in a death grip and twisting it down, rotating his entire arm in the process, on the verge of breaking it. He let out a moan, squeezing his eyes shut.

“What the f—”

It was my turn to lean toward him. “The fuck is I’m trying to enjoy my drink here without getting sexually harassed. Think it’d be too much to ask? My being an owner of a burlesque club doesn’t give you permission to try and feel me up. Just like if you were a dentist, it wouldn’t give me the authority to lie on your dinner table at a restaurant and ask you to fill my cavity. Now beat it.”

I pushed the guy, sending him careening across the bar, back to his stool, spitting out profanity in his wake. He grabbed his coat and stormed out of the bar.

“Whoa. Is your day as bad as the hangover you’re going to have tomorrow morning?” The bartender grinned at me impishly. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with ginger hair and a shamrock tattoo on his forearm.

“My day’s worse than any alcohol poisoning recorded on planet Earth.” I smacked my wine glass on the bar. “Trust me.”

“Do not trust her. She’s a flighty one.” A posh English accent chuckled three stools down. The person it belonged to was shadowed in the depth of the bar, a stain of darkness concealing his elegant silhouette. I didn’t have to squint to know who it was.

Only one man in Boston sounded like power, smoke, and an impending orgasm.

Say hello to Devon Whitehall.

Also known as The Bastard Who Broke My Strict One Night Only Rule.

He’d made it to a third hookup before I came to my senses and cut him loose. From the moment we jumped each other’s bones about three years ago at my brother-in-law Cillian’s cottage in the woods, I knew Devon Whitehall was different.

He was a dangerously mild creature, the scholar out of his group of friends. Manipulative, arrogant, and in a league of his own.

Other men around him had glaring shortcomings—Cillian, my brother-in-law, was a cold fish in a suit; Hunter, my best friend’s husband, was loose-tongued and goofy; and Sam, my friend Aisling’s husband, was … well, a mass murderer. But Devon had no giant neon sign warning you to stay away. He wasn’t damaged, or broken, or angry. At least not outwardly. Still, he had that same untouchable quality that made you want to burn like a meteor, which would inevitably, reduce you to nothing but cinders.

He was everything a woman wanted, wrapped into one godlike package.

And that package had a state-of-the-art body, down to the corded, Michelangelo’s Moses forearm muscles that made my IQ drop to room temperature whenever I touched them.

I had put a stop to our rendezvous after the third hookup, on the grounds that I wasn’t an idiot. I always like to say that where there’s a willy, there’s a way. But in Devon’s case, he looked like the kind of dude I could actually catch feelings for.

That hookup, after we had had animalistic sex, Devon turned around, dropped his head on the pillow next to me, and did something outrageous and vulgar. He fell asleep.

“Um, what do you think you’re doing?” I’d asked, appalled.

What’s next? Taking me to dinner? Matching Minnie and Mickey hoodies? Binge-watching Schitt’s Creek together?

“Sleeping,” he’d said in his patient, everyone-around-me-is-an-idiot tone. His eyes, blue and silvery like molten ice, blinked open. A devilish smirk formed on his lips. I sat upright, glaring.

“Go sleep in your own bed, bro.”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning. I have an early court day tomorrow. And please do not use the term ‘bro’. Excessive use of common monikers is indicative of poor linguistic culture.”

“Cool story, bro. Do you have a version of that sentence in English?” And then, because I really was tired, I said, “Never mind. Just get out of here.”

“Are you taking the mick?” He wore a blank expression like it was a full-blown tux.

“Out.”

I had marched over to the door and tossed out his clothes and loafers. He stumbled out half-naked in my hallway, collecting the designer items from the floor. Truth be told, it wasn’t my finest exhibition of character. I was overwhelmed with throat-clogging fear that I would get attached.

Now, Devon was in front of me, all tall and gorgeous and screwable. I caught his frame in the fringe of my sight, hands in pockets, square jaw as sharp as a blade.

“Calling me untrustworthy is libel, Mr. Hot Shot Lawyer.” I puckered my lips, slipping into the role of the ball-busting siren. I wasn’t in the mood to be quick-witted, eccentric Belle—but that was the only version of me people knew.

“Actually, it is slander. Libel is when the false accusation is written. I could text it to you, if you’re so inclined.” He turned to the bartender, tossing a black Amex card on the counter. “One Stinger for me, and a Tom Collins for the lady.”

“W-why, yes, His Highness.” The bartender flustered. “I mean, sir. I mean … what should I call you?”

Devon quirked an eyebrow. “I would honestly prefer if you didn’t. You’re here to serve me drinks, not hear my life story.”

With that, the bartender was off to grab our drinks.

“I don’t see a lady anywhere in this vicinity,” I mumbled into my glass of chardonnay.

“There’s one right behind you, and she is quite fit,” he deadpanned, face stoic.

One of the good things about Devon Whitehall (and unfortunately, there were many) was that he never took himself seriously. After I had shamefully banished him from my bed, he had stopped calling me. The next time we’d met, however, at a Christmas party, he had hugged me warmly, asked how I was doing, and even showed interest in investing in my club.

He’d behaved as if nothing happened. And to him I guess nothing had. I didn’t know why Devon had never married, but I suspected he suffered from the same relationship-phobia I was prone to. Over the years, I’d watched him parade one woman after another. They were all leggy, stylish, and held degrees in subjects I could hardly pronounce.

They also had the shelf life of an avocado.

Devon never tried to get with me again but remained wryly fond of me, the way you were fond of the childhood blanket you used to snuggle with but would not be caught dead in the same room with it anymore. These days, he made me feel chronically undesirable.

“What’s got your knickers in such a twist?” he asked, running his fingers through his thick hair. Streaks of cool wheat and gold.

I wiped my eyes quickly. “Go away, Whitehall.”

“Darling girl, your chances of evacuating an Englishman from a bar on a Friday afternoon are slim to none. Any requests I can actually fulfill?” The casual benevolence rolling off of him made me nauseous. No one was supposed to be that perfect.

“Die in hell?” I pressed my forehead to the cool bar.

I didn’t mean it. Devon had only ever given me good conversation, compliments, and orgasms. But I was really upset.

He slipped onto the stool beside me, flicking his wrist to check his Rolex. I knew he wouldn’t answer me. Sometimes, he treated me like an eight-year-old.

Our drinks arrived. He pushed the Tom Collins my way, handing my glass of chardonnay back to the bartender quietly.

“Here, now. This’ll make you feel better. And then significantly worse. But since I won’t be there to deal with the consequences…” He gave a careless shrug.

I took a sip and shook my head.

“I’m not good company right now. You’d have a better time striking up conversation with the bartender or one of the tourists.”

“Darling, you’re barely civilized, and still better company than anyone in this zip code.” He gave my hand a quick but warm squeeze.

“Why are you nice to me?” I demanded.

“Why not?” Again, he sounded completely at ease.

“I’ve been nothing but horrible to you in the past.”

I thought about the night I threw him out of my apartment, panicked that he’d somehow find a crack in my heart, pry it open, and sneak into it. The fact that he was here, pragmatic and unbothered, just proved that he had heartbreak written all over him.

“That’s not how I remember our brief but joyous history.” He sipped his Stinger.

“I kicked you out.”

“My arse had suffered worse.” He offered a dismissive flick of his wrist. He had nice hands. He had nice everything. “No need to take it personally.”

“What do you take personally?”

“Not many things in life, to be honest.” He frowned, giving it genuine thought. “Corporate taxes, perhaps? It’s essentially double-taxation, an outrageous concept, you must admit.”

I blinked slowly at him, wondering if I was beginning to see a hint of imperfection in the man everyone looked up to. Under the layers of manners and chiseled looks was, I suspected, a truly odd man.

“You care about taxes, but not that I humiliated you?” I challenged.

“Emmabelle, love.” He gave me a smile that would make ice melt. “Humiliation is a feeling. One must submit to it in order to experience it. You’ve never humiliated me. Was I disappointed that our affair had run its course faster than I had wanted it to? Sure. But it was your right to end things at any given moment. Now tell me what happened,” Devon coaxed.

His accent seemed to have a direct line to that place between my legs. He sounded like Benedict Cumberbatch reading an erotic audiobook.

“No.”

He studied me coolly, waiting. It annoyed me. How confident he was. How little he spoke, and how much he conveyed with the few words he used.

“What do you want? We’re complete strangers.” My tone was matter-of-fact.

“I reject that framing.” He slid a leaf of mint decorating his glass along his tongue. It disappeared in his mouth. “I know every inch and curve of your body.”

“You only know me biblically.”

“I’m fond of the Bible. It was quite a good read, don’t you reckon? The passages about Sodom and Gomorrah were rather action-packed.”

“I prefer fiction.”

“Most people do. In fiction, people get what they deserve.” He bit down on a smile. “Also, many would argue that the Bible is fiction.”

“Do you think people get what they deserve in real life?” I asked dejectedly, thinking about Doctor Bjorn’s diagnosis.

Devon rubbed a finger over his chin, frowning. “Not always.”

He seemed so seasoned, so much older than me at forty-one. I usually went for men who were the complete opposite of Devon. Young, reckless, and unsettled. Guys I knew who wouldn’t stick around and would not expect me to either.

Disposable.

Devon had the innate authority of a man who always had the upper hand, that royal male ethos.

“Why’d I even hook up with you?” I blurted out, knowing I was being bratty and taking my anger out on him and allowing myself to do so anyway.

Devon slid the pad of his finger over the rim of his glass. “Because I’m handsome, rich, divine in bed, and would never put a ring on your finger. Exactly what you’re after.”

It didn’t surprise me that Devon had figured I had commitment issues, considering how we had parted ways.

“Also: arrogant, much older, and the designated creepy family friend.” I made a cross with my fingers to keep him away, like he was a vampire.

Devon Whitehall was my brother-in-law Cillian’s best friend and lawyer. I’d seen him at family functions at least three times a year. Sometimes more.

“I’m no psychologist, but if it smells like daddy issues and walks like daddy issues …” An ice cube slipped between his full lips when he took a sip of his cognac, and he crushed it between his straight white teeth, a smile lingering on his face.

“I don’t have daddy issues,” I snapped.

“Sure. Neither do I. Now tell me why you were crying.”

“Why do you care?” I groaned.

“You’re Cillian’s sister-in-law. He’s like a brother to me.”

“If this is the part where you make us sound loosely related, I’m going to throw up in my mouth.”

“You’ll be doing that tonight, anyway, at the rate you’re drinking. Well?”

He wasn’t letting it go, was he?

“I’m not giving you an inch, Whitehall.”

“Why not? I gave you nine.”

Nine inches? Really?No wonder I still had vivid dreams about our hookups.

“For the last time, I’m not going to tell you.”

“Very well.” He leaned over the bar and plucked a cognac bottle and two clean glasses, slamming them between us. “I’ll find out myself.”