I’ve always been able to separate feelings from chemosignals. A shot of dopamine, a dash of serotonin, and a sprinkle of oxytocin–and bam. You’re in love.
And when egg meets sperm, you’re pregnant.
I couldn’t even be surprised as I stared down at the little blue plus sign, because I knew exactly when and how, and with whom it happened.
When: approximately five weeks ago.
Who: one night stand.
How: prophylactic malfunction.
The upside? I don’t have to go looking for a suitable mate.
Genetically, he’s the cream of the crop. His musculature is a study in symmetry and strength, his height imposing and impressive. He is a man who thrives on control and command, a man who survives on intelligence and resourcefulness. A perfect male specimen.
And the whole package is wrapped up in a flawlessly tailored suit.
I’m having this baby, and he insists we’re well suited to have it together. And what’s worse? He wants more, in the way of love and marriage.
But love isn’t real. It’s just a product of chemistry.
And if he changes my mind about that, we’re both in trouble.