“Jesus,” I murmur as I give her my sincerest, most apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Rachel.”
She flinches, and I know it’s because of my tone and the fact I called her by her first name.
“I don’t want a baby,” she says flatly, her expression bordering on hopeless.
I’ve never even thought about this moment transpiring. I’m years from settling down, marrying, and having kids. But something instinctive rises within me, and I find myself blurting out, “I want it.”
Hart blinks at me in surprise. “You want a baby?”
“If it’s mine, and I believe you when you say it is, then yes… I want it.”
Her eyes go dull, and her voice is practically listless. “Then let me rephrase. I don’t want to carry a baby. I don’t want to be pregnant.”
“And I don’t want you to end my child’s life,” I say softly, forcing myself to remain calm. “Because when you say you don’t want to be pregnant or carry a baby, you’re talking about getting an abortion, right?”
Hart grinds her teeth in agitation, but I can see the conflict in her eyes. “You seriously want me to carry a baby for you to raise? You think you can do that with the career you have?”
Again, I fly by pure instinct. “No. I couldn’t continue in this line of work and raise a kid by myself. I’d probably move back home and work my parents’ farm.”
Hart’s jaw drops, and she stares at me blankly.
“Rachel,” I say pleadingly. “Please do not terminate the pregnancy. I know I’m asking an awful lot of you, but this is important to me. The most important thing that’s ever been laid in my lap, and I can’t tell you why I feel so strongly about this, but I just know that I do. It would kill me if you terminated something I’d created. That may sound dramatic, and you’re really throwing me here, but I have an obligation to this child. If you don’t want a part in raising it, I get it. But don’t take it away from me. Carry this child and I’ll do anything for you. Anything in the world.”
Her face turns away from me, and she stares across the street in quiet contemplation. I can’t force her to carry the baby. I can only hope to appeal to her humanity here.
When she turns to look at me, I’m not reassured. “Let me think about it. But I promise… we’ll talk again before I decide. I’ll hear you out, Wright. I owe you that.”
“Thank you,” is all I can say.
Everything else has been said, and the decision is up to her.
CHAPTER 2
Rachel
Adjusting the rearview mirror, I take another look at myself. My face is back to a normal color, but my eyes are still a little red. I pull some Visine out, give a few drops to each eye, and blink. The stuff is amazing, and the irritated little veins brought on by my unexpected crying jag ten minutes ago are erased like magic.
I take another look in the mirror, deciding I’m presentable enough to pass Kynan’s muster.
I’d called him this morning to ask if I could come to his place to talk. As expected, his response was classic Kynan. “Bring donuts.”
I grab the box of donuts from the passenger seat of my Maserati. Since I make fucking awesome money, I have all the toys. But I put my life in danger all the time, so I don’t mind the splurge. Besides, I grew up with two doctors as parents, so I’m just continuing the same lifestyle I once knew—minus those few bohemian years I had living out of a suitcase in my early twenties.
After locking my car up, which is probably stupid as Kynan lives in a luxury gated community, I trudge across his sidewalk, lined with flowering cacti, to the front portico of his large Spanish colonial-style home. I ring the doorbell, and it takes him only moments to answer the door.
“Good morning,” I say, trying to put on my brightest, most carefree face.
“Morning,” he grunts, grabbing the donuts from me.
I follow him into his kitchen. He plops down on a counter island stool and pulls a chocolate-covered donut out. Dropping my purse and keys to the counter, I move around it to the Keurig and make a cup of coffee. I know Kynan’s house well as he’s about my closest friend in the world, and I’ve spent a lot of time here over the years.
As I grab half and half from his fridge, he asks, “Why have you been crying?”
Jolting, I whip my head around to look at him in disbelief. I know damn well my complexion and eyes give nothing away. “What makes you ask that?”
Kynan smirks and waves the donut. “You forget… I’m a former British commando. Reconnaissance is my middle name.”
“Your middle name is Lee,” I say dryly. I turn back to the fridge, hoping he doesn’t see guilt on my face since I was, in fact, crying out in the car.
“I fucking watched you sit in the car for ten minutes with your head bowed,” he says with obvious delight, and my shoulders sag in defeat. “Then I saw you wipe your snotty nose and pop some Visine.”
It’s almost comical how his British accent make the words “snotty nose” sound almost refined, but I’m not in the mood to laugh.
With a sigh, I let the fridge door swing shut. I keep my back to him while I doctor up my coffee, using the rote actions to let me collect my thoughts. I came here intending to get advice, because I know that I can’t be rational about my current predicament.
When I finally turn toward Kynan, he’s halfway through his second donut. That he can eat unlimited carbs and sugars and maintain the chiseled body of a Greek god kind of makes me hate him. He just patiently stares at me, chewing on the sugary goodness.
“I’m pregnant,” I say, dropping the bomb because there’s no easing into something this monumental.
Kynan’s eyes round with surprise. His jaw locks and he swallows, setting the rest of the donut on top of the box from which it came. Pushing the box aside, he rests his forearms on the counter, leaning slightly toward me to show I have his undivided attention.
“It happened in Paphos,” I continue, dropping my gaze into my coffee. It’s easier to look at right now. “With Wright.”
“Wright?” Kynan blurts.
My eyes rise to meet his, and I lift my chin a little defiantly. “Don’t judge. It happened, okay?”
“Are you two… like together?” he asks hesitantly.
I shake my head before taking a quick sip of coffee. “No. It just happened. Emotions were high. Bourbon was involved. And we were fucking stupid for not using protection.”
“Jesus.” Kynan rubs his hand over the top of his head while he stares at the donut for a moment. When he looks back to me, he asks, “Does he know?”
“Yeah.” I pace to the kitchen island, opposite of Kynan, and put my cup down. Mimicking him with my forearms to the granite, I lean toward him. “I told him last night.”
“And what does he think?”
“I note you don’t ask what I think,” I say pointedly.
“Because I know what you think,” Kynan replies blandly. “I’ve known you for almost thirteen years. Know you better than anyone probably. And you, love, don’t want to have a baby. You don’t want to involve your heart, nor impede your career, because your career is all you have in life.”