chapter 4

Huxley

Holy fuck. I did not expect that.

Silence falls between us. It’s not particularly uncomfortable. We’ve known each other long enough that we can allow the other time to think.

She rests her head on her hand again, watching me. Her brown eyes are hopeful. It’s an unusual expression for her. Over the years, she’s become quite cynical, the last person to express belief in notions like true love or soulmates. I know I played a big part in that, and it crushes me every time. But there’s not much I can do about it now.

Instead, I try to force my whisky-addled brain to focus on what she’s asked me. She wants me to get her pregnant.

I blink and grab onto the balloon of pleasure that floats up inside me. No, Huxley. She doesn’t want you to get her pregnant. She wants you to ejaculate into a cup so she can use it to fertilize her eggs. There’s a huge difference.

She has a mouthful of whisky. “Say something,” she says. “You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m not ready to answer yet.”

“Oh.” She sucks her bottom lip.

She was gorgeous when I met her ten years ago, and since then she’s grown into a beautiful, confident woman. Tonight, she’s wearing a mid-gray trouser suit with a pale pink shirt, and as always, black high-heeled stilettos. When she was younger, she used to have longer wavy hair, but about a year ago she had it cut for the first time into a long bob that brushes her shoulders, which makes her look sophisticated, and suits her professional image much more. Her makeup is immaculate, and I’ve always loved her French-manicured nails.

She owns her own pharmaceutical company now, working with Mack and Titus at times, using their technology to develop new drugs to combat diseases. She has a large staff, and she runs them with a firm hand. She’s one of the most professional and savvy businesspeople I know, and she’s been absolutely invaluable in establishing the club. She’s also a wonderful auntie to my daughter, Joanna, which is more than I could have hoped for.

And now she wants me to get her pregnant.

Huxley! To fertilize her eggs.

I feel a tug of resentment, deep inside. She won’t go on a date with me. She refuses to accept that a relationship might work. But she has the cheek to ask for my sperm. Fucking hell. I made a mistake ten years ago, and for that she’s determined to make me pay forever.

And then I look at her big brown eyes, and all my exasperation vanishes. I know I broke her heart back then. She could easily have walked away and refused to talk to me again, but she didn’t. When she first met Brandy, I’d been certain that Elizabeth would be cool and dismissive, but she hadn’t, she’d been friendly and warm. And when Joanna had been born, Elizabeth had been the first of my friends to visit Brandy, and she’d held Joanna and said how beautiful she was with such graciousness that I’d had to walk out to compose myself.

I broke her heart, and yet she became my best friend. Now, she wants a baby, and out of every man she knows, she’s asked me to help. If there’s a greater compliment a woman can pay a man, I can’t think of it.

“First of all,” I say softly, “I’m immensely flattered. Unless you’ve already asked every other guy you know, and I’m your last resort.”

Her lips twitch. “You’re the first,” she murmurs. “Of course you are. You’re a fantastic guy, and you’re an amazing dad.”

I have a mouthful of whisky to cover my emotion. “Thank you,” I say, my voice husky.

“I didn’t even have to think about it,” she says. “When they said try asking a friend, you were the first and only person I considered.” She takes a shaky breath—this has taken her some courage to ask. “I know it’s a bit weird, though. Of course I’ll be happy to talk it through at length. But first I should say that you would have as much input as you wanted. Legally, when a man donates sperm to a clinic, neither the child nor the donor has rights or liabilities in relation to each other. After saying that, men who donate sperm are required to be identifiable, and a child can ask the clinic for the identity of the man who donated. Because of this, apparently it’s common for parents to let their child know about the donor, and sometimes the child and donor stay in contact. I’d… I’d like that. But equally, I’d understand completely if you’d rather not. Especially because you have Joanna. If you were to donate, and would rather me keep it a secret, particularly from our friends or family, I would do that, at least until the child got to an age where they started asking questions. I’d do whatever you wanted.”

She stops, and even in the dim light of the room, I can see her cheeks flush.

I tip my head back, inhale deeply, and slowly release the breath. This wasn’t how I’d hoped I’d have my next child. Having a relationship and a family hasn’t been a big priority for me over the past few years. I’ve thrown myself into setting up the club, working twelve to fourteen hours most days, and I’ve been careful not to let any brief fling I’ve had develop into anything more.

But I’d assumed it would happen one day. I’d like to meet someone and settle down, and I’d hoped for the proper experience of having a family, where you try for a baby, take a test together, celebrate when it’s positive, watch your partner’s bump grow, and be there for the birth knowing you’ll be there for every developmental step. That’s how I wanted it to go. Why am I doomed to miss out?

“Hux,” Elizabeth says, “I’m dying here. Please say something. Be honest with me.”

“Be honest?”

She nods. And at that moment, I know I can’t give any other answer.

“Honey, I don’t think I can do anything in a cup. I’m so sorry.”

The light slowly fades from her eyes. “Oh.” Her expression turns from hopeful to disappointed, and her eyes glimmer with tears. It’s so unusual for her to show emotion that it’s like someone’s stabbed me. I’ve let her down. Ouch.

“Let me explain,” I say, hoping she doesn’t just get up and walk out. Luckily, she gives a short nod. “I’ve done the distant father thing already. And it’s been so hard.”

She runs a hand through her hair and sighs. “I know.”

“And to do it with you? The one girl I’ve always wanted? The one who got away? Jesus. It would fucking kill me.”

She blinks, her gaze fixed on mine. Then her bottom lip quivers, and she presses her fingers to her lips.

“You asked me to be honest,” I say helplessly.

“I know,” she squeaks. She waves a hand at her eyes. “Don’t worry, it’s the whisky.”

I smile and hold up an arm. She presses her lips together, then exhales in a rush and leans against me.

Hugging her, I press my lips to her hair, inhaling the scent of coconut. She has such a big personality that most of the time I forget how tiny she is.

I’ve only kissed her on the mouth twice, and both of those times were on our two dates ten years ago. I wish I could kiss her again. But I can’t. I ask her out every month, and every month she turns me down. I know she’s never going to say yes.

It’s not all about me, I think. She has a terrible taste in men—I’m including myself in that—and I haven’t liked any of her previous partners, although I acknowledge it might say more about me than them. But she’s been hurt so badly that she’s like a wounded she-wolf who’s retreated into her den, and she’s refusing to come out.