chapter 5

I’m sure she doesn’t think I’m serious when I ask her. I’d sell my soul for a chance to convince her how good we’d be together.

And then an idea strikes me like a hammer on a bell.

I loosen my tie a little. Then I pick up my whisky glass.

“There is an addendum to my decision,” I tell her. “Or is pudendum?”

She snorts and pushes me away. “What sort of addendum?”

“I said I wouldn’t do anything in a cup. But I am prepared to get you pregnant the old-fashioned way.”

“Hux, come on, this isn’t a laughing matter.”

“I’m not laughing. Look at my face.” I point to it. “I’m deadly serious.”

She rolls her eyes. “Jesus.”

I lift a hand to cup her chin and turn her face so she’s looking at me. “I’m serious,” I repeat. I release her chin, but her gaze remains fixed on mine.

We study each other for about twenty seconds.

Then, eventually, she says, “Nope.”

I’d expected that, and I’ve prepared my argument. “Okay. Let’s look at it this way. From what I understand, at the clinic you’d have two choices of insemination, right? Intra Uterine Insemination and In Vitro Fertilization?”

She narrows her eyes. “How do you know that?”

“I’m a man of the world. I know stuff. So, what’s the success rate of IUI?”

“Seven to ten percent per cycle,” she says. I knew she’d have all the stats in her head. Not only will she have read up on the process because that’s what she does, she’s also developing some kind of fertility drug at her company, so she’ll be well aware of the facts and figures.

“And of IVF?”

“Fifty-five percent on the first try.”

“But there are risks, right?”

“Yeah… multiple births, premature delivery, low birth weight. A few others. And it does involve taking fertility drugs, which I’m wary of.”

“So… what’s the success rate of getting pregnant the old-fashioned way? If you have sex around ovulation?”

Her lips start to curve up. “Around thirty percent.”

“And the risks?”

“All right, smart arse. I know what you’re saying. But it’s not going to happen.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want another relationship.”

“Why?” I ask again, softly. “I know you’ve never forgiven me for what I did, but what happened with the others that’s made you so anti-men?”

“I’m not anti-men,” she protests. “I happen to like them very much. And I have forgiven you. It’s purely a self-defense mechanism.” She looks at her glass and turns it in her fingers. “Do you know what a non-healing fracture is?”

“No.”

“It’s when the pieces of a broken bone don’t grow back together. Bones usually start rebuilding after they’ve been set. But sometimes bones don’t produce new tissue, leaving an aching pain and weakness.” She presses her hand to her chest. “That’s my heart, Hux. It’s been broken so many times that it has a non-healing fracture.”

Something twists inside me at her description. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

She places her hand on mine for a moment and squeezes before releasing it. “It wasn’t all you,” she confirms.

“You’ve had, what, three serious relationships? You’re so strong, Elizabeth. So resilient. They can’t all have broken your heart?”

She looks around. Ian has come back into the bar, and he’s currently collecting more glasses. He’ll stay until I go home unless I say otherwise.

“Ian,” I call out, and he looks around. “Call it a night and finish off tomorrow.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Thanks for all your hard work.”

“You’re welcome.” He grabs his jacket, then selects a whisky bottle from the row. He brings it over and puts it on the table, grins, then heads out the door. Now it’s just me and Elizabeth.

She takes off her shoes and rests her bare feet on the edge of the chair, knees bent. I look down at her toes as she wiggles them. They also have a French polish.

“Jesus.” I close my eyes for a moment.

When I open them again, she’s giving me a wry look. “Want me to put my shoes back on?”

“Definitely not. As long as you don’t mind wiping the drool from my chin.”

She laughs and leans back against the wall. I unscrew the bottle and splash a little whisky in our glasses. She sighs.

“Come on,” I say. “Spill the beans.” Even though I’ve seen her most days over the past ten years, I know very little about her love life. She’s a private person, and as far as I know, she hasn’t told any of our friends about why her relationships ended.

“Let’s see,” she says. She blinks slowly. She’s been drinking all evening, and she must be pretty tipsy to open up like this. “Tim cheated on me. Rich had issues in the bedroom. And Steve…” She hesitates, then says, “Steve hit me. So yeah. Not a great track record.”

I stare at her. I don’t know where to start.

Actually, yes I do. “He hit you?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“In the living room.”

“Where on your body, Elizabeth?”

“Ah, across the face.”

“Holy fucking shit, that motherfucker.”

“Yeah. Don’t worry. He only did it once. I pushed him through a plate-glass window for it, and they spent a fortnight picking glass out of his hair.”

She wants me to laugh, because that’s what we do—we turn our personal disasters into comedy moments—but I’m not laughing. The thought of a man raising his fist to Elizabeth—to any woman—makes me see scarlet.

“Don’t burst a blood vessel,” she says. “But maybe you can see why I ended that one.”

I reel off another string of swear words, down the whisky in one, and pour myself another shot. She does the same, coughs, then gestures for me to refill hers.

I’m quiet for a moment as I battle my fury. I wish she’d told me at the time. I’d have shoved the guy’s teeth so far down his throat he’d be shitting molars for a fortnight. But Elizabeth’s not the kind of girl who appreciates displays of testosterone, so I keep it under, for now.

“And Tim cheated on you?” I say when I finally feel I can speak.

“Yeah. I came home one night and found him in bed with Patsy Landingham. Do you remember her?”