Chemistry is my love language.
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 dominant. 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.