The number seven was Ashton’s—and her brothers’—lucky number, all of them having been born in July. This was normally a comfort, except today it was making all kinds of crazy ideas and thoughts spring to mind as she walked downstairs from her apartment above The Avenue later that morning.

What if I have seven babies? A ridiculous idea.

What do you even call seven babies? Something to Google later on.

How would I possibly cope with seven whole babies?

It was that last thought that sent her into gales of laughter when she finally dropped into the rolling desk chair in the backroom office of her bar.

“Seven whole babies,” she said aloud, speaking to herself. “As opposed to what, you idiot, half babies? Quarter babies?”

“What in the actual fuck are you talking about?”

Ashton was startled by the sound of her younger brother’s voice. “Jesus Christ, Aussie. You scared the crap out of me.” She clutched her chest in an over-the-top manner, wanting to milk the moment as much as possible.

After all, if she couldn’t stir the pot around her brothers, who could she stir it around?

If you don’t tease your siblings, are you even related?

“I scared you? You’re talking about half and quarter babies. I don’t even want to know what brought that on.” He moved into the room, dropping himself into the old, scarred wooden chair that they’d placed opposite the desk for those rare moments when they were in the office at the same time.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’ll tell you later.” She waved a hand to dismiss Austin’s question, before continuing, “Aaron’s home and is coming in around lunch today. Make sure you’re here.”

“Why?”

“Um, he’s your brother and you haven’t seen him for two weeks?”

“I’ve literally gone months without seeing him,” Austin reminded her, making the both of them pause ever so briefly. He’d only been seventeen when their parents had kicked Aaron out of the family, and in the months that followed, Austin, who still lived at home, was forbidden to see Aaron.

Not that that edict stopped him from calling and messaging with their older brother until he finally graduated and moved out.

“Whatever, dude. Just be here, okay? There are things to discuss.”

“Like half babies?”

“Yes, like half babies. Now get out. I need to do payroll.” She shooed him with two hands, the universal “run along” gesture placing extra emphasis on the fact that Ashton wanted him to depart the office.

“Fine. I’ll see you later.”

“Not if I see you first,” she called after him, unable to resist the chance to use the tired line, before getting to work.

Or trying to, anyway.

Ashton could admit that she was distracted. With one hand making its way down to rest on her flat belly, she felt another well of happiness rise within.

She wanted this. For good luck’s sake, she’d taken the test seven times—something that harked back to when she and her brothers were little kids and they promised to always do, or try, things seven times to be sure they liked it—but that wasn’t enough.

She needed certainty.

She needed proof.

She needed to make an appointment to see her doctor.

After making the call and setting up an appointment for later that afternoon—thank you, last minute cancellation—Ashton once again made an attempt at work, except . . .

Dammit, she was still distracted.

Aaron’s question about the baby’s father—whether it was Nathan—came back to her as she tried to input numbers and times and she started to worry about how she was going to explain her pregnancy to people.

“Turkey baster,” with a pointed finger to her swollen stomach.

“Oh, I’m not pregnant, I just ate too many tacos post-break-up, you know.”

“The father was a circus acrobat who swung into town, flipped my life upside down with his flexibility and his non-use of protection and exited stage right before I could tell him we had a new performer on the way.”

Somehow, none of those explanations seemed right, though the first one was closest to the truth. Okay, so it hadn’t actually been a turkey baster, but that was the accepted euphemism for artificial insemination and she really didn’t want—or need—to get into the specifics.

With a roll of her eyes, Ashton shook her head at herself, at her doubts. Her concerns were ones she’d already blown off during the decision-making process and they were only returning now, she suspected, because being pregnant had moved from an abstract to her new reality.

“Get a grip, Andrews,” she whispered to the empty room, trying not to put the cart before the horse, or count her chickens before they were hatched, or any number of other clichés that would suit her current situation.

She could worry about public opinion later.

“I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?” Austin stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it, acting as if he hadn’t heard her.

But Ashton knew he had. He was just . . .

“Surprised. That’s probably the best way to explain it,” Aaron said, throwing the back of his hand against Austin’s arm, a small slap to get him to stop the dramatics. “The father?”

There was no need for him to elaborate. She knew what he wanted to know—who was he, where was he, and why wasn’t he here?

She opened her mouth to explain, but Aaron wasn’t finished. “I meant what I said this morning, Little. If the father is that shithead, Nathan, I know some guys who can take care of him for you.”

“Yeah, okay, Bugsy Malone—”

“Bugsy Malone?” Aussie questioned, interrupting her attempt to explain, again. Between the two of them, she’d never get it out and make it to her appointment on time.

“Like the gangster. You know what he’s implying.”

“That was a weird reference, Ash. Is that a pregnancy symptom? Pop culture references that are at least fifty-something years old?”

“Shut up, Austin. She’s going to explain—”

“Why do I have to shut up? It’s a genuine question. I don’t think I can survive around her if she’s going to be making jokes that only Grandma Marie would get.”

Ashton rapped her knuckles on the table top, in an attempt to refocus her brothers’ attention, before she completely lost her shit.

The old references might not be a pregnancy symptom, but her short fuse and churning emotions surely were. “Shut it. Both of you. I’ll explain, you’ll listen, we’ll all agree that this is good news and, more importantly, my news, my business and mine alone, and then we’ll eat because I am too hungry, too hormonal and too freakin’ sick of you two to deal with any more of your crap. Got it?”

Austin leaned in close to Aaron, stage whispering, “That’s the first time I’ve heard one of her no-breath rambles make sense. Who says baby brain is a thing?”

His snide aside earned him a withering look from Ashton and a smack to the back of the head from Aaron—who was clearly also trying to hide his smile at Austin’s assessment.

“Now. Short and sweet. I don’t know the father.” She paused, watching with interest as Aaron’s face contorted as he reached his own conclusion. Austin, meanwhile, was just staring, the idea of a no-name one-night-stand clearly not offensive to him. She held up a hand to stop whatever her eldest brother was about to say, and continued, “I used a donor. I wanted this, and after Nathan and that whole debacle, I decided I wasn’t willing to wait anymore.”

“But . . .”

“But nothing, A. I said I wanted this, and whatever you’re about to say doesn’t matter in the face of that, understand me? I won’t have you questioning my choices. You—you—of all people should understand that that’s not okay.” She glared at him, pointedly, knowing that their situations weren’t the same—as Aaron once said, you don’t choose gay, it chooses you—but also knowing that he’d been on the receiving end of the third degree about his lifestyle. She wouldn’t allow him to second-guess her, thereby making her second-guess herself.

He nodded, offering his apology with his eyes, which she accepted with a small smile.

“A sperm donor? Really? You couldn’t have found some unsuspecting guy in a club, like any other non-self-respecting single woman in her thirties?”

“Austin, shut up.”

“I’m just saying, Ash, you missed a prime friends-to-lovers opportunity here. You want a baby. You tap your best friend. You develop feelings. And then, twue wuv.”

“I think I saw a movie about that,” Aaron added, his laughter joining Austin’s and making it impossible for Ashton not to smile.

But just a small one.

“I see a few problems with that scenario, Aussie. One, my best friend is a girl. Two, we’ve all seen that movie—and it’s needlessly dramatic. Much like you.”

“And three?” Austin asked, resting his chin on his palm like he was desperate for the scoop.

“There is no three for that scenario. But there is this—finding some random guy in a club doesn’t give me the freedom of choice I had with a donor. You don’t know because you haven’t done it, and probably never will, but they give you profiles. Like actual sheets of paper with stats and attributes and a little photo of the donor as a baby, and it gives me control. I know they’re clean and not just some douchebag in a club looking for some willing chick to bang. I know that he’s got dark hair and brown eyes and is an electrical engineer. I know details about his family medical history, in case anything comes up with the baby. I know—”

“I’ll tell you what I know, Little,” Aaron interrupted, “and that’s if you don’t stop talking and take a deep breath, you’re going to pass out.”

Knowing he wasn’t wrong, and having made her point—for the most part—Ashton drew in a long, deep breath and forced her shoulders to drop. At some point, she’d pulled them up in what could only have been a subconscious act of protection.

With the sounds of the bar coming to life all around, the three of them sat in silence. Their meals came before either of her brothers had a chance to continue the third degree, but once the food was eaten, they picked up where they left off.

With more questions.

The waiting room of her doctor’s office was alarmingly yellow. Though Ashton understood that it was traditionally a happy color, meant to brighten one’s day, the shade was one that never failed to blind her. And, she had to admit, it also made her mildly nauseous.

Although, maybe the nausea was more to do with her brothers’ seemingly endless queries about her news than the offensively yellow walls and furniture surrounding her.

As she expected, Aaron had led the post-food conversation, while Austin sat and stared at her for a good long while before asking why she’d not told him—either of them, actually—about her plan.

“I don’t know.” It was the only answer she could give, but deep down, she knew she hadn’t shared it with them because she neither wanted them to try to talk her out of it, nor to jinx her chances of success.

“That’s bullshit, Ashton Marie,” Aussie had thrown back at her before, mercifully, moving on to other questions that weren’t quite as stressful, but still not her idea of a good time.

“Where will you live?” Because apparently her spacious loft above the bar was going to disappear once the baby arrived.

“How will you support yourself?” That one had bothered her far, far more than she let on, given that she was half-owner of The Avenue with Austin, and it was proving to be one of Madison’s most successful, sought-after places for after-work drinks, girls’ nights and more. Would he have asked Austin that if he was having a baby? The fact he was biologically incapable of being pregnant notwithstanding, she doubted the situation would have been viewed the same way by her should-know-better big brother—like having a child made her earning capability—poof—just disappear.

“Are you going to tell Mom and Dad?” She’d said no in the firmest voice she could muster without yelling at Aaron. They’d had years upon years to reach out to their children and hadn’t, so why should she share anything with them?

Why should she invite into her child’s life two people who cared more about appearances and bullshit doctrine than they did about the happiness of their son?

“What about dating, marriage? Don’t you want that anymore?” A harder question to answer than she’d been expecting. Did she want that? Of course—and she’d told her brothers that. But the fact was, she was ready for a baby now, and didn’t want to pin her hopes on the right man not only appearing, but also being willing to come along for the ride.

That didn’t stop the pang at the idea of her baby never knowing its father, however, or the aching at the thought of never waking up to someone with rumpled hair and sheet creases stamped on their face. Someone to roll her eyes with when their child did something silly. Someone to lean into when she was tired and needing support.

Someone who would love her, and her baby, from behind that perfect, white-picket fence she’d always imagined she’d have.

“Ashton Andrews?” the nurse called, a question and announcement rolled into one, breaking though her spiraling thoughts.

She stood, determined to quiet the questions and the doubts until the doctor confirmed what she—and those fourteen pink lines on seven white sticks—already knew was fact.

She was going to be a mommy.

And it was fine that she was going it alone . . .