Chapter Five

Jenna

It’s a typical Tuesday afternoon at the Lit Apothecary. The (deserted) sales floor has been swept, dusted, and polished, the (sparse) gaps on the shelves filled, the (dismal) account ledgers balanced. Britt works on inventorying the back stock while I sort through today’s batch of mail in my office. This chore is always an exercise in boredom with the occasional sprinkle of frustration, which is why I put it off until late in the day.

Junk, junk, more junk. Publisher’s advance list—I’ll set that aside for buying season, if we make it to the next one. And . . . a letter from the chain bookstore who wants to buy us out.

Fucking again? I treat that last one to a death glare and spike it into the trash can without even opening it. It’s almost certainly yet another buyout offer, and I have zero patience for any more of their lowball attempts.

My already strained mood threatens to crack when I see the return address on the next envelope. I slit it open and my fears are confirmed. It’s a snotty warning from the property management company who handles our storefront, demanding our rent. That’s the third bill due this week . . . and the third we’ll have to beg for an extension on.

Groaning to myself, I mutter, “Goddamn it!”

I tried to be quiet, but evidently Britt still heard me from the stockroom. She pokes her blond head around the doorjamb. “You okay, Jenna?”

“There’s no blood or broken bones, if that’s what you mean.” I sigh, holding up the offending piece of paper pinched between my thumb and finger, as if I’m showing her a dead rat.

Britt may be ten years younger than me and my only employee, but she’s been here since the very first day I opened the Lit Apothecary. Every struggle and accidentally shouted swear word, all my bad days, she’s been privy to them.

“Sorry. I’m just a little stressed out.”

Britt touches my shoulder. “It’s cool, I know. I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” she says softly.

Will I, though? I bite my tongue to avoid infecting her with any more of my growing pessimism. I gave myself two years to make this business work, and it’s been twenty-three months. I promised myself I wouldn’t dip into my savings to keep it afloat—promised that I would make it succeed of its own accord. Only now, that doesn’t seem very likely.

The only option I can come up with is one I don’t want to think about. When I quit my old job as a book buyer, my boss told me I could come back anytime. But, dammit, the Lit Apothecary is my baby, my pet project, my dream. I’ve invested so much in this . . . I don’t want to fail at it. I don’t want to go back to corporate life with a manager riding my ass all the time. Yet here I am, on the verge of throwing in the towel, with no idea how to avoid that humbling last resort.

Finally, I just say, “I hope so, Britt. I hope so.”

The sober moment is interrupted by loud ringing. Emmett? The thought leaps into my mind of its own accord. But when I check my phone, I see it’s not a call, it’s the alarm I set to remind me of my doctor’s appointment in half an hour. Huh . . . I got so wrapped up in stressing out over our finances, I didn’t even notice the workday was over. I guess time flies when you’re having an aneurysm.

I shoot Britt an apologetic look. “Sorry, I have to run. Can you handle—”

“Of course. You already told me this morning you needed to leave early,” she says, smiling. “I still don’t get why you’re so into this whole baby thing when you could have any man at your beck and call, but hey, you do you. Go ahead and get going. I’ll close up shop in a bit.”

“Thanks,” I shout as I rush out the door.

I’m so keyed up, it takes an effort to stay at the speed limit as I drive to the doctor’s office. I’ve been looking forward to this visit for the past week. Even though my bookshop may be in the toilet, at least my plans for motherhood are right on track, and that cheers me up immensely.

The prospect of making progress toward a baby turns my thoughts to Emmett, which only improves my mood more. I had a great time with him last week. Everything about him is a breath of fresh air. He’s smart but not arrogant about it, considerate but not a pushover, bold and direct but not rude or presumptuous. He knows what he wants and he pursues it. He doesn’t play games or feed a girl lines. I like that he’s older, and he doesn’t want kids himself. Not to mention he’s sexy as sin.

Most importantly, something about him just . . . inspires trust. At first, I assumed he’d flake out on me, but our dinner together proved me wrong about his reliability. I really got the sense that I can count on him to follow through on his promises. I was so convinced that he meant what he said and that I wouldn’t need a sperm bank, that I called to schedule my appointment first thing the very next morning. Luckily, they were able to squeeze me in that day, and I snagged the first step in my treatment—a prescription for a hormone pill that I’ll need to take daily, which Dr. Kaur said would get my cycle on a predictable schedule and release my eggs like clockwork.

I perch restlessly on a bench in the lobby, practically vibrating with eagerness until the nurse calls me back to an exam room. As she takes my temperature and blood pressure, she smiles at me, as if she can tell how close to exploding I feel.

Soon Dr. Kaur, a tiny, matronly Indian woman and my trusted ob-gyn, swishes in with a brisk flap of her white coat and plops down at her computer desk.

“Hello again, Miss Porter. Let me just pull up the nurse’s notes here . . .” She clicks around for a minute. “Yes, your bloodwork and ultrasound results have all been very promising. Hormone levels are on target. How are you doing with the hormone? Any hot flashes, fatigue, joint pain, headaches?”

I shake my head at each item in her rapid-fire litany of side effects. “Maybe I’ve been a little tired, but not enough to warrant any concern, I don’t think.”

“Excellent. Clearly, this drug is a good fit for you.” She types in a few comments, purses her lips, and nods. “I think we’re ready to go.”

I cheer silently. “Great. What are the next steps?”

She peers through her thick glasses at the medical chart on the screen. “Your insemination method . . . last time you were here, in the notes it says you’ve changed your mind about artificial insemination and you want to use scheduled intercourse instead. That’s still your plan?”

“Yes.” Hopefully she doesn’t ask too many questions about where exactly I’m getting the goods. All she needs to know is I’ve locked down my own personal supply of fresh sperm. The fact that it comes in such attractive packaging is just a nice bonus.

“All right, I only wanted to confirm.” Dr. Kaur scribbles on a notepad, tears off the top sheet, and swivels her chair around to hand it to me. “I’m giving you a prescription for an injectable, also known as a ‘trigger shot.’ This will induce ovulation. Fill it immediately and use it tonight. You’ll need to have intercourse at least once a day for the next two to three days—”

“Three days?” I blurt, accidentally interrupting her.

She suppresses a smile. “Yes, starting twenty-four hours after injection.”

Twenty-four hours, huh? I nod, already making plans. Looks like I know where I’ll be tomorrow night, and the next night, and the night after that. “Okay. And how soon will I know if it worked?”

“You’ll take a pregnancy test in two weeks.” She opens a drawer and pulls out a business card. “This website will link you to an instructional video for self-administering the injectable.”

“O-of course.” My heart flutters in combined nervousness and excitement. Imagining what it will feel like to stab myself in the stomach every four weeks makes me slightly queasy, but I still can’t wait to get started. After wanting this for so long, it’s finally happening.

Soon I’m going to have a baby of my own . . . my own little snuggly bundle of joy to love and spoil and watch grow. The thought makes me feel warm inside, and deepens my resolve about doing this. Even the not-so-fun parts.

Dr. Kaur gives me a small smile and I thank her again, then check out at the front desk and leave with my precious new prescription tucked snugly in my purse.

Walking back across the parking lot, I text Emmett. What are you doing tomorrow night?

In a matter of seconds, he replies, Fucking you, hopefully.

I freeze in my tracks for a moment. They’re only words, three little words on a screen, but I can hear his husky voice saying them in my mind, and a tingle of anticipation shoots straight to the pit of my stomach. Or maybe somewhere farther south, if I’m being completely honest with myself.

A flicker of doubt halts me with my hand on my car door. For a second, I wonder whether this decision is really a good idea, or if my libido has led me astray. The kind of butterflies Emmett gives me are way out of proportion to what we’re doing here. Our arrangement is supposed to be about sperm, eggs, and ovulation cycles, not lust and orgasms. I’m in this to get pregnant. That’s it.

On the other hand . . . fuck it. I deserve a little fun once in a while. I get into my car, shut the door, and text him back with jittery hands: Okay, your place or mine?

His response comes quickly. You get right to the point, don’t you? How about dinner first?

I hesitate again. Dinner last week was nice, but maybe it was also a mistake. We’re not dating. Emmett isn’t my boyfriend. I should put the brakes on this relationship before it becomes anything more than a business transaction.

No thanks, I don’t think we should, I finally reply.

Come on, we gotta eat sometime. Can I tempt you with Los Platitos?

I frown down at my phone. Well, shit. Now the jerk is just playing dirty. I’m even weaker for tapas than I am for Mexican food, and that restaurant is my all-time favorite. How the hell does he know that? Or maybe we just have that in common.

My resolve wavers, then crumbles. Fine, you win. I’ll meet you there at six.

I pocket my phone and drive away, first to the pharmacy, then home. I can already tell I’ll have a hard time getting to sleep tonight . . . for a lot of reasons.