Two weeks later

---

---

“Your equipment doesn’t look broken to me,” Vince declares, flat on his stomach on a rubber mat at this crappy dive gym he and Gerald insist we use to work out. Narrowed eyes the color of dirty bathwater look up at me from between my legs. I’m below parallel in the squat cage, trying my damnedest to lift more than Andrew.

So far, we’re tied.

I stand, needing Gerald’s spotting to rack the bar. “Something wrong with the squat cage?”

“No. It’s fine.”

“Then what equipment?”

“Yours. Andrew says you’ve decided to take the plunge. Asked me to make sure you’re okay,” Vince explains.

“Okay? And you’re checking my equip–wait a minute. You’re looking at my junk?”

“It’s how I know,” he says with a shrug.

“Know what?”

“Whether you’re shooting blanks.”

“You can look at a guy’s crotch and tell that?”

“It’s a gift.”

“I’d call it a curse.”

“That’s because you’re a pessimist.”

“And what the hell are you? The Junk Whisperer?”

“You make fun of an ancient practice. I am descended from five thousand years of shamans.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I never kid about my lineage. And you’re in luck.”

“Luck?”

“You have functioning equipment.”

“I know it functions. Functions fine. Overfunctions, in fact. Maximum capacity and more.” Gerald takes this moment to walk away, grabbing boxing gloves as he escapes.

Andrew makes an appearance at that moment, drinking oil straight out of a small container. “Vince says this stuff will boost my sperm count.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he tips the glass jar up high and sucks down the clear liquid.

“Why do you need more sperm?” I bark at him.

“You know.”

“No, little bro, I don’t know. Tell me.”

“Amanda, well... now that she sees you and Shannon trying, she’s begging me to have a baby, too.”

I’ve known Andrew since he was born. He’s a slick liar. I’ll give him that.

But I’m even better at spotting his bullshit.

“Really?” I play along, knowing from Shannon that it’s the opposite. Andrew’s competitive streak has kicked in and he’s turned babymaking into yet another way to try to beat me. “You two haven’t been married for very long.”

“You can’t measure readiness by that.”

“No, this is true.” I take a different approach. “You’re drinking oil to get your swimmers boosted,” I say, studying him. “Vince suggested it?”

“Yeah. Why?”

I look at Andrew’s junk. “Oh. No reason. Hey, Vince?”

“What?”

“Do I need to drink that?” I point to Andrew’s bottle.

Shaking his head, Vince says exactly what I’m hoping to hear.

“No. You’re fine.”

Andrew pauses, mid-chug, face going tight.

“Dec doesn’t need the oil? What do you mean he doesn’t need it?” Andrew challenges.

“His junk has plenty of swimmers in it. Yours need a little help.”

Have I mentioned how much I really like Vince?

“I don’t–I don’t need this. I want it,” Andrew argues. “This is my optimization protocol for conception. When my sperm hit Amanda’s eggs, we’re going to have prime children.”

“Children divisible by one and themselves?”

“Screw you, Dec. You know what I mean.” He turns to Vince with a pissed-off look and says, “I’m done drinking this oil, Vince.”

Vince looks at Andrew’s crotch. He closes his eyes. He opens them. He squints.

“What are you doing?” I ask just as Gerald comes back over, covered in sweat from boxing.

“Listening to Andrew’s future children.”

“You can hear them all the way up here?”

“If I concentrate really hard.”

“Why not bend down and get your ear right up against his balls?” I ask.

“Because I have standards,” Vince growls. “And besides, the sperm don’t like it when I get that close.”

Years of working in business and navigating people and their emotions gives me a window into intent. Vince is lying.

Andrew goes over to help Gerald and spot him as he bench presses what looks like the equivalent of the entire Kardashian clan in weight.

Or, at least, their combined egos.

“You aren’t listening for his sperm,” I say to Vince, low and firm. “You’re screwing with him.”

“He wouldn’t drink the high-performance muscle oil until I told him it would boost his sperm count. I just had to comment on how you’re winning the baby race. Then he started chugging it like a dehydrated frat boy.”

“You’re slick.”

“Andrew’s about to outlift you because of that oil.”

“Okay. Sure. But when it comes to producing sperm, I’m beating him.”

“That didn’t come out right, Declan.”

“What about you and Suzanne?” I call out to Gerald. Changing the subject is a time-honored tradition among men when they know they’re losing an argument. “Kids?”

“We’re raising a geriatric dog just fine. No kids just yet,” Gerald responds with an arched eyebrow, his tone cagey, his expression making it clear he’s trying to read my intentions.

“But you want them?” I press.

Gerald is my former bodyguard and driver. Now he just drives our father around, working part-time for Anterdec and expanding his hours devoted to teaching at a local community center and sculpting. A year or so ago, he reconnected with an old love, Suzanne, who is an estates and trusts lawyer and who happens to administer my late mother’s family trust.

“Eventually.” Gerald looks like a slab of concrete with eyes, a nose and a mouth. “You and Shannon trying?”

I nod.

“Good luck. You’ll make a great dad.”

“I’ve had such a marvelous role model,” I reply, my voice more sour than intended.

Andrew gives me a sharp look, opening his mouth to say something.

Then shutting it abruptly.

“Dad taught us the business. He didn’t teach us parenting,” I elaborate.

“No one teaches you parenting,” Andrew says.

“You can take parenting classes,” Gerald mentions. “We’ve hosted a few at the Westside Center. Mostly for teen moms and dads, but still.”

“I’m not talking about the mechanics of parenting. I can change a diaper,” I point out.

Gerald and Andrew burst into braying laughter.

“Until a few months ago, you couldn’t even pump your own gas for your car, Declan,” Gerald says, his voice turning low and amused, with a touch of mocking only he could pull off. As my former chauffeur and bodyguard, but now my friend, he has a unique insight into my life.

And that really sucks right now.

“You’re comparing apples and oranges.”

“Not really,” Andrew interjects. “Gas and baby poop both smell awful.”

“How would you know what either smell like?”

“Andrew! Get your ass in the squat cage,” Vince calls out. “You need to lift more than your brother.”

“Why?” I ask. “Why do we always have to compete?”

All motion in the room stops.

“That’s like asking why you have to breathe,” Gerald says slowly, gaze bouncing between me and Andrew.

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with competing. Just asking why we have to.” Inspiration strikes me. “I wonder if this is how Dad did teach us parenting.”

“Huh?” All three guys give me the same response.

“His brand of parenting was to pit us against each other,” I tell Andrew, layers of meaning hitting me at once.

“No,” Andrew corrects, putting chalk on the pads of his hands to get ready to lift. “That was business.”

“For Dad, teaching us the business was his parenting style.”

Holding a finger up to Vince to get him to wait, Andrew turns to me, eyes serious. We’re not competitors, suddenly. Not high-powered business executives jockeying for position.

We’re men.

We’re brothers.

“This conception stuff has you thinking. Philosophically, I mean,” Andrew notes, suddenly paying close attention to me.

“Of course. It’s powerful.”

“How? It’s just sex.”

I snort. “I thought so, too. Until I had sex where I tried to get her pregnant on purpose.”

Vince, Gerald, and Andrew all take a step closer to me.

“Bareback,” Vince whispers, like the word itself is holy.

Well, it is, but...

“No, it wasn’t that. We’ve had that for years because she’s on the pill. This was different. It was...” I lean in. “Everything.”

“Everything?” they ask in unison.

“Did it feel different? Mechanically, I mean?” Andrew asks.

“Mechanically?” Is he talking about sex toys?

“When you’re shooting your sperm into her and you have a goal. Does it aim better? Do the sperm just know it’s a free-for-all and they’re going for it?” Calculation gleams in my brother’s eyes. He’s not asking because he gives a shit about my emotional state.

He’s analyzing data for future victory.

“How the hell would I know? It’s not like I strap a GoPro to my nuts and videotape it. It isn’t an episode of Ninja Sperm Warrior.”

Murmurs between Vince and Andrew indicate they think that’s a cool possibility. I can practically hear them writing the pilot right now.

Gerald, the only obvious grown-up in the room–aside from me–puts his hand on my shoulder. “You’re trying to make a human being. An eight-pound, helpless baby who needs twenty-four hour care and nurturing only you and Shannon can provide.”

“Yes.” He gets it.

“Between that and the bareback sex, make it last, man.” He shakes his head slowly.

“Huh?”

“Once you get her pregnant, all the fun will end,” Vince says, as if that is a fact.

“No! That’s when the fun begins. The whole point of trying to conceive is the conception,” I protest.

“I thought all the sex was the point,” Andrew teases. “And once she’s pregnant, the sex ends.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Think about it, Dec,” he persists. “She gets pregnant. Morning sickness kicks in. Then they get hormonal and crazy.” His eyes go unfocused. “Although their breasts do get huge. So there’s an upside. I wonder how big Amanda’s will get when she’s–”

“What’s this ‘then they get’ shit? I know how to handle ‘hormonal and crazy.’ They’re already hormonal and crazy without being pregnant,” I point out.

“Not pregnant hormonal and crazy. You think PMS is bad? Just wait,” Andrew says with a knowing sigh.

“How would you know about any of this?” I turn on him. “You’ve never had a baby with anyone.”

“No. But Amanda won’t shut up about it lately. She’s making me watch these stupid reality television shows about birth. Do you have any idea how many women are out there in America having babies when they didn’t know they were pregnant? They all seem to eat at Applebee’s and go into labor. They think it’s stomach pains or food poisoning and then BAM! Seven-pound baby.”

Gerald laughs. Vince stays serious and says, “I love that show. And the other one, Naked and Afraid.”

“Those shows have absolutely nothing in common,” Andrew scoffs.

“Sure as hell do. I was there when my sister gave birth,” Vince says, his voice dropping into horror territory. “She was half naked and I was afraid.”

“That’s it!” I shout, grabbing my lifting gloves and heading to the shower. “I’m done. See you guys on Wednesday.” The testosterone laugh track fades as I reach the locker room.

I can’t let doubt creep in.

I won’t.

I’ve got Vince’s seal of approval for my nads. I’ve got a luscious wife at home who wants to have near-constant unprotected sex with me. I’ve got a new company to run, an exciting future, and all the room in the world to welcome a child.

Those guys don’t know what they’re talking about.

At all.

---

---

Tap, tap. I lightly spank my belly. “Anyone in there?” We’re at the Grind It Fresh! headquarters, sitting in the lounge in the middle of our respective offices. We relocated the corporate HQ here after buying the company. Making the decision to rent the space above the Boston Grind It Fresh! store wasn’t hard. Good neighborhood, great lease terms, a financial plan for full ownership of the building in a few years–it all made sense. And working directly above a coffee shop means the air smells like freshly brewed java all the time.

But.

But... the office is constantly changing, physically and operationally. Of course, you’re thinking–lots of change comes with acquiring a new business, and yes, that’s true. I knew what Declan was like at Anterdec. However, what I saw was filtered entirely through his assistant and mother figure, Grace.

What I never predicted was Declan’s all-consuming need for precision as CEO of his own large corporation.

And by precision, I mean control.

“Knock knock. Who’s there? We don’t know, that’s who,” I whisper to my belly button.

“I don’t think he’s going to answer. Definitely doesn’t have vocal cords yet if he even exists.” Declan’s right. We can’t test yet. It’s too early. But hearing my husband talk like this sends an emerging emotion coursing through me, an exotic, heady sense of the possible.

“He? Why do you assume the baby is a he?” I ask Dec, who is sitting with a tray of six tiny coffee cups in front of him, each sitting on a small card with scribbles as we test various blends.

“All babies are he until you know otherwise. All cats are she, all dogs are–”

“Chuckles is a he.”

“Chuckles is the Antichrist.”

“Who is predicted to be a man.”

“You’ve got me there.”

“How about I get you here.” I reach between his legs.

His hand moves to my breast. “And I’ll get you here,” he replies, kissing my neck. His other hand fills with a generous amount of my ass. “And here.” Coffee breath surrounds me, the scent a mix of cherries, smokehouse, and aged oak.

“It is day nineteen,” I say.

Declan freezes. “Day nineteen?”

“Yes. We need to have sex every other day between days ten and twenty, so... Okay. We can do it. Let’s go.”

“There’s a schedule?”

“Yes.”

“But what if I want you on a day other than ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, or twenty?”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry?” As he sits up, my hand slides off him, the cold snap of broken contact filling me with a strange discomfort. “You’re saying no? Sex is all about time management now?”

“You need to build up your sperm. It’s not my choice. It’s basic biology.”

“Shannon. Come on. You’re joking.”

“Not joking. I’ve read all the books. We want to have a baby. This is how it works. Thirty-six to forty-eight hours between sex sessions is optimal for sperm count.”

“I’ll bet you know exactly how many hours it’s been since I last let my sperm loose upon your unsuspecting eggs.”

Damn it. He’s right. “Thirty-one and a half,” I admit.

“This isn’t like building muscle, where you have leg days and arm days and worry about HIIT and optimization. This is sex,” Declan counters.

“Sex for procreation,” I point out.

“No, Shannon. It’s just sex. Sex I want. Sex I need. Your writhing, naked, creamy thighs closing out the rest of the world while I give you pleasure. The unbound relinquishing of our bodies with each other. The feeling of warm homecoming when you open your legs to me and I come in, knocking hard on the door to your body and heart. The way your chest flushes red between your breasts and collarbone, so luscious I have to stop and kiss it mid-thrust, even if it delays my own pleasure. That is sex.”

“Yes,” I say with a gasp. “Yes, it is.” Boy, did it get hot in here or what?

“I don’t care if it’s day nineteen or day two hundred, if I want you, I’ll tell you. And if you want me back, then we show each other what we need. I’m not going to sleep with you on a timetable more precise than a Swiss train schedule.”

I move into his lap, straddling him, the fine grain of his suit pants tickling my bare legs as I rearrange my skirt, the thin cotton of my panties rubbing against his very obvious erection.

“Is that an order?”

His eyes light with an excitement that pushes my own up, up, up to the sky. “I am your boss, after all.”

“Barely. You’re CEO. I’m COO.”

“I like the way you coo.”

“Is this a performance review?” As I touch him, he inhales sharply, head thrown back, eyes closed. His grip on my waist tightens, one hand sliding up for my breast, the rough way he cups me sending a shiver along my spine.

In the distance, a phone rings. It’s mine or his. I jolt.

“Ignore it,” he demands, his hands making it so easy.

Another phone from the opposite direction.

“Dec,” I insist, starting to pull back. “We should answer it. What’s your schedule like? Do you have an–”

“I love working with you,” he whispers, his hand on the back of my neck, pulling me to him for a hot kiss. Our mouths continue the sentiment, the rough tweed of the sofa’s upholstery dragging against my bare knees, his heat making me not care. A wall of glass behind us lets the sun shine in, peeking down the long street that leads to the harbor at the edge of Boston. We’re in a corporate environment but might as well be back in bed at home, Declan’s hands making fast work of unbuttoning my top, the chill of being disrobed interwoven with his hot lips on my shoulder, my neck, palms burning to touch more of me.

We can do this.

We own the company. We own our time. We’re in charge, in control, with complete and utter freedom to do what we want, when we want, where we want.

It’s so good to be the boss.

I press into his lap, his erection riding along the softer, throbbing parts of me, and an ache–new and emergent–rises up into my heart.

I want him in me.

Here.

I want his baby in me.

Now.

A fracas in some distant room stops our kiss, Declan’s warm skin pausing against mine.

“I told you,” says a gruff voice. Is that Dave? Dave the barista from downstairs? “They’re working, but dude, you can’t just barge in here and demand–”

As if he planned it in advance, Declan lifts me out of his lap, stands while I’m balanced in his arms, and pivots with an achingly perfect grace–

–to throw me on the thickly carpeted spot right behind the couch, just as Dave appears in the doorway, frowning. He can’t see me.

Buttoning up my shirt with hands so shaky, they might as well be frothing attachments, I catch bits and pieces of the exchange between Dec and Dave as I fume, ready to jump up and give my husband a piece of my mind.

And not my piece of ass.

“Look, man, I tried, but this guy insists he has an eleven o’clock with you,” Dave says as Dec takes deep breaths that I recognize are all about resuming control of his body.

“Eleven?” Declan’s surprise shines through in the single word. “I don’t have an appoint...” Like a child’s wind-up toy losing energy, his voice spirals down until he mutters a curse word.

“I told you!” I crow from my place on the carpet.

“Shannon?” Dave starts to walk toward me, but I see his feet jerk in place.

“Hi!” I chirp as I stand, my shirt still a mess but all the important parts covered. The vision before me is pretty intense. Declan’s grabbing Dave’s arm, Dave is staring at Declan’s intruding hand, and in the distance, out of focus, is a giant asshole.

No, not a literal, puckered anus. But close. Is that Mr. I’m Important?

“What is he doing here?” I hiss at Dave as I finger-comb my hair and hope no one can see my racing heart beating against the flushed skin of the breasts Declan was just playing with. My nipples tingle and oddly enough, it makes me wonder:

Is that an early pregnancy sign?

“Milk?” Declan asks suddenly, as if he’s reading my mind.

“I don’t think so,” I reply, bewildered. “I mean, my nipples feel really weird, like electric zings are coming through the edges, but I doubt I’m making milk yet.”

Dave and Declan both look at me like I’ve gone mad.

“What?” I turn on Declan and get in his face, smelling coffee and sex. The sex part makes no sense, because we didn’t even get close, but it comes to me anyhow, like a cruel olfactory tease. “You asked about milk!”

“Not breastmilk,” he says slowly, eyes drifting down to my chest. “Milk. For the coffee chain.”

“This is why you need an assistant, Declan! You’re not making any sense.”

Dave’s eyebrows go up, making him look like an alarmed bear. “I think I can piece together what’s going on. Either you two are into lacterotica re-enactments, or Declan’s lack of an assistant means he forgot about a scheduled eleven o’clock appointment with a dairy supplier.”

“Yes,” I reply.

“That doesn’t clarify,” Dave answers, his words peevish. “Which one is it? Perverts or forgetful?”

Dec ignores us and walks smoothly into his office, hand extended for a shake. “Declan McCormick. I take it you’re Paul Ormond, from LD International?”

My hand pauses mid-comb, the strands of my messy hair like slamming on the brakes of a car as my fingers halt.

I blink.

That can’t be–

I look.

No way.

It is. It is Mr. I’m Important. I was right.

Charm radiates out as he smiles, tilting his head in a practiced way, matching Declan’s body language down to the squaring of shoulders. Mimics do this. They appropriate gestures and mannerisms from the people they’re trying hard to impress. Taking a piece of someone else and turning it into a seed you quickly fertilize and water to create your own sprouted plant, a clone, a copy, is a tried-and-true sales method.

But this is more.

Déjà vu hits me, the world turning into a vapor wave. Dave is at my side in an instant, his beard tickling my forehead as I lean against him and he guides me to the leather chair next to the sofa.

“Shannon,” he murmurs. “What’s wrong?”

Dave smells like sandalwood and cocoa butter, his maleness stark and weird. No man other than Declan gets close to me like this. Even quick hugs from my dad, my father-in-law, and brothers-in-law aren’t this intimate. But the look in Dave’s eyes gives me pause.

He’s not crossing any boundaries. He’s just very worried.

“I’m fine,” I say, waving him off. As I watch Paul and Declan do the business foreplay I’ve come to understand, the joking banter that gives each man the chance to assess the other before going deeper, I realize I’m dizzy for a reason.

And not because I’m pregnant.

“Asshole,” I say, the word a sigh.

“He sure is,” Dave concurs, giving me more space. “Guy bullied his way up here.” From the way Dave mentions that right off the bat, it’s clear it took some arm twisting and intense assholery from Paul to accomplish that with Dave.

“He’s the same man from a few weeks ago. Downstairs, right? The one with the brogrammers who cut in front of Shelby,” I point out, my question less about needing reinforcement and more out of surprise.

Dave looks behind him at the guy, then at me. “Yep. Same guy. I knew I recognized him from somewhere, but couldn’t put my finger on it. Sounds like Declan forgot about the appointment.”

“I guess? He doesn’t have an assistant, so...”

“Plenty of executives function just fine without one,” Dave says with reproach.

“Not Declan. CEO of an international coffee chain and all that.”

“You don’t have an assistant.”

“I don’t want one, yet. But Dec needs one.”

“You make it sound like he’ll die without one.”

I don’t reply.

“Oh, c’mon. No one who gets to the level Declan McCormick is at can be so dependent on an assistant,” Dave scoffs.

I stay silent.

“Seriously?”

This is killing me, but I just sigh.

“Huh. Who knew?”

“Look. Grace was great.”

“Who’s Grace?”

“His former assistant. She was his father’s assistant at Anterdec, and became Dec’s assistant when James retired. Now she’s retired, and the transition is a bit much.”

“People change assistants all the time.”

“Declan isn’t ‘people.’ And neither was Grace. She was special.”

“How special?”

“You ever hear the story of Greyfriars Bobby?”

“What?”

“Declan has this Scottish cousin who told us a famous legend the last time he was in town. Greyfriars Bobby was a Skye terrier whose master died. The poor little dog spent the rest of its life–fourteen years–sitting by his master’s grave, waiting for him to return. The dog died waiting.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Right. Dec is basically that little dog, waiting for Grace to return.”

“Grace died?”

“No, no. Grace is in the Galapagos Islands right now, swimming with pink dolphins, having a blast with her rugby-playing wife.”

“Declan can’t get over losing Grace, right? That’s your point.”

“Yes.”

“CEOs should be adaptable. It’s the number one trait someone in a leadership position needs to possess in the twenty-first century. Flexibility is the new black.”

“Why is everything the new black? Can’t black just be black? And Declan is plenty flexible.”

“TMI,” Dave growls. I look at him and blink, over and over, because while the words are the same that my old colleague Josh might have used, back when we worked for Consolidated Evalu-Shop with Amanda and our boss Greg, Dave is about as different from Josh as I am from, well...

Paul.

“I wasn’t commenting on my sex life with my husband,” I scoff.

“Good. Because I wasn’t asking. I’m simply pointing out that if my boss can’t live a life where he manages without an assistant, it doesn’t inspire confidence.”

“Declan doesn’t need your confidence, Dave. The company needs your skills.”

“You don’t get one without the other, Shannon. That’s not how business works.”

“Don’t tell me how business works, buddy. I’m your boss, too. Declan and I own the company together.”

“Of course,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning down, bringing his beard along for the ride. “We all recognize that you’re a team. Grind It Fresh! is a team, too. How bad is it?”

“How bad is what?”

“Declan’s schedule. His planning. An executive at his level, with no history of running his own calendar, is going to crash and burn if he doesn’t figure this out soon. I assume HR is working on hiring a replacement?”

“HR has tried,” I say primly, eyes darting between Dec and Paul’s conversation and this increasingly byzantine conversation with Dave the anarchist. The man hand-grinds cocoa beans with a mortar and pestle made at a stone quarry in Nepal, imported by Buddhist nuns who compete in international chess tournaments.

Why does he care about my husband’s calendar?

A wave of nostalgia for my old job back with Greg, Amanda, and Josh comes out of nowhere, like an errant wave crashing a seawall, obscured by sea smoke during a cold snap. It leaves me gasping, breathless, revealed.

“Is the guy that hard to work for?” Dave sounds intrigued. “He seems pretty cool.” Pretty cool, coming from Dave, is high praise.

“No,” I say, my voice high and reedy. I sound like Twilight Sparkle in a particularly cheesy My Little Pony episode. “It’s just that Declan needs an old-fashioned assistant.”

“Like, fetch him coffee and light his cigarettes for him? Make him highballs and find his slide rule?”

“Ha ha. More like handle every logistical detail for him. Be ready to problem-solve with a single phone call or text. You know.”

“Why doesn’t he just get an AI assistant?”

“What kind of assistant?”

“There are apps that can do what Declan needs.”

“Apps? You think you can replace Grace with an app?”

“I never met Grace, so don’t get all weird and accuse me of saying negative things about her. I’m just saying that I’ll bet ninety percent of what Declan needs are repetitive tasks that an artificial intelligence program could manage for him.”

“You mean a robot?”

“No, I mean code. Code is the new–”

“Don’t you dare say black!”

“–way to manage executive functioning,” he says, voice winding down slowly, giving me a look that has an edge so sharp, I’m pretty sure I’m bleeding.

“An app cannot replace a person,” I protest.

“Not replace. Augment.”

“You think Declan could train an app to meet all his needs?”

In an instant, Dave’s hands are in the air, palms out, mouth tight and face pulled back like a turtle’s, a universal expression of protest. “Whoa, whoa, I never said that!”

“Dave, I didn’t mean all his needs.”

“Sexbots have come far, but not that far,” he adds.

“Now who’s offering up too much information?”

A pause button is pressed between us. No one moves. A few breaths pass, and then I hear Declan say loudly, “Let me introduce you to my business partner, Shannon.”

Dave shoots me a deeply sympathetic look. “That guy was a total prick at the store a few weeks ago.”

“You left before the worst of it.”

“It got worse?”

Before I can answer, Declan’s next to me, his eyes appraising my appearance, making sure there’s no lingering evidence of our near-tryst from a few minutes ago. I, on the other hand, don’t care what I look like.

I care how I’m being looked at.

“Hello,” Paul says to me with a disinterested, tight smirk. “Here to take our coffee order?”

When a piece of string is pulled tight, the tension creates a momentary vibration. It’s almost a hum. Depending on what the string is made of–hemp, plastic, metal, cotton–the hum has a different note, the ear able to distinguish between the raw materials used to make the end product.

Declan is a flesh-and-blood humming string of nothing but vigilant disgust right now. A protective hand goes to the small of my back, his hip edging closer to me, body turning a few degrees to give me cover.

“You’ve met.” Not quite a question, but definitely not friendly, Declan’s words make Paul jolt. For a split second, his facade ripples.

“She’s the assistant manager downstairs. I told you my programming team came here with me to case the joint.” Wink. “I didn’t send you an email about the poor service she gave. And your milk sucks.”

“Assistant manager,” Declan repeats, letting the words hang in the air, the taut string that is Declan splitting sound itself until he’s two parallel flat and sharp notes, the cacophony making me avoid eye contact. A sideways glance shows me one of Dec’s eyebrows is raised a few millimeters, the question clear. Except Declan’s question isn’t What the hell is this guy talking about?

It’s This guy has been an asshole to you before, hasn’t he?

And oh, the difference between those two questions. My answer is a nuclear missile button. All I have to do is nod.

So I do.

“Paul. Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Shannon,” Declan says, his hand moving from its position at the base of my spine to my hip, cupping it, making sure I know I’m safe with him as much as claiming my true identity.

“Your wife?”

Smirks are so underrated. Mine feels great as I step out of Declan’s demilitarized zone and straight into the trenches. My hand is stretched out, palm vertical, thumb up, ready for a handshake I really don’t want–because who wants to touch a jerk?–as I say, “Shannon McCormick. Co-owner of the company. Remember? I tried to tell you Declan had a co-owner, but you...” I bite my lower lip and give him a narrow look. “...knew better.”

“What?” He ignores my hand, face pale and brow low with confusion. His mask slips. It always does for these guys. “You told me your name was–I don’t even remember. Something else. You lied to me.” He looks at Declan, anger taking over. “What kind of business are you running? Why would your wife...”

Instinct kicks in. Paul stops himself, the mask re-positioning itself as if it’s made up of thousands of tiny worms, all assembling just so, making the whole. Being wrong is the ultimate sin for guys like this. They can’t be wrong, so anger floods them when the truth is in front of them. I know how Paul works. I lived with my ex for a long time. I also know how Declan works, and at the rate Paul is going, not only will his company not get a single penny in contracts from Grind It Fresh!, Declan will make sure that LD International is on Anterdec’s shit list, too.

“Shannon,” Paul says, smoothly taking my offered hand, his palm soft and dry, like touching the shed husk of a snake’s cast-off skin, “we got off to a rather rocky start, didn’t we?”

“Sounds like you did,” Declan says to him menacingly, eyes on our linked hands. Eyes are windows into the soul. When Paul looks back at Declan, whatever he sees makes him drop my hand immediately and take two steps backwards.

I sigh. It’s a sound of recognition. It’s a sound of an accumulation of past insults in the same category as this, because unfortunately, Paul isn’t original. It’s a sound that represents the freedom to have an emotional reaction in the moment. It’s a sound that predicts what Declan’s about to say.

Mostly, though, I sigh because I’ve been holding my breath and didn’t know it.

“Look, Shannon pretended to be the assistant manager downstairs a few weeks ago when your staff screwed up. I don’t know what kind of game this is, but I’ve apologized–”

“No. You haven’t.” Declan’s words are venom.

“–and I don’t even need to apologize,” Paul continues. “But it’s silly to let a misunderstanding get in the way of an eight-figure deal.”

“Nine,” Declan says simply. “By 2020, we’re looking at nine figures annually for our dairy needs.”

Paul’s Adam’s apple bobbles.

Declan looks at a watch that isn’t there on his wrist, then gives Paul a polite smile that doesn’t have a hope of reaching his eyes. “We have another appointment, Paul. I’m sure you understand.”

That’s Declanspeak for You screwed up, buddy.

“Declan. Shannon,” Paul says, moving his hands so his palms press against his chest in a gesture of surprising submission. “I am a man of reason. A man of business. I can tell I’ve upset you.” His eyes are on Declan the whole time. A tingle rises up my back, from tailbone to between my shoulder blades, trickling up as if someone is pouring water backwards, gravity reversed.

I know what he’s doing.

Staring at Declan, he says, “Shannon, I regret our misunderstanding downstairs. You of all people understand that customer service is key in our business. I thought you were someone else. I was,” he chuckles, the sound a precise imitation of self-effacement, “thinking of your company’s best interests. Obviously, the case of mistaken identity didn’t go well.”

Finally, Paul turns his attention to me. More charm radiates from him, like he’s got an infrared system aimed right at whatever part of me influences the decision to do business with his company. All power inside him is focused on getting me to come over to his side. In this moment, that’s his entire reality: creating whatever narrative inside his head and with his mouth that gets him to the goal line. It’s all about him.

It always is.

“Still not an apology,” Declan says, voice low, each word a distinct, clipped sound, a guillotine blade being dropped.

“It absolutely is,” Paul argues, those hands on his chest changing shape, one dropping, the presence of a single palm now signaling his own offense. Sympathy floods me, the feeling unorthodox and shocking. I feel bad for him. He doesn’t understand what he’s done.

Not only does he not care about hurting other people, he doesn’t understand he’s doing it.

“It doesn’t matter,” Declan says, his arm moving, hand and wrist a flick of dismissal. Declan gets it. “We’re done.”

Paul makes a huffing sound of outrage. “Because your wife pretended to be someone else in your store downstairs?”

“Because you were a dick to my staff,” Declan shoots back.

“You confuse high standards with being a dick,” Paul counters. Behind him, I see Dave in the doorway, mouthing the words You okay?

I just shrug. Because yes, I’m fine. I mean, Declan’s right here. But am I okay?

I don’t know.

“Don’t call us, Paul. We’ll call you.” Declan turns me away from the man, our backs the final insult. That’s it. No conflict. When you have all the power, you don’t need to use it.

“I’ll see you out,” Dave says from behind us, his voice remarkably cheery. Buoyant, even. For a grousing anarcho-primitivist curmudgeon, he sure can code-shift quickly. “Our barista downstairs, Andres, even made your favorite drink in a to-go cup.”

Paul’s protests fall on deaf ears as Declan firmly brings me into the lounge between our offices and quietly, effortlessly closes the door. A slow head shake and somber body language greets me. Normally fierce when he’s defending me, Declan’s behavior rolls out second by second, deepening to something gravid and mournful.

“Good riddance to egotistical rubbish,” I chirp, trying to lighten the mood.

“You deal with that crap all the time, don’t you?” he says slowly, chin lifting up, eyes meeting mine with military precision. They’re blazing green, wide with fury, the flash of emotion intense and bright like a shooting star.

“Guys like that? Sure. I mean, Steve was like that.”

“Right.” His finger traces a line along the seam of the leather couch, his footsteps languid. Pensive and deep in thought, yet clearly brimming with emotion, Declan becomes an enigma.

I can’t stop watching.

“But you deal with men who dismiss you. Minimize you. Turn you into whatever stereotype they have in their mind before you even get a chance. And even that–‘get a chance.’ Get a chance to prove yourself, to display knowledge, to provide insight. You have to prove yourself. It’s a given for you.”

He’s plumbing hard doctrine here. I’m not sure what to say. When in doubt, go with the truth.

Finding that truth isn’t so cut and dried, though.

“Yes. I had to do it with you.”

Wrong answer.

The change in his body is extraordinary, his tightly controlled movements suddenly open and expansive. As he turns to face me, his shoulders drop, head tilts, eyes go soft with confusion.

And disbelief.

“With me?”

“With you. When we first met.”

“Finding you in the toilet stall with–”

“Not then. In the meeting later that day. When we closed the mystery shopping deal between Consolidated Evalu-shop and Anterdec.”

“I treated you with nothing but respect as a fellow business person.”

“You called me Toilet Girl in front of my boss, your father, and your brother, Declan. That’s hardly ‘respect.’”

A grin pulls at his lips. “I was surprised it was you! That the same woman I’d met that morning at the bagel store, with her hand down a toilet and the ends of her hair wet, was suddenly in front of me at my own company’s table. I’d thought about you all day, and...” He sighs. “You know the rest.”

“I do.” I reach for his hand with my own left one, intentionally, so our wedding rings will connect. “But you asked me about proving myself in business. I’m being honest.”

“You’re saying I’m like him?” He points to the door, referencing Paul. “I reject that. Categorically.”

“I never said that, Declan.”

“But when you’re working with men, you start from the assumption that you have to prove yourself?”

“Not quite. It’s more that when I work with men, I start with the assumption that they think I have to prove myself.”

“Jesus.”

“He, remarkably, doesn’t have conditions regarding me.”

“Sounds like he’s the only guy who doesn’t. Other than your husband.”

“You have plenty of conditions I have to meet,” I reply with a smile. “Fortunately, they’re all conditions I enjoy.”

“I don’t like this,” he says, troubled. “I don’t like the way that guy treated you just now. I don’t like the idea that you walk into a business meeting with baggage no man has to carry. I don’t like the idea that women come into business situations with me and assume I have a different set of standards for them than I do for a man.”

“It’s reality.”

“Then we need to change reality.”

I go silent. I don’t say it, but I think to myself how odd this is. I’ve never thought of Declan as an idealist. Or naïve.

It’s both cute and bizarre.

Mostly bizarre.

Our phones buzz simultaneously as my eyes graze over the couch where, just fifteen minutes or so ago, we were close to making love.

“It’s Dave,” we say in unison.

Tap tap tap.

“Come in,” I call out, beating Declan to the punch.

Dave enters, eyes wary but bold. “Got rid of him. He’s an ass. Always has been.”

“Always?” Declan perks up, studying Dave with renewed interest. “What do you mean, ‘always’?”

“He’s been in here on and off for the last few months. Asking questions about our milk and cream. I figured out quickly who he was. Business development for a dairy-farming conglomerate. Mr. Big Deal. Dime-a-dozen guy in business school.”

“You went to business school?”

“Sort of.”

“Where?”

“Wharton.”

“Nice. What did you do there?”

“Experienced a deep existential crisis. Developed an interest in agriculture. Rejected corporatism.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“They are when you spend seven months living in a redwood to protect it.”

“THAT kind of ‘interest in agriculture.’”

“Right.”

“You get arrested for that?”

“Several times.”

“Ever finish your MBA?”

“I got a master’s degree in a different subject.”

“Which is...?”

“Folklore.”

“What the hell do you do with a graduate degree in folklore?”

Dave smirks. “You work as a barista and make artisanal chocolate in your bathtub.”

Declan makes a half-scoff, half-laugh sound that I’ve never heard before.

“Look, Shannon told me about your assistant problems,” Dave begins.

“My what?”

“You need to get a handle on it. I found some apps that can help.”

“I don’t need apps. I need a competent, capable professional who can perform at the executive level.”

“What’s stopping you from hiring one?” Dave challenges.

I snort.

“You said you have apps?” Just as Declan asks Dave that question, my phone buzzes again. It’s Amanda.

Lunch? her text reads. Thursday?

My calendar app says I have an appointment with a paper cup supplier.

Sorry, I text back. Paper cups are more important than you.

As long as I’m not bumped by tampon machines, I’ll still be your BFF, she responds.

I don’t tell her Friday is the tampon machine meeting.

How about Saturday? Get together with the guys? I ask. Declan and Andrew see each other regularly at the gym, but we don’t get many nights out with other couples.

Nope. Next Wednesday? she texts back.

How about next Saturday? I ask.

My period is due in nine days. She knows this. Or, at least, she should know this. Since Declan and I started trying, it’s all I’ve been fixated on. If I get my period on Wednesday, then I’ll be a weeping mess.

By next Saturday, though, I should be recovered.

Mostly.

Let me check with Andrew. Hang on, she says. I wait.

Sure, she types back.

Where? Your new house? Yes, I’m inviting us over. Sisters-in-law can do that. As a wedding present, Andrew bought the McCormick family estate in Weston, Massachusetts. Declan bought me a nationwide coffee chain. These guys are subtle.

Fine. We have the wine. You bring the sushi, she orders.

If I’m pregnant, I won’t be able to eat sashimi. I’ll have to stick to cooked fish. No wine. Every decision in my life takes on a completely new meaning when I consider pregnancy. My hand flutters to my belly as Dec and Dave talk shop over Declan’s smartphone screen. I hear words like “concierge” and “legal research” and “efficiency protocols” and “third-party integration,” but all of it fades as blood rushes to my ears, pounding like a second heartbeat.

A second heartbeat.

Deal, I text back with hands that shake. A warm glow diffuses through me, pores tingling, my nipples suddenly hard and on alert. Flushed skin ripples along like I’ve turned on a motherboard, circuits connecting. I stand still, enjoying the sensation. Separated from meaning, it just is, a physiological response to some emotion I don’t understand.

I like it.

I like feeling so much.

“What are you smiling about?” Declan asks, breaking his conversation with Dave. “You look...” His voice tapers off.

“Joyful,” Dave interjects.

“Joyful,” I repeat, almost on the edge of tears. Instead of crying, I straighten my shoulders and smile at them both. “That’s a good word.”

Declan’s eyes lock with mine.

Joyful it is.