A sleek black car glides to a halt in front of the Blind Pig’s entrance and a tall, lean man wearing a subdued green and black uniform gets out from the driver’s side. He stands beside the rear passenger door, head tipped down, legs slightly splayed, and hands clasped behind his back.

“What fresh hell is this?” I push back from the table, determined to give the driver a piece of my mind. I have enough problems to deal with. I don’t need anyone thinking that my bar makes the perfect pickup place whenever anyone needs a ride.

Paul halts me with a hand on the arm. “It’s for me.”

“What?”

“It’s a private car. I just ordered it a few minutes ago.”

That must have been what he was doing while he was playing with his phone.

“But you just got here. We have a lot to talk about. And now, what? You’re planning on running off?”

“No.” Paul’s hand slides down my arm, past my wrist, and catches hold of my hand. He threads his fingers through mine. I try not to think about how right it feels.

“I’m not running off. The car is for you. I want to get you checked out by a doctor. Make sure you and your baby are okay. Now, where’s your coat?”

The gesture was probably designed to make me feel charmed, and under most circumstances I probably would be, but instead of thinking he’s the sweetest guy in the world I’m feeling mutinous. “I don’t need one.”

“Have you been outside? It’s December. In Chicago. It’s freezing out there.”

I glare at him. “The only reason you think so is because you’re from freaking North Carolina. You don’t know anything about being cold. Today is quite balmy.”

Paul looks like he wants to argue but seems to decide it’s a fight he doesn’t want to engage in. “Fine. The car should be warm enough.”

Pleased to have won this round, I silently preen as he leads me to the door.

The ice-cold wind slams into me the second I step out of the Blind Pig. Instantly I’m regretting my decision to forgo my jacket, but there’s no way I’m going to let Paul know I’ve changed my mind. Setting my jaw, I lock the door while Paul and the driver patiently wait.

Sliding into the car is like slipping into a foreign world. I run my hands along butter-soft leather seats. The vents exhale hot air over me, chasing away the chill brought on by the wind. It smells like new car and … I sniff, dark chocolate. Tiny white twinkle lights are attached to the ceiling, the light bouncing off the leaves of the tiny sprigs of ivy that have been glued to the bottom of the privacy glass that separates the back seat from the front.

It’s a far cry from the city buses I usually rely on whenever I need to run errands.

Paul slides in beside me and closes the door. I turn to him.

“Just how successful is your business?”

He quirks a brow. “What do you mean?”

“You chartered a last-minute flight here, you practically conjured this car out of thin air, you stayed at the Philistine Hotel which just so happens to be the swankiest place in town, and you didn’t flinch when I served you top-shelf whiskey the night I met you.”

I tick each item off on my fingers. “And this car isn’t your ordinary town car; it’s the super fancy, super pricy, deluxe model. So just how rich are you?”

Paul hesitates, taking just enough time before answering to make me tense. “I run a fairly successful software design company.”

Talk about a non-answer. I shove aside my instinct to probe, and settle in to enjoy the ride as the car pulls away from the curb.

The trip from the Blind Pig to the fertility clinic ends almost as quickly as it begins. Before I started getting sick all the time, I would have been able to walk there in less time than it took Paul to arrange for the car.

I recognize the elegant, modern, uber-expensive building the second the car slides to a halt in front of it.

“Loving Embrace Fertility. Really?”

Paul shoots me a sideways look. “They have the best reputation in just about every single area of pregnancy, from fertilization to birth, of any other clinic in the country. Why would I choose to go somewhere else?”

He’s not wrong.

Loving Embrace Fertility is one of the best. Everyone who lives in Chicago is thrilled that it’s here, and as a business owner in the area, I know it is responsible for bringing all sorts of wealthy people to the neighborhood. Most go to the clinic for treatments or advice and eventually make their way to the Blind Pig.

Like Paul did.

“This is where you came for a surrogate?”

Paul’s hand finds the small of my back and he guides me up the sidewalk. His touch singes my skin through my clothes, until it’s all I can think about.

“I’ve been here before.” The words tumble from my mouth before I even realize I’m thinking them.

“Really?” I don’t have to look at Paul to know he’s looking at me, his eyes bright with curiosity. “Why?”

“It was an open house, about”—I pause a second to think about it—“it must have been six or seven months ago. I was renovating the Pig and had heard so much about this place, I wanted to check it out.”

“And,” Paul prompts.

“It was nice.”

Really nice. Way too nice for jeans and a sweatshirt that dates back to my high school days. Paul should have told me he was bringing me to the crème-de-la-crème of fertility clinics. Had he, I would have changed into something more appropriate for the setting.

“I thought so,” Paul agrees. “They have a reputation for being the best, and that’s exactly what I wanted for my child.”

His words remind me why we’re here. The baby we’ve both just learned about. The funny thing is, when I saw the results of that first pregnancy test, I remembered the tour I’d taken of this very place and thought about how nice it would be to have them oversee mine and the child’s upcoming medical needs. Not only are they the best, they are also close enough to the Blind Pig to make keeping appointments easy. Unlike my doctor, who is halfway across Chicago – and a long ride on public transportation – away from me.

But this is a private clinic, way beyond my financial means, or would be if Paul wasn’t the father, because apparently, even though he refuses to share any information, money isn’t an issue for him the way it is for us mere mortals.

My stomach quivers. Bile rises in my throat. I skid to a stop and close my eyes, pouring all my concentration into convincing my unpredictable stomach to relax.

“Lara?” Paul moves in closer, his arm sliding from the small of my back to wrap securely around my waist. “Are you okay?”

“Upset stomach,” I explain between long, steady breaths. “I really don’t want to get sick here.”

“Ahh.” He pulls the door open and ushers me in. “I’m sure they’re used to that kind of thing. Lots of pregnant women about.”

“That doesn’t make the idea of puking on their floor any less embarrassing,” I hiss.

Even if I hadn’t met enough Loving Embrace clients to know what type of people they cater to, the lobby would have told me. It’s all done up in muted shades of pink, blue, and gray. Expensive paintings—I’m guessing they’re not reprints—hang from the walls. Magazines like GQ, Forbes, and National Geographic are artfully arranged on low tables. None look like they’ve been actually read.

On the east side of the room there’s a fish tank that’s so big it nearly obscures the wall behind it. A little boy, maybe three or four years old, stands before it, his eyes wide as he takes in the antics of a pair of clown fish that are chasing one another through a sunken castle. With the exception of the receptionist, there aren’t any adults in the room.

I eyeball the child. “Do you think he’s some sort of marketing gimmick?” I whisper.

“What are you talking about?” Paul guides me deeper into the room.

“You know, use our services and get a child as cute as this one.”

Chuckling, Paul helps me into a chair. I take a couple of deep breaths even though, for now at least, the ever-present nausea seems to have abated a bit.

“You sit tight,” he says. “I’ll go talk to the receptionist and arrange to have the doctor check you out.”

“Fine.” I let my head rest on the chair’s soft back and close my eyes. “Do whatever you want.”