The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(36)

Planting my butt on the bench, I cursed them inwardly. I couldn’t be seen striking up conversation with Steve Locken now. People’d think I was pulling strings, cutting corners.

“You need Jesus.” Ross shook his head when he saw the longing in my face.

There’s only one problem with Steve Locken.

Well, two, if you count the fact that he is twenty-nine and my teacher.

He is also married.

“Belly-Belle? Time to get out.” Dad twists in his seat and pats my knee now. I jump, startled. Oh shit. Right. I’m with my family on a Sunday outing. I look out the window. We’re at Piers Park.

Tomorrow is Monday, which means early track practice in the woods.

Which means more Coach Locken time.

Which means bliss.

“Ah, look at the dreamy smile on her face. I miss those days when I was young,” Dad comments, pulling me out of my reverie. “What are you thinking about, sunshine?”

“Nothing.” I unsnap my seat belt.

Everything, I think as I make my way out of the car.





Turned out the ovulation kit I’d shelled out good money for at Walgreens was as necessary as sunscreen when taking a lengthy summer vacation on the sun.

Because that month, after Devon had come back from England, we had sex every single day. You know, just in case.

Actually, we sometimes had sex twice a day, which was totally unnecessary and yet too much fun. I knew this wasn’t something I’d revisit after I got pregnant, so I figured why not?

(Apparently, the answer to the question why not? could be found on medical sites. It explains that sperm count—and quality—decreases if couples do it every day. Joke’s on them, because Devon and I weren’t a couple).

We’d meet in the mornings, after he got back from his fencing sessions and before he went to work. Or during his lunch breaks. Or whenever I happened to get in my ten thousand steps per day by his office and decided to stop by to say hello.

Then again at night, after I was done with work.

We screwed in every position, every hour of the day.

Devon was always charming, cordial, and aloof. He accepted all my quirks and flaws, even when I was being deliberately unbearable to remind him that I was not marriable. At the same time, his detachment scared the bejesus out of me. I’d never seen a guy so out of touch with his feelings.

I figured from his phone calls whenever we were together that he was waiting for an important message from England. Something about his inheritance. He spoke to his mom on the phone. A lot. Cooing and doting on her in a way that made me happy he was going to be the father of my child.

Even when he spoke to his sister, he always used a calm, sweet tone that made my bones turn to mush. In a way, it was really cruel of him to be so kind. A girl could forget to keep her guard up with such a perfect guy. That girl, fortunately, wasn’t going to be me.

Nice men are still men. Don’t get close.

Though I tried really hard to keep Devon at arm’s length, I knew he was getting intimate glimpses into my life. Into my family. Into my story.

I didn’t like it.

Which was why when our arrangement hit the four-week mark, and I looked at the calendar and realized my period was a day late, I was filled with elation tinged with mortification.

There was a chance I was pregnant.

With a marquess’s heir.




I held off the pregnancy test for two more days, which took herculean effort.

Mainly, I was scared. Scared of a negative result—what if the hormones didn’t work—and scared of a positive result—a baby! I can’t take care of a whole freaking baby! I can barely take care of a chia pet. In fact, I did not take care of my last chia pet. Aisling took it from me at some point and tried to save it, but it was too far gone.

Finally, on the third day, I bit the bullet, marched into Walgreens, and purchased a pregnancy test. I treated myself to the bougie-ass one. The 99.99% fancy test, where it spells out the result for you. It dawned on me, on the way to checkout, that nothing was quite as frightening as a pregnancy test. Each woman who bought one had very strong feelings about what she wanted to see. Pregnancy was not like whole-wheat bread. You couldn’t be indifferent about it.

Either you really wanted to get pregnant.

Or you really didn’t want to get pregnant.

There was no middle ground.

When the cashier slipped the test through her scanner, I noticed her glancing at my bare wedding finger. She curved a judgmental brow.

Yeah, well, my kid is about to become English royalty, Karen.

Smiling extra wide, I said, “Isn’t that scary?”

“Depends on your situation,” she answered briskly.

“Yeah. Mine is not that bad. I only have to figure out who the father is.”

She paled. I laughed. I grabbed the plastic bag and darted to work. I locked myself in the restroom, trying not to remember all the times Devon had devoured me on my desk, my chair, and on my floor during the weeks we were trying for a baby.

Squatting over the toilet to pee on a stick, I decided to occupy myself by getting into my group chat with the girls while my pee worked its way along the pregnancy test.

The group was always super active, so all I really needed to do was jump in.

Sailor: Hunter wants to go to Cancun for the summer. Are y’all game?

Persy: sure. Just give me the dates and I’ll tell Cillian to block them off in his schedule.