The Rake (Boston Belles 4)

There were so many makes-or-breaks that would remain a mystery to me.

And there was something else. Something I couldn’t stop thinking about, even though I knew it was a recipe for disaster.

Devon Whitehall’s suggestion.

“Oh-oh. We’re losing her again. I feel like I’m in a bad episode of Grey’s Anatomy.” Sailor threw a tempura shrimp into her mouth.

“They were all bad, and highly inaccurate, medically speaking,” Aisling chimed in.

“Belle.” Persy propped her chin on my shoulder, her baby blues shining full of concern. “Is everything okay?”

I put my wine glass down. “I forgot to mention there’s another option.”

Aisling slanted her head to the side. “You know God is not going to do you the same solid he did the Virgin Mary, right?”

“Duh. I’ve been such a bad Christian, I’ve got a better chance of banging a stork.” I rolled my eyes.

“What do you mean, then?” Sailor sat straighter, using the pad of her finger to swipe the remainder of her food from the container, putting it to her lips.

I toyed with a lock of my braided hair. I was in a pink satin pajama set that said You Look Like I Need a Drink.

“Devon Whitehall offered his services—and dick. He basically said he’d love to have an heir, but doesn’t want to get married. In return, he’d help me out financially and co-parent. That’s so cringe, right?”

“Holy shit.” Sailor slapped a hand over her mouth. “Isn’t he, like, a duke?”

“A marquess,” I corrected, as if I had any idea what that meant. “I don’t think he is. Not yet, anyway.”

“What he is is a millionaire, smart, and a study in hotness. What are you doing sifting through college students’ profiles when an offer like that is on the table?” Aisling demanded. “It’s unlike you, Belle. You’re usually the street smart one.”

True, I wanted to say. And because I’m smart, I know better than to give a man like Devon the keys to my life.

“Plus, you have a real chance here to give your baby a father figure,” Persy added.

“It’s not that simple.” I scowled, dropping my takeout box on the coffee table by Sailor. “The whole exercise of having a kid on my own is to ensure no one will butt into my business and tell me how to raise my child.”

“Would a second opinion about things every now and then really be so horrible?” Aisling asked quietly. “Children are hard work. You’ll be needing all the help you can get.”

“And anyway,” Persy swooped in, “parenthood is like an office job. Those who’ve been in it for longer are now your superiors. You’re going to be given unsolicited opinions whether you want them or not. I mean, Mom didn’t let me take Astor out for a walk in the park the entire winter because she thought he’d get pneumonia.”

“It’s easy for you to say.” I took another sip of my wine. “You’re all in relationships with men who are certifiable when it comes to you. Of course for you, it was an easy decision to pop a few kids out. I don’t know Devon, Devon doesn’t know me, and I’m not hot on the idea of a stranger with money and a questionable rep calling the shots when it comes to my future child.”

But inside, I was already seeing dollar signs and posh private schools for my kid. I’d sworn off men for a good reason. But I could still ride Devon’s dick—and credit card—while keeping him at arm’s length.

“Sorry, Belle, did you start talking out of your ass?” Sailor pretended to lean down to my behind, as if to check her theory. “What shots? Don’t pretend you’ll be into homeschooling or raising your child vegan or pagan. You’re going to raise this child like any other ordinary kid in America. Only with more money and a daddy whose accent makes women weak in the knees.”

“What if we have a falling out?” I challenged.

“Gimmie a break.” Sailor snorted, picking up the empty takeout containers and taking them to the kitchenette. “The man made a fortune making people like him while simultaneously screwing them over. He is a seasoned diplomat. Why would you have a falling out?”

“But I’ll be breaking the pact,” I said finally.

Sailor dropped the takeout containers into my trash can while Aisling rinsed the wine glasses in the sink. Persy stayed by my side.

My sister murmured into my ear. “Love stories are not like musicals. You don’t need to have a perfectly constructed beginning, middle, and end to make them work. Sometimes love starts off from the middle. Sometimes it even starts from the end.”

“I’m not like you.” I turned to look at her, dropping my voice so no one would hear us. “Listen, Pers, I—”

I was going to say I was never going to get married, fall in love, live the uninspiring, white picket fence dream, when my sister pressed a finger to my lips, shaking her head solemnly.