Page 76 of Baby Maker

I can’t have this man whom I love and want a future with—who doesn’t want those things—sitting in my living room, pitying me.

If nothing else, I have my pride.

I stand, refilling my glass. I need more liquor to face this night. “I’ll be fine, Keegan. I need to host a pity party for a little while, but I’ve been knocked down before. I’ll get back up again.”

“I’ve no doubt.”

I nod toward the door. “Go on. I know you have a ton of things to do. Thank you for stopping by to check on me. I’m sorry that I raced out of your office.”

But Keegan doesn’t move, his gaze intent on me. “I don’t have to hurry home.”

“There’s no point. I know that sounds horrible, but you’re leaving. I’ll never see you again. You know what’s sad? I’m more upset that I wasn’t pregnant with your baby than I am to discover that I’ll never have Nigel’s. What does that say about me?”

Keegan shifts his weight, and I know my statement has made him uncomfortable. After all, this is the man who has made it abundantly clear that a wife and children are not on his to-do list. No matter how much I wish it wasn’t the case.

I shake my head, offering a sad chuckle. “Take care of yourself. I’ll bet your Mom is so excited to have you home. She really misses you.”

His gaze remains locked on the floor, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

I open the front door, an unquestionable signal that our meeting is adjourned. “Don’t forget to look me up if you’re ever in town. Not that you would be, I’m sure. Not that you would, regardless. Goodbye, Keegan.”

He crosses the threshold before turning back, that blue gaze meeting mine. “This is not how I planned any of this. I didn’t want it to turn out this way, either. I hoped—” he shakes his head, letting the sentence fade into the air. Leaning over, he presses a kiss to my cheek. “I will miss you.”

I manage a slight nod and wave, standing at the door as his jeep drives out of sight.

Out of my life.

For good.

Locking my front door, I grab the bottle of whiskey and head to my bedroom. Hibernation, part three, commencing.

* * *

But this time,the anger outweighs the grief. I’m furious at how my life has turned out. I’m thirty-seven years old, alone and childless, with no options in sight.

After only a day and a half in bed, the fury boiling inside me bubbles to the surface. That, and a rager of a headache.

I swallow a few aspirins. No, not with whiskey. I’ve had quite enough of that crap. I’m actually tempted to call Simon and ask him to give me an IV of fluids, speed up the re-humanizing process.

Then my gaze settles on the door at the end of the hall.

Nigel’s office.

I can’t breathe as I stare at the woodgrain door. The brass knob. It’s been almost two years since I’ve set foot inside that room. His private abode.

That ends today.

With a strangled cry halfway between a war whoop and a hiccup, I snatch the key off the hook and march toward the room with far more bravado than I feel. My hand trembles as I slide the key into the lock.

Do I really want to do this?

Calliope, do you really have a choice?

I swing open the door. The room is dusty, with a musty smell hanging in the air, but other than that, it’s just an office.

What the hell was I expecting? A killer clown popping out from the corner?

Wouldn’t that be good for a laugh?

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