Page 1 of Dr. Single Dad

ONE

Dax

I’m a lucky bastard, and more than happy to admit it.

There’s nothing I’d change about my life, not even this January cold that seems particularly bitter this morning.

I live in the most vibrant area in the best city in the world: London. Just beyond my doorstep lies everything I’ll ever need, from handmade suits to some of the most beautiful women on the planet.

Most of all, I love my work. Except I don’tjustlove it and it’s notjustwork. It’s more than a passion—it’s a calling. It’s what I was put on this planet to do.

Because of my work as a research doctor, life will be better for millions of people. The work I go into the lab to do is my legacy. Not many people can claim they’ll be remembered long after they’re gone, but given my team is on the edge of an early breakthrough in endocrinal research, there’s no doubt I will be.

The thought always gives me energy as I make my way to University College Hospital from my flat in Marylebone. It’s early, not even six and still dark, or as dark as it ever getsin central London. Most of the others on my team don’t start arriving until nine, but there are a few of us who like to get a head start on the day. Or the year, as it’s the second of January.

The automatic sliding doors at the hospital’s main entrance jump apart just as I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. That’s gotta be one of my brothers. For a second I consider ignoring it—I’m in the zone and don’t want to deal with one of their so-called emergencies. They’ve all got wives or girlfriends now. They don’t need me. But I give a two-fingered salute to Mason, one of the security guards sitting at reception, and pull out my phone.

A US number I don’t recognize flashes on the screen.

The lift doors open, but I don’t step inside. Instead I accept the call.

“Dax, hi there, it’s Kelly,” a woman says.

Kelly…Kelly…Kelly?

I try and make the connection in my hippocampus. Who the fuck is Kelly? Luckily, she makes it easy for me.

“From Santorini.”

She doesn’t mean the island, but the restaurant at the end of my road. Things start to slot into place. When I’m late back from the lab, I sometimes stop at Santorini for a plate of the tomato keftedes, which are spectacular. Kelly was a waitress there. American with jet-black hair, olive-green eyes and one of those voices that sounded like she should sing jazz for a living.

More memories filter back. A few months ago, I stumbled across her leaving party when I’d met Vincent for a quick beer after work. She recognized me. We had a good night together. Shots. Sex. A great breakfast the morning after. From what I remember she was heading home to the US the week after.

It was probably more than a few months ago. More like…almost a year. I’ve not heard from her since. As far as I can remember, we never exchanged a message, let alone talked on the phone. Did we even swap numbers?

I guess we did.

“Hi, Kelly.”

“How are you, Dax? Long time no speak.”

She can’t be calling to catch up. What does she want? I just don’t understand why she’s calling. “I’ve just arrived at work. How can I help?”

“I need you to sign some papers. To finalize a few things.”

“I think you have the wrong number, Kelly. This is Dax Cove. I haven’t seen you in nearly a year.”

I’m about to hang up, convinced she’s mixed me up with someone else, when she says, “Actually, I last saw you nine months ago.”

That sounds about right, if oddly specific.

“It was a wonderful night,” she says. “And when I landed back home in the States, I found out I was pregnant.”

Heat twists through my chest and I fight for breath. “Right.” I push out the syllable like it’s a rock I’m heaving over a cliff.

Nine months.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about. I’ve dealt with it.” She lets out a laugh. “I’m not ready to be a mother.”

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