Page 15 of Breeding Clinic

“That I’m fucked. He owns half of my baby and he can sue me for partial custody.”

“Motherfucker.”

All the steam goes out of me, leaving me depleted. “It’s not his fault. It’s the clinic’s.”

And a bit of mine, I guess. I didn’t realize I grabbed a binder I shouldn’t have. And I barely glanced at the paperwork I signed. But who expects an omega in heat to read fine print legalese? It’s ridiculous.

“You should sue them,” Jen says.

I don’t have the energy to deal with a lawsuit. The pregnancy has sapped my strength and brain cells. I take three or four naps a day and going through my editor’s suggestions is like pulling teeth. Her notes are good, but I can’t focus well enough to think straight before my mind wanders or I need to puke again.

“I don’t want to sue them.” I rub my flat stomach absentmindedly.

“I can’t believe you got dicked down by an alpha and didn’t tell me,” Jen says, sounding offended.

“I thought it was the reason why everyone says his clinic’s the best!”

“Like a secret menu?” she asks. “But instead of fancy coffee, it’s dicks?”

The sheer ridiculousness of it makes me laugh, and then Jen joins in. The harder she laughs, the harder I laugh. Until my eyes water and I can hardly breathe, I rest my forehead against my steering wheel. None of this is funny, but if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.

“You know what I think?” Jen asks.

“What?”

“You should go talk to them. Find out what they want. What if it’s not that bad? You do three days one week, they do four, then it switches. Could be nice. Sometimes I’d kill to have a long weekend alone with my pack.”

But that’s the difference between us. She’s got a pack of wonderful men who adore her. Me? All I have are my books and my cat.

Hot tears prick at my eyes and I sniff them back. I hate the idea of handing my baby off to strangers every week. But she’s right that I can’t avoid them forever. Ignoring this problem won’t make it go away. “You’re right. I need to talk to them.”

“Let me know what they say. And this time, don’t leave out a single detail. Okay, I’ll let you go. Bye.”

“Bye.” Glancing in the rearview mirror, I pull out of the parking lot. The lawyer might not have been able to help me, but she did find the name of the business he owns. O’Donnell’s. It’s the Irish pub on Main Street.

I drive across town and pull into their parking lot and stare at their sign. The outside is painted white and dark green. The gilded wooden sign with a green shamrock hangs over the door. Music pumps through their doorway as an older beta couple leaves with a white box of leftovers in their hands.

The waitresses are wearing work shirts and black pants. They look up from their dry erase seating chart to ask me if I want to sit at the bar or a table.

My eyes snap to Liam instantly, despite the crowd. Like an invisible string connects us. He’s standing behind the bar, a black towel tossed over his shoulder. He smiles at a patron while he pours them a beer, putting it down so the foam can settle. He’s as handsome as I remember.

“The bar,” I tell them, walking past the hostess stand. I find an empty stool and settle onto it, then wait for him to get to me.

Liam makes his rounds around the bar, pulling beers and mixing cocktails. He takes a plate of food from a runner and sets the gravy-covered fries down for a customer. He works quickly and efficiently, his large hands palming several stacked plates at once.

I’m only now realizing that coming here like this was a mistake. I should have called, not ambushed him at work. But if I’d thought about it for too long, I’d have chickened out. Like I did every other time, I considered picking up the phone and calling him all week.

He texts me good morning and good night. He’s sent me links to pregnancy-safe recipes. And mommy blog articlesabout staying cool in the summer while pregnant. I haven’t texted him back. Not a single time. And that makes me feel guilty.

When he finally sees me, he freezes. Liam recovers quickly, setting a clean glass full of ice in front of me. He taps a button on his soda gun and ginger ale fills the glass. Bubbles pop and fizz in the dark liquid, clinging to the glass wall. He drops a straw in and slides it across the bar.

“How are you?” he asks.

I palm the glass and rub a bead of condensation away. “Good. Shocked, tired, and sick to death of vomiting.” I know what he’s really asking. “We’re fine.”

He smiles and his right cheek dimples. It makes him alarmingly attractive. “Good. I’m glad you’re both okay.”

This isn’t his fault, and I realize how unfair this all must be for him. He didn’t get what he wanted, either. Now, somehow, we have to figure out how to make this work. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be bothering you while you’re working. I wasn’t thinking.” I hike my purse up on my shoulder to leave him alone while he’s working.

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