Chapter 1

Lessie

The email glows on my monitor, a single, beautiful sentence nestled between a meeting reminder and a junk-mail coupon for ergonomic office chairs. “Congratulations, Lessie. All your results are optimal for conception.”

Optimal. The word is a cool, clean balm on a wound I didn’t realize was still so raw. I close my eyes, and for a split second, the low hum of the servers and the distant clatter of keyboards fade away. It’s real. This isn’t a hypothetical, a five-year-plan bullet point filed under ‘Personal Growth & Future Projections.’ It’s a green light.

My gaze drifts to the bookshelf beside my desk. Tucked between a row of marketing textbooks and brand strategy guides is the binder. It’s thick, sturdy, and a calming shade of periwinkle. The spine, labeled in my neatest print, reads: Project Baby. Inside, color-coded tabs delineate everything from ‘Fertility & Timelines’ to ‘Financial Planning (Solo)’ and ‘Nursery Aesthetics (Neutral Palette).’ My finger touches my chin, tapping a slow, steady rhythm against my jaw. Everything is accounted for. Everything is under control.

My phone buzzes, Sherline’s ridiculously cheerful face lighting up the screen. I answer, spinning my chair to face the panoramic window overlooking the city.

“Don’t tell me,” she says, her voice crackling with energy. “You’re staring at the binder.”

“I’m admiring the structural integrity of my bookshelf, actually.”

A laugh erupts from the speaker. “Liar. You got the email, didn’t you? Is it go-time? Are we officially launching Operation Tiny Human?”

A genuine smile breaks across my face, the kind that feels foreign in this sterile office environment. “All systems are go. The doctor says I’m… optimal.”

“Optimal! Bitch, you’re not a server, you’re a goddamn goddess of fertility! This calls for a celebration. A real one. Not you buying a new set of highlighters for the binder.”

I glance at the new pack of pastel Staedtlers sitting in my pen cup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Lessie. You are about to embark on the biggest, most beautiful project of your life. You have planned it down to the last conceivable detail. But before you do, you owe yourself one night. One night of… unplanned excellence.”

“Unplanned excellence?” I tap my chin again, the rhythm picking up. “That sounds suspiciously like a hangover.”

“It sounds like fun! Like chaos! Like a story you can’t exactly tell your kid one day. Go out. To that new cocktail place downtown, The Alchemist. Wear that backless dress I know you’ve never worn. Have a drink. Have three! Flirt with a handsome stranger who doesn’t know what a five-year plan is. I wish I can be with you, but it’s better if you do this alone.”

The idea is absurd. It’s the antithesis of everything my life is right now. It’s a variable I haven’t accounted for, a data point with no column in my spreadsheet. And it is, without a doubt, the most tempting thing I’ve heard all year.

“One night,” I say, the words feeling strange and thrilling in my mouth.

“One night,” she confirms. “Go be suboptimal, Less. For me.”

The Alchemist is all low lighting, dark wood, and the hushed murmur of people far cooler than me. The air smells like expensive whiskey and something vaguely citrusy. It’s the kind of place where men wear suits that actually fit them and women laugh without covering their mouths. My backless dress feels less like a daring choice and more like a massive, silky target. This was a terrible idea. My finger is doing a frantic tap-dance on my chin.

I find a small space at the crowded bar, order a gin and tonic that costs more than my lunch, and try to look like a woman who belongs here. A woman who indulges in ‘unplanned excellence’ on a regular basis.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what you’re thinking for the last ten minutes.”

The voice is warm, a low, pleasant rumble next to my ear. It cuts through the bar’s ambient noise and sends a surprising jolt straight down my spine. I turn.

He’s… well, he’s exactly the kind of man you’d expect to find in a place like this. And also, not at all. His sandy-blond hair is a little messy, like he’s been running his hands through it. The suit is sharp, but he’s loosened his tie. But it’s his eyes that hold me. They’re a startlingly clear blue, crinkled at the corners, and they’re looking at me with an expression of genuine, unnerving curiosity.

“And what’s your conclusion?” I ask, my voice coming out steadier than I feel.

He leans an elbow on the bar, creating a small, intimate space just for us. “My first theory was that you were a corporate spy, casing the joint. You have a very focused, analytical way of scanning a room.”

A laugh escapes me, sharp and surprised. “And my backless dress is my disguise?”

“It’s a very effective one.” He smiles, and a dimple appears in his right cheek. My breath hitches. Shit. “But then you started tapping your chin, and the spy theory fell apart. Spies don’t have nervous tells.”

My hand drops from my face as if burned. “Who says it’s nervous?”

“Okay. A contemplative tell. So, what’s the verdict on The Alchemist? Are you contemplating a hostile takeover?”

“I’m contemplating whether a twenty-dollar gin and tonic is a sign of a thriving economy or the coming apocalypse.”

He laughs, a full, rich sound that makes a pleasant warmth bloom in my chest. “I’m Keir,” he says, holding out a hand. His grip is warm and firm.

“Lessie.”

“So, Lessie of the contemplative tell, what brings you here on a random Tuesday?”

Oh, you know. Celebrating my peak fertility before I embark on a meticulously planned journey of single motherhood.

“Avoiding a new pack of pastel highlighters,” I say instead.

His brow furrows in the most endearing way. “That’s a new one.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.” His blue eyes are sincere, his attention fixed solely on me. And in that moment, Sherline’s dare doesn’t seem so absurd. One night. A night with no spreadsheets, no timelines, no consequences. A night with a handsome stranger whose smile makes my stomach do a nervous, fluttery thing I haven’t felt since… well, ever.

I take a deliberately slow sip of my drink, watching him over the rim of the glass. “The story gets better with tequila.”

Keir’s smile widens. “Bartender!”

Hours bleed into one another. We talk about everything and nothing. His work in marketing, my work in marketing. Our shared love for old sci-fi movies. Our mutual disgust for cilantro. The witty banter is effortless, a volley of words that feels more real than any conversation I’ve had in months. With every laugh, every shared glance, I feel the carefully constructed walls of my plan begin to crumble.

He’s smart. And funny. And the way he listens—really listens, his gaze never wavering—makes me feel like the only person in the room.

When he walks me to the door of my apartment building, the crisp autumn air does nothing to cool the heat that’s been simmering between us all night. The street is quiet, the city’s late-night hum a distant soundtrack.

“I had a really good time, Lessie,” he says, his hands tucked into his pockets. He’s trying to be respectful, to keep his distance, and it only makes me want him more.

This is the moment. The end of the unplanned excellence. I go inside, he leaves, and the night becomes a pleasant, anonymous memory. It’s the safe thing to do. The smart thing to do.

My plan doesn’t have room for a Keir.

But my finger is tapping my chin, a frantic, rebellious rhythm. My plan doesn’t start until tomorrow.

“I don’t want the night to be over,” I say, the words bold and reckless.

Keir stops, his head tilting. The hope that flares in his eyes is so potent it nearly knocks me backward. “Yeah?”

I nod, my throat suddenly tight. I reach out, my fingers brushing against the back of his hand. A spark, sharp and immediate, jumps between us. I take a breath and break my own rules. “My place is a mess. How clean is yours?”

The ride to his apartment is a blur of kinetic energy. The moment the door clicks shut behind us, the tension that has been building all night finally snaps. His mouth finds mine, and it’s not a gentle, exploratory kiss. It’s a kiss of recognition, a hungry, desperate claiming. I groan, my hands tangling in his stupidly soft hair, pulling him closer. He tastes like tequila and lime and a promise of everything I’ve denied myself for so long.

His hands are on my bare back, his thumbs stroking my skin, sending shivers across my body. He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against mine, his breath coming in ragged pants that match my own.

“Are you sure?” he whispers,  voice thick with a desire that mirrors the frantic pulse in my own veins.

And the thing is, I’m not. Not about anything. But in this moment, with this man, the answer is the only thing in my life that isn’t complicated.

“Yes.”

I slip out of his bed as the first gray light of dawn filters through the blinds, painting stripes across the hardwood floor. He’s asleep, one arm flung over the space where I was just lying, the sheets tangled around his hips. My original plan was a clean, silent extraction. But I pause, my bare feet silent on the cool floor, and I let myself look. Really look.

In repose, his face is softer, younger. The faint stress lines around his eyes are gone. His sandy-blond hair falls across his forehead, and his breathing is a deep, even cadence. There’s something about the straight line of his nose and the relaxed curve of his mouth that sparks a faint echo of recognition, like a name on the tip of my tongue. I trace the memory—the angle of his jaw, the strong column of his throat… had I seen him before? Maybe in college? The thought is hazy, a memory of a face seen across a crowded quad or maybe on an athletic field. It vanishes before I can grasp it.

My gaze travels down, over the sweep of his collarbone, the defined muscles of his chest, the lean strength in his arms. The comforter hides the rest, but my body remembers the feel of him—the power and the heat. A slow warmth unfurls in my stomach, a heady mix of memory and satisfaction.

It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most ridiculously, ruinously good sex of my life. With a stranger. The universe has a sick sense of humor. I spent four years with a man I thought I would marry, and not once did I feel that… complete unraveling. That sense of being both cherished and completely devoured.

A traitorous little voice whispers that I should crawl back under the covers, press myself against his warm back and wait for those blue eyes to open. A wave of actual, physical regret washes over me, so sharp it makes me catch my breath. Just to see what his morning smile looks like.

But the plan has no contingency for ‘lingering.’ It has no column for ‘exceptionally good lay with a familiar-faced stranger.’

My clothes are in a heap on a chair. I pull them on, my movements stiff, robotic. I find my purse, my fingers closing around the cool metal of my keys. I scribble a quick, anonymous note—Thanks for a great night.—and leave it on the kitchen counter. No name. No number. It feels clinical now, colder than I intended.

As I stand in the pre-dawn quiet of his apartment, the scent of his skin still clinging to mine, my finger strokes my chin. The tapping starts, a frantic, unsteady rhythm. This feeling isn’t in the binder. This dizzying, terrifying cocktail of regret and longing. This was a one-time deviation from the plan. A rounding error. It has to be.

I let myself out, the lock clicking softly behind me. The sound is deafeningly final.