The Surrogate

I’m falling for the father of the baby I’m carrying.

The problem is: it’s not my baby.

And the broody widower is not looking for a long-term partner.

As a surrogate, the deal was that I’d only be in England long enough to give birth.

At first, the man seemed as pretentious as his name: Sigmund Benedictus.

He and I butted heads.

Sig challenged my intentions, accused me of just wanting to do this for the money.

Gradually, he learned to trust me.

He even became protective.

Over time, our heated animosity turned into fiery chemistry.

I was falling in love with him.

But my time here had a limit.

I needed to protect my heart from the devastatingly gorgeous older man who’d end up breaking it.

SIG:

When my in-laws told me they wanted to use my dead wife’s eggs to conceive a grandchild, I wasn’t immediately on board.

They swore that on her deathbed Britney told them it was what she wanted—but only if I fathered the baby. Her parents insisted they would be the ones to raise it.

Against my better judgment, I agreed.

I vowed to keep my heart out of it, though.

I’d continue to pretend it wasn’t happening and live the empty, single life I’d become accustomed to the past five years since Britney died.

And despite the fact that a certain younger American named Abby Knickerbocker had awakened things inside me that I thought were long dead…

I most certainly wouldn’t fall in love with the surrogate.