You know what’s even better than marrying a billionaire? Having his baby.



We’re ready. We’ve studied and planned, read all the birth and labor books, researched parenting classes, consulted our schedules, and it’s time.



And by we I mean me.



Declan’s just ready for the “have lots of sex” part. More than ready.



But there’s just one problem: my husband and his brother have this little obsession with competition.



And by little, I mean stupid.



That’s right.



We’re not just about to try to bring a new human being into the world.



We have to do it better, Faster, Stronger.



Harder.



McCormick men don’t just have babies.



They engage in competitive billionaire Babythons.



I thought the hardest part about getting pregnant would be dealing with my grandchild-crazed mother, who will go nuts shopping for a billionaire’s baby.



Wrong.



Between conception issues, my mother’s desire to talk to the baby through a hoo-haw cam, a childbirth class led by a drill sergeant and a father-in-law determined to sign the kid up for prep school before Declan even pulls out, my pregnancy has turned out to be one ordeal after the other.



But it’s nothing — nothing — compared to the actual birth.