I’ve always been able to separate feelings from chemosignals. A shot of dopamine, a dash of serotonin, and a sprinkle of oxytocin—and bam—you’re in love. And when egg meets sperm, you’re pregnant. I couldn’t even be surprised as I stared down at the little blue plus sign—because I knew exactly when and how and with whom it happened. The upside? I don’t have to go looking for a suitable mate. Genetically, he’s the cream of the crop. His musculature is a study in symmetry and strength; his height, imposing and dominant. He is a man who thrives on control and command, a man who survives on intelligence and resourcefulness—a perfect male specimen. And the whole package is wrapped up in a flawlessly tailored suit. I’m having this baby, and he insists we’re well-suited to have it together. And what’s worse? He wants more, in the way of love and marriage. But love isn’t real. It’s just a product of chemistry. If he changes my mind about that, we’re both in trouble.