LITMIR.BIZ

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and he ordered lobster sandwiches for each of them. They made small talk until their meals arrived, discussing the lousy—if expected—winter weather, a new artisan Jessie had discovered who hand wove silk scarves and blankets, a new idea he was kicking around.

      Minutes later a shadow fell across the table. He glanced up, expecting food. Instead, a tall blonde with enormous blue eyes stood beside the table. She looked like she might be twenty-one. Maybe.

      “Ryan Shaughnessy?” The voice was low, smoky, calculated to arouse.

      “That’s me. And this is Jessie Reilly.”

      Jessie started to offer her hand but the blonde merely flicked her one disinterested glance and then turned back to Ryan, giving him her hand as if she expected it to be kissed. “Hello. I’m Amalia Hunt. Of the Beacon Hill Hunts? Would you like to join me for dinner? Tonight, if you’re available, or any night of your choosing.”

      Good God. Not again. He sighed and released her hand. “Miss Hunt. Of the Beacon Hill Hunts.” It was hard to keep the sarcasm suppressed. The elite of Boston’s elite were a truly unique species. Very taken with their own status and too insular to recognize that said status wasn’t worth much in the real world. He sighed again. “Thank you for your kind offer, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.” He tilted his head meaningfully at Jessie.

      The young woman’s eyes flicked over Jessie again, probably estimating her net worth based on her wardrobe and jewelry. “My loss. But if you change your mind, here’s my card.” She leaned forward and tucked a business card into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, giving him a truly enjoyable view down the front of her low-cut blouse as she did so. “Bye-bye.”

      Jessie coughed, and he realized she was on the verge of choking with laughter. He glowered at her. Well, hell, he wasn’t going to go out with Miss Beacon Hill, but he was a man, wasn’t he?

      The young woman drifted away, leaving dead silence in her wake.

      “Don’t say a word.” Ryan looked across the table at Jessie. She was looking down at her linked hands again, but he knew it was only because she was trying not to burst into laughter. “Not…a…word,” he repeated through his teeth.

      The server appeared with their meals then, saving him for the moment.

      When the man departed, Jessie said, “Well, gee, considering you used me as an excuse to brush off that poor little thing…”

      “You were convenient,” he said. “On the way here I got stopped by a woman with a similar proposition. I could have used you then, too.”

      Jessie grinned. “Such a cross to bear.”

      He ignored her needling as he applied himself to his meal. Lobster sandwiches were a house specialty, and they dug in.

      Well, he dug in. Jess was a nibbler. She could make a meal last longer than it took a Southerner to recite the Declaration of Independence. When his sandwich was gone, he looked hopefully across at hers. She was still nibbling one section, but when she caught him eyeing the other half, she put a protective hand over it and said, “No way, José.”

      She knew him too well. “Never hurts to try.”

      When he looked back at Jessie, she was chewing her lower lip and her face looked troubled. Something was bugging her. Or she was thinking about something important. But given the way she was scrunching up her brow, he suspected a problem.

      He and Jessie had grown up next door to each other in Charlestown, north of Boston across the Inner Harbor, squarely in the center of the blue-collar Irish district. That had been two decades before the first waves of young urban professionals had discovered the pretty, bow-fronted houses. His father had been a stonemason. She’d lived with her grandparents and her mother, who’d worked two jobs most of her life.

      Jessie was two years younger than he. She’d been his first love. No, it had been infatuation, even if it had lasted an inordinately long time, he assured himself. And it hadn’t been returned. As far as he knew, she’d never known how he felt about her when they’d been teenagers. It was probably a good thing. He treasured the friendship they still shared.

      “You’ve got something on your mind,” he said, resisting the urge to reach over and smooth the furrows from her forehead with his thumb.

      It was an educated guess, but her eyes widened, and an odd look—consternation mixed with something that looked almost defiant—crossed her face. She nodded. “I do. I wanted to talk with you about a decision I’m considering.”

      “Why me?”

      She eyed him cautiously. “Because you’re my oldest friend and you probably know me better than anybody in the world and I need an honest opinion.” She didn’t pause for a single breath throughout the recitation.

      He picked up his wine and took a sip, savoring the light, crisp taste of the vintage. “All right. What’s up?”

      “I’m thinking about having a baby.”

      He heard the words, but it was as if they hit an invisible wall and bounced off. He shook his head slowly, trying to wrap his brain around the syllables and turn them into something sensible. I’m thinking about having a baby. Nope. They still didn’t want to compute. Hell, he’d expected her to bring up something to do with her business. Something for which she needed his financial wisdom.

      Carefully, not meeting her eyes, he said, “I wasn’t aware you were…with anyone.”

      “I’m not.”

      Thank God. The reaction was immediate and instinctive, relief rushing through him so heavily he felt as if he might sag beneath its weight.

      It was only that he felt protective toward her, he assured himself. Nothing more. Well, at least, nothing more than serious fondness. He’d loved her wildly, futilely, through his high school years, had pined for her during college when she’d been with someone else, had finally recognized his obsession, conquered it and married a wonderful woman. Jessie and Wendy had been friends from the day they’d met, as well. Wendy had joined them at these lunches often in what he thought of now as “the old days.” It was only natural that he would still feel some attachment to Jessie. She was a large part of his past.

      “Ryan?” Her voice called him back to the present. “Are you all right? I didn’t mean to give you such a shock.”

      Slowly he shook his head to clear it. “If you’re not in a relationship, then how do you propose to, ah, get started on a baby?”

      “That’s what a cryobank is for.”

      “A cryobank?” He knew what she meant but he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

      Color rose in her cheeks and she didn’t meet his eyes. “It’s a sperm freezing and storage facility.” She reached into her satchel again as she spoke. “I’ve already been through a battery of tests at a fertility center. I’ve had some preliminary testing and a physical. They started me on some special vitamins and things. I’m considered an excellent candidate for pregnancy. All I have to do is select a donor and have the procedure done.”

      “The procedure?”

      “Artificial insemination.” She came up for air with a folder clutched in her hand. “I’ve already selected some possibilities but I wanted your opinion.” She extended the folder across the table.

      Ryan stared at it, making no move to take it. “Tell me you’re not serious.”

      Jessie’s gaze was level. She didn’t speak.

      “Oh, hell.” He rested his elbows on the table and speared the fingers of both hands through his hair. “You are serious. Jess…why? Why this way? Why right now?”

      “I’m going to be thirty in November, Ryan.” Her voice was quiet. All traces of the earlier humor had fled. “I want a family. Children,” she amended. “I want to be a parent while I’m still young and energetic

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