I was a small-town girl with big city dreams and more ambition than money to my name. He had everything—money, privilege, and the world at his feet. Opposites in every way, but that didn’t matter. We were lightning in a bottle, and everything felt possible when we were together. Life was perfect.

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.

When my grandmother found out she didn’t have long to live, she embarked on a crazy trip—jumping out of airplanes and scuba diving with sharks. After I repeatedly voiced my concern, Gram blocked me—her own grandson—on text and social media, leaving me only her travel companion Eleanor’s number.

I hate Dante Moretti. He is cold, calculating, and vicious. It’s no secret that he wiped out his former fiancée and her entire family on the eve of their wedding. He’s the kind of evil that makes even devils cry. But that’s not why I hate him.

Admittedly, it was a moment of weakness on my part. But even the strong-willed have been known to fall for a hard body underneath a tailored suit and a five o’clock shadow coating a sharp jawline. It didn’t matter that Jackson St. James was nothing but trouble. Trouble was just my type. Been there. Done him. Not making that mistake again. We were friends, a low-key affair we designed ourselves—over before we began. After all, together we made no sense. But maybe, just maybe, he’ll surprise me. He has before.... We may have started with a kiss, but how will we end?