Hannah Tate, Beyond Repair

by Laura Piper Lee

Genres: New Adult Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

A new mom repairs her broken dreams in this hilarious rom-com about starting over that sparkles with intelligence, wit, and compassion.

Hannah Tate can hardly believe her sleep-deprived eyes when she finds an engagement ring hidden in the closet. Killian, her super responsible, incredibly attractive boyfriend—and the father of her new baby, Bowie—is finally going to propose. But a romantic night out goes horribly wrong when Killian reveals he’s dumping Hannah, not proposing.

Furious and heartbroken, Hannah takes Bowie and moves in with her mama and stepdaddy in the mountains of Blue Ridge, Georgia. Hannah realizes that her parents’ cabin has vacation property gold written all over it—and could save her mama from going broke. Again.

Only problem? The cabin’s décor is . . . mildly terrifying and it’s in desperate need of renovation. Hannah hires the hot carpenter living in the treehouse next door to fix up the place. Not only does River respect Hannah’s business acumen, he looks at her like she’s a woman, not a hot mess. And Hannah can’t deny that River awakens something new inside her.

Can Hannah embrace a future that looks different from the picture-perfect family she once dreamed of . . . and maybe start living life on her own terms?

This heartwarming, spicy romance book is perfect for fans of small-town romance like the Lovelight series by B.K. Borison and Tessa Bailey books.

Release date: February 13, 2024

Publisher: Union Square & Co.

Print pages: 320

Sample

There’s something about new motherhood that makes everything so desperate. Your infant hasn’t napped in three hours? Call an ambulance. Daddy brought home the wrong diapers? Get a paternity test. You lost your baby’s favorite pacifier?! Hope you enjoy the dulcet tones of your shrieking infant, ad infinitum.

Ask me how I know.

I slam onto my knees, then hands, crawling on all fours across the tasteful jute rug in our bedroom. When I decorated with that effortless boho look in mind, I didn’t realize how often I’d be crawling across nature’s steel wool. One of my heavy, aching breasts pops out of my nursing tank and promptly begins to spritz. Bowie’s cries get louder. He’s pissed, and my right boob is taking it personally.

“Mommy’s coming!” I stuff my boob back in my shirt, but it’s like holding back a fire hydrant with an umbrella. Did you know a newborn infant’s cries are biologically engineered to increase the mother’s cortisol levels by 20,000,000 percent?

The pacifier, the only one Bowie tolerates, is nowhere to be found. It’s pale blue, has a tiny stuffed hippo attached to it for some fucking reason, and is the bane of my existence. I’ve bought at least five of them to keep in strategic places around the house, but Bowie has a keen taste for his old spit because no other hippo pacifier will do.

Silly mommy! he seems to bellow as his face turns nearly purple in his bassinet. Don’t you know I WILL END YOU?!

Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit. I should be able to handle this! I’m a disaster comms specialist, for God’s sake. I literally handle disasters for a living, and yet losing a pacifier feels worse right now than the time one of my clients got caught using the corporation’s charitable children’s fund for his own personal child support fund.

Bowie’s screams intensify. Did you hear me, woman?

Lefty joins in now, late to the nipple sprinkler party. I’ve left a trail of milk splotches across the floor of our bedroom like some kind of weird lactation crime scene. I’ve tried everything to get Bowie to stop crying this afternoon—diaper change, nap, walk outside, walk inside, a bath—all punctuated with offering one or the other boob every other second, but it’s no use. They’re like filet mignon the chef can’t get right, and Bowie keeps sending ’em back to the kitchen. He only wants Hippo Sucky, which disappeared between night feedings #3 and #4 when Bowie flung it across the room and apparently into another dimension.

The closet door is cracked open a foot, and I army crawl over to it like my life is on the line. Something blue and slimy shimmers within the dark opening of one of Killian’s old hiking boots, and I shriek with both disgust and joy, a common emotional combo in motherhood. I dump Killian’s boot upside down, gagging from the ripe, footy smell. Here’s hoping Bowie didn’t inherit Daddy’s stank-foot.

Bowie’s cries turn positively maudlin. He’s definitely gonna be a theater kid one day.

Hippo Sucky falls out of the boot in a damp clump. I gaze upon it with dawning horror—the rubber nipple is covered in sock fuzzies and Killian’s fungal spores.

I ought to burn it. I ought to sacrifice it to the landfill and apologize to Mother Earth for supporting such a crime against nature. But my child’s utter despair makes my shoulders cave.

I can’t throw Hippo Sucky out. I’m simply not that strong.

Ooh, the Listerine!

Killian bought a mega bottle for the bathroom, and hey, it kills 99.9 percent of germs, right? Here’s hoping that includes fungus, too. I’m about to charge for the door before Bowie does permanent damage to his psyche when I realize something else fell out of the boot, too.

A small, velvet something. A box something. Now it’s my turn to fling Hippo Sucky across the room as I grab for the box. My heart’s beating so hard, I nearly rip the hinges off.

There, nestled in a bed of creamy satin, is an engagement ring. A beautiful, pinkish diamond set in a rose gold band. It’s lovely and bespoke—exactly my style. I pluck it out, fingers shaking as I try it on.

It’s my size! Well, it was my size before my fingers swelled up like those pale mini hot dogs from a can. But when my fingers lose this baby weight, it will definitely be my size.

I stare down in disbelief.

Killian’s going to propose.

Oh-em-effing-gee, he’s finally going to propose!

Bowie’s still crying, and it yanks me back into the moment. I shove the ring back in the box, return it to the smelly boot, and run for the Listerine.

He’s going to propose. He’s going to propose. My flustered, sleep-starved brain is stuck on repeat.

After a brief blue dip, Hippo Sucky is offered and accepted, and Bowie finally, finally stops crying. I collapse onto the vintage velvet rocker with him in one arm and an emergency bowl of queso in the other. No chips? No problem. I’ve got a spoon, a frightening intolerance to lactose, and a shaky sense of self-preservation, at best. It’s going to be fine.

It’s just … why would Killian propose now?

I shovel a bite of melted cheese into my mouth for thinking purposes. Why wait until after we got pregnant by accident, after we moved in together, after we brought this lovable squish-boy into the world? We’re ten weeks into parenthood, and it’s not like shit’s up to par at the moment. I’m a walking dairy farm, I eat for three, and my pheromones won’t be silenced by mere deodorant anymore. My emotions range from intense, passionate joy-sobbing to full-on paranoia and anxiety-Googling. I’ve never been, shall we say, competent at adulting, but motherhood has taken me to a whole new level of chaos. Killian and I haven’t even had sex since Bowie was born. My lady parts are all healed up, no thanks to Bowie, aka Mr. 99th Percentile Head Circumference, but sex doesn’t even feel like an option on the table.

Bowie’s little jaw is working furiously around the pacifier, his brow furrowed over his screwed-shut eyes. I carefully caress the soft skin on his forehead, lightly rubbing where the muscles are still tense.

“That’s it, Littleman,” I coo as he drifts into sleep. The plump mounds of his cheeks are the pale pink of camellias, and the full, kissable pout of his lips parts a little, grudgingly releasing the pacifier.

God, Bowie’s beautiful. Can you be addicted to a face? I feel like I could look at him forever. Despite the harrowing afternoon, I’m awash with all those feelings that make me so grateful I once used this body for sex. Just look at those sumptuous cheeks! Of course Killian wants to propose. Bowie has made us a family. How could anyone want anything else in the history of ever?

As I stare at our sweetly sleeping baby in the late-afternoon sunshine whispering through the sheer curtains, all the happiness I should have felt the moment I saw that box starts flowing through my veins. Killian is a total catch, way out of my league as some drunker acquaintances have informed me. He’s tall-ish, with dark wavy hair, crystalline blue eyes, and a porcelain complexion that somehow never burns. He’s basically Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid, and I don’t want to investigate this too closely, but that really does it for me. By day, he’s a financial adviser, so basically primo responsible adult, and by night, the guitarist in a local indie rock band that’s actually good. I’m not saying that because of the oxytocin pumping through my veins, either. When we met at one of his shows a few years ago … wait.

Not a few years ago.

Three years ago. Tomorrow.

I jump in the chair enough that Bowie grumbles and slaps me in the boob. It’s our three-year anniversary! That’s why Killian’s proposing now. He wanted to wait until a big relationship milestone to do it, that’s all. He doesn’t care that we don’t have sex or that I look like the former me’s long-lost sister who fell down a well and was raised by toads. I sit back with a grin as Bowie finally accepts the filet mignon and sighs happily in his sleep.

Maybe I’m not such a disaster after all.

“Hannah! You guys home?” A deep, masculine voice wakes me from my slumber. A very sexual, sensual voice—the voice of my future husband, one Killian James Abbott, to be exact. Amazing how hot long overdue commitment makes a man.

“In here, darling!” I try to whisper, but it comes out like a croak.

Killian walks into the bedroom in his tightly cut suit and gently lowers his leather messenger bag, eyebrows raised in silent question. God bless a man who knows when a hard-won nap is underway. He’s only twenty-nine, two years younger than me, but he’s looking all man right now as he loosens his tie.

I carefully ease Bowie down into his bassinet. For a second, I’m scared I’ve woken him. His eyes drift open dreamily, and a milk-drunk smile curves across his face. When he sees me, he nuzzles against my palm, and his eyes flutter closed again.

The rush of adoration for Bowie flooding my veins makes me forget Killian even exists for a second. Then he bends over to unlace his shoes, and a stirring down below reminds me. I click on the sound machine.

I tiptoe across the room to Killian, heart thrumming happily, and run my hands across his broad back as he strips off his business attire for the day.

“Hey, you,” I try again, and reach up to nip his ear with my mouth.

He startles under my tongue and swats wildly. “What the—oh!” His shoulders relax when he sees my confused face. “Whew. I thought you were a bug.” He wipes at his ear.

I blink at him. “Woooow. Wow. That makes me feel—wow.”

“Oh, you. Come here.” Killian turns and smiles at me, like a magnanimous prince to a hapless scamp, and pulls me into a hug. “You’re such a mess, Hannah Tate,” he says, which is basically his equivalent of a pet name for me. A pet phrase? A pet sad statement of affairs? His fingers are warm as he brushes my unwashed hair behind my ear. “Got a big night planned, Mama. You free?”

My stomach flips, and I suddenly hope he can’t detect any of the queso I just ate. “Tonight? Yeah, absolutely! I can find a sitter.”

I most definitely cannot find a sitter with this little notice, but I just listened to this podcast on manifesting your dreams, so let’s Make. This. Happen.

“What did you have in mind for us?” I take his hand and run his fingers slowly over my lips. He used to love this shit. To be fair, I think all guys like to be reminded of the possibility of Blow Job. It’s their sexual utopia, their Narnia, a nice, wet oasis in the hot, dry desert of life. His fingers taste a bit like car keys, but I try not to make a face.

“Oh, Hannah.” The mild interest in his eyes I’d managed to drum up with my unsanitary finger-licking turns to pity. “I have a gig. I was asking whether you’re free to watch Bowie on your own tonight.”

Aka the one thing every woman wants to hear when she’s been stuck at home watching a baby all day. I abruptly drop his hand.

“You didn’t say anything about a gig tonight.”

He rubs the back of his perfectly coiffed hair and turns away from the shaggy mess that is mine. “It came up last-minute, but it’s a great opportunity for the band. We’re opening for Fellow Animals at the new Echo Lounge outdoor stage.”

“Echo Lounge reopened?” I frown. That place has been closed forever.

“Yeah, six months ago,” he says lightly, like it’s not weird that my knowledge of Atlanta music venues has evaporated since Bowie was conceived. “I already promised them I’d be there, so …”

He trails off, making it clear that this was not a request. More of an FYI, really. When I don’t immediately respond, his very essence crumples.

“But … I guess I could call and cancel? If you’re already busy.” He looks like I just asked him to euthanize a baby unicorn. “I guess.”

“No, no, don’t do that,” I say with a sigh. It’s not that I don’t love being with Bowie. It’s more that I don’t love being with Bowie in the same house, wearing the same pajamas, moving through the same sequence of feeding-cajoling-napping by myself all day and night. Doesn’t Killian understand that? I need to get out of this house.

Out of this day.

“Well, I could still try to get a sitter. I’d love to see you play! It’s been ages.” Though I feel less enthusiastic about it now, I run my hands across his chest. After all, it is my soon-to-be-wifely duty to love him, even when he mistakes me for an insect and treats me like an unpaid nanny. “You know, it’s been three years since I first saw you guys play at the Earl …”

He tenses beneath my hands. Did I give too much away? Does he know I know something’s up? We don’t usually celebrate anniversaries. In fact, we’ve never celebrated our anniversary, come to think of it. I guess it’s hard to mark the date in this day and age where relationships meander into existence one casual hookup at a time.

“Three years!” Killian shakes his head and whistles. “Man, what a ride.” He pulls off his button-down, and the petty Duchess Downstairs must have a short memory because she’s basically hiking up her skirts at the sight of his trim abs and the line of hair running down their middle. “But as much as I’d love to see my favorite groupie out there”—he tweaks my nose—“Bowie has been so fussy lately. Do you really think it’s a good idea to leave him with a stranger we don’t know? What if they let him cry all night?”

And just like that, I am ready to burn babyhelpers.com to the ground. I don’t think he means to do it, but Killian can pull my anxiety out like the winning card, every time. I sink onto the pillow-soft creamy comforter on our bed, which isn’t nearly as comforting as I’d like right now.

“You’re right.” I blow out a breath. “Damn.”

He smiles consolingly at me, but it’s quickly interrupted when he eyes the bed. “Is that comforter new?”

My cheeks heat on command, like they do every time he questions my decor spending. “Shh. I’m nesting.”

Killian’s eyebrow quirks up. “You’ve been nesting for a whole year.”

I gesture broadly to our now beautiful bedroom with its sophisticated palette of creams and pale terra-cotta, the adorable house beyond that I’ve freshly painted and styled, and the lush wildflower garden outside I planted last summer. This place is blog-worthy now, and my name’s not even on the deed. But what do I get for my efforts at making Killian’s house the prettiest on the block? Tsk-tsks and pointed remarks about my anemic 401(k). What’s even more frustrating is that I do it all on my own dime, but he refuses to acknowledge that.

“What can I say? I want the best nest for our chick.” I try to wave his words off like we’re joking. The truth is, making our house beautiful is a balm to my soul. Work has been so stressful since, well, forever, and no matter how unattractive I felt when my ankles started to swell and my cheeks inflated, at least I could surround us in beauty. It hurts a little that Killian can’t appreciate it.

“Well, it’s your life and your money,” he says in that dismissive way he always does when he disapproves.

But isn’t it our life? And soon, our money?

Killian sighs and heads to the closet—the closet!!!—to pull out his hot-guy band uniform. A deep V-neck in a faded navy blue, gold-colored dungarees (he insists they’re dungarees, not khakis), and a pair of worn leather boots that magically stay on though he never ties the laces. Not the boots of stink and commitment!!! of course, but my deflated heart picks up a little at the sight of him rummaging through his shoes all the same.

So he doesn’t get why aesthetics mean so much to me. So what if he’s the millennial equivalent of a coupon-cutter? The sexy, responsible father of my child is going to propose. Bowie’s going to have what I never did—married parents and a stable home. That’s worth Killian’s nit-picking.

I’m not ready to give up on the idea of a night out so easily, either. Killian clearly wasn’t planning on popping the question tonight but seeing the ring box woke something inside of me. Something that’s been asleep ever since pregnancy stopped being cute and started being a fucking nuisance. That ring is a shiny reminder that somehow, I haven’t completely ruined my chance to be an adult, in an adult relationship, with another adult who I happen to want to do very adult things to. The father of my baby, no less.

I hadn’t realized until I saw that box that there was still hope for the fairy-tale family life I’ve always wanted. There were so many times when I thought he’d propose. So many romantic dinners, weekend trips away, hand-holding, looking up at the stars and talking about our baby, when Bowie was just a tiny zygote inside of me.

But over time, the fairy tale faded as the stretch marks darkened. Dreamy-eyed wonder was replaced with frantic, fearful research about doulas and breastfeeding and epidurals. Whatever was happening with me and Killian took a back seat to the intensity of new parenthood, and somehow, I forgot about us.

But he didn’t. Tears mist in my eyes as I watch his fine ass slip into the dungarees, and I’m seized with conviction.

“You know what? Screw it. I’m coming tonight, and so is Bowie. Ten weeks old is a good age to see his first concert, right?” I pace around our bedroom while Killian stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Brody got him those baby headphones for the shower, remember? So we could take him to shows?” I laugh. “I thought that was so stupid at the time. I mean, we needed bottles, but o-kay, Brody! But now we can actually put them to use!” I bound over and grab Killian by his V-neck. The soft down of his chest hair peeking out of the top makes me want to rub my face in it.

“Oh, Hannah. I don’t know—”

“He should see his daddy up there rocking out.” I pull him down for a kiss, a good one, surprising us both. That’s right, baby. There’s a sexual goddess beneath this layer of milk and mommy-detritus. “I’m so proud of you. Bowie will be, too.”

In reality, Bowie will be snoozing against my chest, likely with an exposed boob in his mouth. But why ruin the moment with the truth?

Killian’s face melts as he thinks it over. “It would be pretty cool for Junior to see his old man onstage.”

I grin. I knew that’d get him.

“Okay. We go on right at nine.” He kisses the top of my head, excited now. “I’ve got to head out to get our gear loaded up and sound checked. Don’t be late!”

He stops by the bassinet where Bowie lies peacefully asleep. With the gentlest touch, he runs his lips over Bowie’s forehead with a breath of a kiss. “I love you, Littleman. See you tonight.”

Seeing him there, looking at our son like he’s the most precious thing in the world, makes my heart more certain than ever. We are a family, and we love each other. It’s not just wishful thinking; it’s real. We’re going to be together forever.

Me, Bowie, Killian, and that ass.

Hannah

I can still be hot. Right?

Kira

What? Of course!!

Mattie

Is this question real?

You’re asking two lesbians if you’re hot?

Hannah

Absolutely, yes. Could you please speak on behalf of the entire Atlanta gay community? I want to know where I stand.

Mattie

I told you, Kira! Your little bisexual college roomie’s trying to swing with us!

Kira

Well, come on! The playground is open! We’ll raise our babies together, and every day will be brunch day.

Hannah

That … sounds really fucking nice. BRB, gonna throw away this engagement ring I found and read some books on poly coupling with your two best friends.

Mattie

I KNEW it!!! Wait. What? A ring?

Hannah

I found an engagement ring hidden in Killian’s boot. I think he’s going to propose, and I don’t want to look like Bowie’s drool hag when it happens.

Kira

You WHAT? Whoa!!! That’s … wow!

Mattie

I believe what Kira’s trying to say is,

Fuck that guy. He sucks. But congrats?

Kira

you get me, babe.

Hannah

Excuse me, I came here to get catcalled. Not dog-lectured.

Mattie

Sorry. You are awesome and beautiful and one THOUSAND percent better than IRA McPomade deserves.

Hannah

?? You use pomade, Matts!!! I’ve seen it!!

Mattie

Lies. This Timothée Chalamet with breasts thing I’ve got going on is completely natural. And foppish hair aside, Killian is just …

Wait. He’s just foppish hair.

That’s all he’s got.

Hannah

Guys. I love him. Could you not?

Kira

…

…

…

Hannah

OMG just spit it out.

Kira

We love you, and we will respectfully stop berating your choice in baby daddies the moment you all make it official. But until then …

Mattie

Don’t dooooOOoooOOoo it!

But yeah, you’re hot. Smelly, but hot.

Hannah

Sigh.

Kira

Shower if possible and keep us updated. Ooh, and check out these precious pics of June-bug. LOVE YOU!

I scroll through the newest dozen shots of Kira and Mattie’s daughter June, who, with her luminous brown skin and hazel eyes, could totally be a baby model, and try not to deflate. Kira is my closest friend. Ever since I walked into my freshman dorm room and found the short Black girl with a pink laptop covered in unicorn stickers singlehandedly rewriting Pretty Little Liars one fanfic at a time so that all the Black characters lived, thank you very much, we’ve shared our lives and love for salacious TV. Her partner, Mattie, came along later, but quickly earned a spot in my heart all her own. I’ve tried so hard to forge a couples’ friendship with us and them, but it always devolves into Killian mansplaining finance to Kira or Mattie cross-examining Killian on his views on women and how they’re all wrong. They make each other miserable, which makes me miserable.

Staring at my reflection only makes me feel worse. It’s way too late in Bowie’s nap for me to get a shower in, so I spray my unwashed hair with dry shampoo until it turns a full shade lighter. The old balayage highlights I used to keep in my dark blond hair have long grown out, and I’m not fooling anybody that this is ombre on purpose hair. How far I’ve fallen. I used to melt down my waves with an industrial-grade straightener then artfully curl it back, a process which took three hours from shower to finish. I snort, just thinking about having that kind of time again.

Clothes are gonna be more difficult. I haven’t worn anything with a waistband since my first trimester. I’ve dropped most of the baby weight thanks to Bowie’s maniacal breastfeeding, which is like having your boobs run a marathon for you every damn day, but that doesn’t mean my body’s not one hundo percent different. My bones rearranged themselves for Bowie. My rib cage expanded, hips widened, joints loosened, feet flattened—pregnancy was like going Mommy Hulk in slow motion. My body will never go back to the way it was, but I don’t feel bad about that. There’s a home inside of me, one I built for Bowie all by myself. He’s moved out for good, and my abs will one day work again, but this home I created for him will always be there. I hope he feels that every time I hold him close. I know I do.

Ultimately, I yank on my favorite pair of black leggings and grab this giant black shirtdress thing I bought when I still did things like shop for clothes. In theory, it’s supposed to drape over you like a hip black shift, if you’re skinny. Somehow, the dress knows I’m not, and the effect is not unlike an eight ball.

Still, I can pull out a boob in two seconds flat, so boom. Decision made.

A gurgling noise rises from the ultraexpensive bassinet Bowie barely sleeps in. Then, an angry meh! Bowie always wakes up furious, which honestly, most of my generation can relate to.

“Hey, B-B-B-owie! You’re awake! Oooh, and you’re stinky, too!” I mentally try not to end every single thing I say to Bowie with an exclamation point, but I’m just not there yet. His mouth is pulled down into a comical frown, and he bangs his fists against the mattress as he glares at me, like And where the fuck were YOU?

After I change his diaper, we have a few fun minutes of me picking out the hippest baby outfit we have for Bowie’s first concert. He’s got a lot to live up to with that name, which Killian was dead set on. I can’t have him showing up in a onesie with an appliqué dump truck on it; Killian would faint from the sheer lack of cool. I finally settle on a miniature red Adidas tracksuit and a onesie bearing a giant pretzel on it that reads BORN SALTY.

God, dressing babies is fun.

“You look great, Bowie! Now, no more poopsies, okay?” I fluff his one lock of hair. It’s dark blond and curly, just like mine. It makes me never want to dye mine again.

I strap Bowie into the infant carrier to finish my makeup. We get a bit of a game going. I try to brush powder across my face, he swats it away. By the end, my eyeshadow’s streaked across my brows and Bowie’s forehead is speckled with blush, so I have to stop and clean up all the red spots so people don’t think I’m a very surprised anti-vaxxer. I still manage to do a mean cat eye, though! Bowie smiles at me in the mirror, a big, wet, open-mouthed event, and my heart nearly bursts from my chest. I grab at my phone and try to capture the moment with a selfie, which are the only pictures that ever get taken of me anymore. Alas, not fast enough. Bowie’s gummy smile turned into a drooly yawn for posterity, but surprisingly, I look pretty good. Hot, even.

I’m weighing whether to post the pic on Instagram since it clearly can’t slide in under the culturally accepted guise of cute baby pic plus see how hot Mommy looks, total coincidence, tee-hee! when my phone buzzes in my hand. Fucking Bob flashes on the screen.

I straight-up hiss. I have two weeks of maternity leave left, but that doesn’t matter to my boss, Mr. Fucking Bob himself. I let it go to voice mail, like I’ve been doing for the last two and a half months. Hannah, answer your phone. This is about that raise you wanted, but you keep ignoring my calls. Guess you don’t want it …

The phone promptly starts ringing again. The chance that my sexist boss is actually telling the truth is slim to none. I know this, but I have been passed over for a raise for three years running, and I submitted nothing short of a manifesto to HR on how wrong that is before going out on leave.

“Urghhh!” I snatch up the phone. “Hey, Bob, I’m kind of in the middle of something. It’s called maternity leave?” I squeeze the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I try, and fail, to put on mascara. “What’s this about my raise?”

Loud static rumbles through the receiver, and I have to yank the phone away from my ear.

“Hannah! Thank GOD you answered, you’ve been MIA for months! Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” He pauses, presumably so I can feel ashamed for propagating the human species. “We’ve got a real emergency here. Can you draft up a piece for the ten o’clock news?”

“What? No!”

“Great! Here’s the situation,” Bob continues, completely unaware I have human agency. “Dorsey Chemical had another teensy spill—”

“Oh, God.” I cover my eyes with my hand, smudging the new mascara there even more. “Bob, no. NO. I can’t work right now! I’m on maternity leave!”

“—only a few dozen injuries or so, really nothing to fuss over, but you know the media!” Bob chuckles like the ten o’clock news team is a bunch of puppies and not a pit of cutthroat vipers. You do not fuck with Action Tonight at Ten.

“Bob, you’ve got to find someone else. I can’t draft a statement right now. I’m wearing an infant!” Of course, that’s not a real excuse, but I’m counting on Bob not to know that. It’s already 8:32, and Killian’s band is going on soon. “Seriously, Bob. I’m on leave. I only answered because you said this was about my long and painfully overdue raise. What you’re asking me to do is illegal. Did you ask Starla if you could call me?”

Starla is our small PR firm’s general counsel. She’s paid to sit by Bob and tell him no for eight hours a day. She’s unfortunately not on call after five p.m., which is coincidentally when Bob tries his most illegal bullshit.

The line’s quiet for just a beat. “Starla’s on vacation this week.”

Ah. That explains it.

“Besides, disasters happen whether you’re making boob juice or not.”

Okay, wow.

“And this is about your raise. Dorsey Chemical is your client, Hannah, and if they’re not around when you finally come back because they fired our firm, you’re not going to get a raise because you won’t have a job! So. When can I expect the statement?”

I breathe deeply through my nose, but it doesn’t stop the fury burning through my veins. I cannot believe this is my life. I’d had it all planned out when I was young and perky-breasted. I’d major in interior design, minor in marketing, and after graduation, I’d start my own renovation and interior design business. I’d find a hot contractor to work with, we’d have long, luscious sex on the floors of our remodeling jobs, and basically be the young, hip, liberal versions of Joanna and Chip Gaines from HGTV.

In all of my many fantasies for the future, there were exactly zero toxic chemical spills. Yet here I am, and the only thing I get to design is some twisted version of reality where my client is not at fault for spilling cancer-suds everywhere and is in fact a proud supporter of its local community and c