It’s not every day you ask your best friend to get you pregnant. Oliver Huxley has asked me out on a date every month for the last ten years. And every time, I’ve said no. Yes, he’s a billionaire. Okay, he’s heart-meltingly gorgeous. And it’s true that he has a great reputation in the bedroom. Look, I have my reasons. He’s already broken my heart once. And I know he wants me only because he can’t have me. If I sleep with him, I’ll just end up another notch on his bedpost, and my heart won’t survive a second break. Whoever said it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all clearly didn’t know what he was talking about. However, I’m nearly thirty and, more than anything in the world, I want a baby. But there’s a three-year wait for a donor for single women at the clinic, and they suggest asking a friend. I might not want a relationship with Huxley, but there’s no doubt he’s a great dad to his eight-year-old daughter. So I ask him if he’ll help me out. He replies that he’s not doing anything in a cup. But he is prepared to try and get me pregnant the old-fashioned way. He says if I give him one night, we have a thirty percent chance of success, more than double what I could expect at the clinic. One night with my best friend. If we sate our hunger for each other, maybe we’ll be able to move on with our lives and put this ridiculous obsession behind us. I know he’s going to be great in bed. But he’s not going to be that good. Famous. Last. Words.