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When I was seventeen, I made a marriage pact with William Jones. This Christmas, I’m coming to collect.
As the owner of a lucrative graphic design firm, I have everything a girl could want.
Except for a baby.
If your biological clock starts to tick in your early thirties, by forty, it’s a death knell. I can practically hear the bells clanging in my head as my ovaries shrivel up and die.
I’ve considered fostering or adopting. I’ve even visited fancy sperm banks. Places where you can choose a donor based on everything from his IQ to his body type, hair and eye color, spirit animal, and which Hogwarts house he’d be sorted in. Some even offer handwriting samples. Just punch in your selections and voilà! One green-eyed Gryffindor with lovely penmanship and an Ivy League education coming right up!
It's not for me. Call me old-fashioned, but I want the baby and the father. Unfortunately, I’m running out of time, and Mr. Right is nowhere to be found.
But I can’t stop thinking about a pact I made at seventeen. William Jones and I vowed that if we were still single at forty, we’d marry each other.
I haven’t seen him in twenty years, but a few minutes of internet sleuthing was all it took to discover that he’s still single.
And the man has aged like fine wine.
I think maybe it’s time to return to Mercury Ridge. After all, a deal’s a deal.
