Staci Hart

Chemistry is my love language.I've always been able to separate feelings from chemosignals. A shot of dopamine, a dash of serotonin, and a sprinkle of oxytocin-and bam. You're in love.And when egg meets sperm, you're pregnant.I couldn't even be surprised as I stared down at the little blue plus sign, because I knew exactly when and how, and with whom it happened.When: approximately five weeks ago.Who: one night stand.How: prophylactic malfunction.The upside? I don't have to go looking for a suitable mate.Genetically, he's the cream of the crop. His musculature is a study in symmetry and strength, his height imposing and impressive. He is a man who thrives on control and command, a man who survives on intelligence and resourcefulness. A perfect male specimen.And the whole package is wrapped up in a flawlessly tailored suit.I'm having this baby, and he insists we're well-suited to have it together. And what's worse? He wants more, in the way of love and marriage.But love isn't real. It's just a product of chemistry.And if he changes my mind about that, we're both in trouble.

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