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“I’ll just bet you do.” The words were out before she could stop them, the cynical rejoinder definitely something she would ordinarily think but never say. Certainly not to a client she was hoping to drop an enormous amount on an apartment.

He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised in what she hoped was amusement. She gestured to the view, to change the subject. “You can see the views are panoramic. The apartment wraps around the elevator shaft, meaning you can enjoy New York in each direction, including from the spectacular master bedroom.”

Her cheeks flushed.

Her breath snagged.

Her knees went trembly.

She closed her eyes on a wave of irritation. She was a goddamn realtor. She spoke about all the features of a property, all the time. Including, yes, bedrooms. Even with sinfully, gloriously beautiful men. And she didn’t fall to pieces imagining them in said bedroom.

“Again, I’ve seen the brochure.” He walked towards the windows, and she resisted—barely—the urge to poke her tongue out at his retreating back. What the hell was happening to her?

But she knew the answer. She’d been feeling off kilter since she started the injections and it wasn’t likely to get any easier. That didn’t matter, though. Her cluckiness had only grown stronger over the last few months. It was as though a switch had been flicked inside of her, and now all she could think of was her desire to hold her baby in her arms. She would have laughed at this idea of herself a year ago.

“Well,” she found herself saying, tone clipped, knowing she should stop but not able to. “There doesn’t seem to be much point in being here, does there?”

He turned to face her then, the sunlight casting him in the same golden glow that bathed the whole apartment. She bit back a gasp at the sight of him, like a gift from God, a perfect specimen of man. Except for his grouchy, entitled attitude, she reminded herself.

“Am I wasting your time?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

“I’m interested in the place.” He turned away from her, jabbed his hands in his pockets. “I need somewhere.”

“Well, there are many ‘somewheres’. Is this one that appeals to you?”

His laugh was a bark, almost derisive.

“You know, this isn’t how I work. My job is to show property, not deal with the hostility of a client. So if you’re ready to leave, Lord…”

“Hamish,” he interrupted, his tone fierce. “My name is Hamish.”

She frowned at that. He sounded adamant, and her intuition tweaked to some sort of drama with him and his father being the most likely cause of his insistence.

“Well, Hamish, if you’re content to go off the brochure, we can leave. I have better things to do than stand in this glorious apartment with a man who’s been so entitled his whole life he apparently can’t muster even a shred of admiration for⁠—”

She didn’t even realise what she was saying until he turned fully to face her, hands still in his pockets, sunlight cascading over his back so she couldn’t properly see his expression. She knew only that she’d gone too far. Way too far. Because frankly, this was her job. She’d dealt with rude before, she’d dealt with entitled, with assholery that redefined assholery. Hell, Roman was her best friend and she generally had even him eating out of the palm of her hand—which amused Kate greatly.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, devastated to feel tears cloying in her throat. Oh, God. “That was completely unprofessional of me. It’s—” she shook her head, figuring, ‘what the hell?’ “It’s these hormones I’m on. IVF,” she blurted out, wishing she could see his face then almost glad she couldn’t. Mortification made her toes curl. “They affect people differently and I seem to be the outlier who gets the full psychopath symptoms. My moods are…” she shook her head, realising this was going from bad to worse. “You’re not here to get my life story, though. If you’d still like to see the apartment, please feel free to look around.”

Silence.

It cracked and throbbed in the palatial room, and Tia felt those damn tears growing closer to her eyes.

“You’re having a baby?”

“Well, trying to.”

He nodded slowly. “I’ve heard IVF can be a difficult journey.” His sympathy surprised her. “You and your partner have every reason to be finding it challenging.”

“No partner,” she murmured, squaring her shoulders in preparedness to defend that position. She’d only told a handful of people what she was doing, and had experienced a few sharp glances of surprise and disapproval. As though a wealthy, successful woman shouldn’t have a baby without a man. To do what, precisely?

“Husband?”

He didn’t sound judgemental. He just sounded curious. Nonetheless…“No. And before you start, I’m quite aware of what’s involved in being a single mother, and yes, I’m prepared for the journey, yes, I can afford it, and⁠—,”

He laughed then, a sound so rich and beautiful it cut her short. “I take it people have given you a hard time over your decision?”