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The new Memphis—mom Memphis—was too busy getting formula stains out of her shirts to preen for men. But the old Memphis—single, rich and always up for an orgasm or two Memphis—really, really liked sexy, bearded men.
Motherhood, I’d learned in the past two months, was nothing more than a ritual of second-guessing yourself.
“Headache, Knox?” Skip asked. “Yeah.” Her name was Memphis Ward.
Old Memphis was dead. I’d killed that version of myself. I’d stabbed her to death with the shards of a broken heart.
“All right, boss,” I told Drake. “We need to tone this down.” His chest shook as his breath hitched between a cry. “I need sleep. So do you. So does your mom. How about we quit the night shift?”