know I am, but my ovaries aren’t. Thanks to my genetic line, at twenty-seven, I’ve got some old-ass eggs. All I’ve ever wanted is to be a mom, and I don’t care how. Stepmom. Foster mom. Adoptive mom. But if I want to keep the very slim chance of being a biological mom, this is my only hope. It might be too late already, I don’t know, but I need to try.” Okay, now I can’t help but touch her. Grazing my fingertips across her cheek, I push her hair behind her ear. “Why would I laugh at that?” “I don’t know. I’ve been told I sound desperate. Maybe I do, but I don’t care. It’s the one thing I’ve
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