“Mmm-hmm. But he broke it off.”

“I guess that’s not a huge surprise, right? I mean, those tattoos and that leather jacket don’t exactly scream husband material.”

“They scream something. Or maybe screaming is just what any of us would do in bed with him?”

Lots of throaty laughter.

These women on my boat are all mid-thirties to early forties. They’re the yummy-mummy type. If you’d asked me to assess them as they were climbing on board, I’d have said I wouldn’t kick any of them out of bed. But right now? I want this night to end so I can get them off my boat.

I didn’t used to mind being women’s bad boy fantasy. But lately, I do.

Every woman wants to fuck the bad boy, but no woman trusts the bad boy to take care of her and the things that matter. It’s a lesson Zoë knocked into my head.

I fidget with the fishing fly I keep in my pocket. It’s one my dad made when I was a kid. He cut the hook off and let me keep it. Some guys have rabbit’s feet, I have a “woolly bugger,” with most of the feathers worn off.

“He’s the baby’s father, right?”

The fist that never quite leaves my chest clenches a little tighter. That baby they’re talking about is Justin. My Justin.

Not my Justin.

“No,” someone says. “He’s not. That’s what the fight was about.”

I close my eyes, which is one of those dumbass things you do when you really want to close your ears but it’s physically impossible.

“Len Dix is the father.”

The name physically hurts. Like a fishhook through the heart. Barbed.

“Wait. I thought he was the dad.” He, meaning me.

“Zoë told him he was the dad.”

If the news is out, it’s only a matter of time before everyone I know—including all my family members—learns it, too.

I know that means I’m living on borrowed time. I need to tell them before they hear it like this, from strangers at a book club.

I can’t take anymore. I start the engines, throw us into gear, and jam the throttle. There’s a scream, a splash, and, “Chiiiiickleeettt!”

Shiiiiiit.

I guide us to the quickest halt I can and rush to where the women are leaning over the starboard bow, wailing and pointing.

Jennifer is wringing her hands and imploring her friends to go in after her doglet because she can’t swim.

Chicklet, for his part, is treading madly, his bug eyes huge with panic, his little paws scrabbling, his nose barely above water. I whip my t-shirt over my head, shed my shoes—luckily, I am wearing swim trunks and not jeans—and dive.

Moments later, I deposit a shivering and coughing Chicklet over the side and hoist myself back in.