The Rake (Boston Belles #4) by L.J. Shen

A mocking laugh rolled out of her. “Easy for you to say, you’re a damn royal, bruh. You were born into money.”

There was no point telling her that I hadn’t had access to a penny of my family’s fortune since the age of twenty-one, or that bruh was not, in fact, a word, but rather a spit in the face to the English language.

“You’re not fooling me or yourself, Sweven. We all make decisions emotionally then tag rational reasoning to them. Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. You must concentrate on what’s important. Let me deal with finding you new employees. I will speak to this Ross bloke. I already feel quite close to him, seeing as I sniffed his bullocks a few weeks ago.”

She let out a faint laugh, slumping into herself like a collapsed blanket fort, looking tired and young. Too young all of a sudden.

“All right?” I tilted my chin down.

She nodded. “Whatever. But that doesn’t mean you get to act like you’re running this show. It’s a one-off, okay?”

“A one-off,” I agreed, when in my heart I knew it was going to be one of many.

And that I was not done screwing her either.





The next morning, I ran to the toilet and threw up whatever little was in my stomach.

I’d been having issues with morning sickness since the beginning of the week.

The problem was that I could only keep down three things without getting up close and intimate with the toilet bowl: rice cakes, ginger candy, and diet coke.

Now, I was no nutritionist, but I was pretty sure those three things did not make for a balanced diet rich in vitamins and minerals for me or my baby.

They did, however, make for a lovely dieting plan that would result in my losing the extra five pounds I’d been struggling with for three years.

I plastered my forehead to the toilet seat, pathetically enjoying its coolness against my burning brow. I was sweaty and exhausted. My hair was stuck to my neck and hung in wet strands.

I blinked, white spots dancing across my vision as I tried to focus on the lime-green floor in my bathroom.

“Please, Baby Whitehall, let me eat a piece of toast with some cheese today. You need the protein and I need the variety. I get that morning sickness is nature’s way to tell women to stay the fuck away from all the bad stuff, but I promise, I’m not getting near coffee, alcohol, raw meat, or sashimi for the next nine months. Hell, I’ll throw in pickles and hard candy if you give me a break.”

Baby Whitehall, which according to a chart I found on the internet, was currently the size of a kidney bean and didn’t find my plea compelling. Sure enough, another bout of puking began.

With my last strength, I picked up the phone and texted Devon.

Belle: I know you said you want to be more involved. I’m thinking of booking an appointment with my OB-GYN.

Devon: ?

Belle: I can’t be farther than two feet from the bathroom at all times.

Devon: number 1 or 2?

Belle: three.

Belle: (puking).

Devon: I’ll have Joanne book an appointment and send a cab for you.

Ah, his trusted secretary. Because when he said he wanted to get involved, what he really meant was he wanted to control me until I produced him a healthy, chubby baby.

Belle: it’s fine. I can do it myself.

Devon: keep me posted.

Belle: screw you.

But I didn’t actually send that last message. It reeked of emotions, and I didn’t do those.

Simmering in a pool of self-pity, I dragged my feet across my shoebox apartment, glancing dejectedly at the place and wondering where in the world I was going to fit an entire baby. The baby itself wouldn’t take too much space, but her stuff would need a room.

And babies this day and age had all sorts of stuff.

My sister and all my friends had kids, and their toys and furniture needed acres of land. Cribs, changing tables, dressers, highchairs, bassinets, toys. The list was never-ending, and I was currently struggling to find a place for my coffee cups.

Too exhausted to figure out the accommodations, I spent the first half of the day binge-watching true crime documentaries on Netflix (because nothing screams a nurturing mother-to-be like following the chronicles of a serial killer). A knock on the door jolted me.

I groaned, flinging my feet off the couch. I threw my door open, only realizing I should’ve asked who it was when the memory of my trip to the Boston Common and my stalker resurfaced.

Well, crap in a basket.

I’d been meaning to call Sam Brennan and ask him what he charges these days for a bodyguard to protect a bitch, but my pregnancy brain fog took over my life. Besides, things had been calm the last few days.

“Sweven?” A pimply guy in an upscale chain store uniform smiled at me, holding approximately a gazillion brown bags.

Phew. Not a serial killer.

“I seem to be answering to that nickname recently, yeah.” I looked left and right to make sure he was alone and didn’t happen to have a serial killer with him.

“I have a delivery for you. Clean juices, exotic fruit baskets, and ready-made meals for a week by OrganicU. Where should I put this?”

I motioned with my head toward the kitchen, leading the way.

My baby daddy was a prick, but at least he was a considerate one.




I got to work looking like I’d been dragged there by an angry beaver. Bloodshot eyes, knotty hair haphazardly gathered in a bun, and a dress I lovingly referred to as The Period Dress. For a reason.