When I set both plates in front of her—the bland dinner and the bizarre sandwich—she stares at them for a moment.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I sit beside her, watching as she takes a bite of the chicken first. She eats it without questioning why I'm making the world's most boring meal. Without asking why there's no seasoning. Without commenting that this isn't my usual cooking style.
She just eats it. Because her stomach can handle it. Because it's exactly what she needs right now.
And then she reaches for the pickle and peanut butter sandwich.
I'm going to be a father.
My hand tightens on my fork. Emma keeps eating, completely unaware that I know. That I've figured it out. That I'm sitting here watching her and trying to decide if I'm more terrified or excited and landing somewhere in the realm of both and neither and everything in between.
Chapter 3
Emma
Wednesday - Oh crap. I might be pregnant.
I'm staring at my desk calendar counting backwards and the realization hits me like a freight train—fourteen days late. I'm never late.
Except apparently I am. Two weeks late. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours of not noticing because I've been too busy drowning in work to pay attention to my own body.
The merger offer from Preston & Associates sits on my desk, taunting me with its thick stack of papers and professional logo. I should be reviewing it. Instead, I'm counting backwards on my calendar like a woman possessed, triple-checking dates that don't change no matter how many times I look at them.
My stomach lurches.
I barely make it to the bathroom before throwing up. Again. This is becoming a very unfortunate pattern.
When I emerge five minutes later, pale and shaky, Maggie is standing outside the bathroom door with her arms crossed and an expression that says she knows exactly what's happening.
"Still a stomach bug?" she asks, her tone making it clear she doesn't believe that for a second.
"Must be something I ate for breakfast."
"At five in the morning?"
I freeze. "How did you know?—"
"Your car's been in the parking lot since dawn." Maggie gestures toward the window overlooking the street. "I saw you arrive when I got my coffee at the bakery. That was over an hour ago."
Damn small towns and their inability to let anyone have privacy.
"I had work to catch up on," I say, moving past her toward my office.
"Emma—"
"I'm fine, Maggie. Really."
I close my office door before she can interrogate me further, lean against it, and take several deep breaths. The merger offer practically glows on my desk, demanding attention I can't give it because my brain is currently spiraling through approximately nine million worst-case scenarios.
Preston & Associates wants to absorb my practice. They're offering partnership, resources, support staff, a salary that would make my law school debt weep with joy. The benefits package includes excellent health insurance, generous maternity leave, and?—
I stop that thought before it can fully form.
Focus on work. That's what I'm good at. Work is controllable. Work makes sense.
I don’t work. Instead, I pull up the merger terms on my computer and start reading. The contract is fair—more than fair, actually. I'd keep my client list, maintain autonomy over my cases, but gain access to their infrastructure. Two associates tohelp with the workload. An actual support staff. Regular hours instead of eighty-hour weeks.
