It's everything I should want.
Except accepting it means admitting I can't handle my practice by myself. That Emma Dawson, who proved everyone wrong by going solo straight out of law school, who built a successful practice from nothing, who represents Fortune 500 companies and wins cases that make the legal journals—that Emma Dawson needs help.
My phone buzzes with a text from Brennen.
Brennen:Em, please. I need your vote. Friday is the deadline.
I shove the phone in my desk drawer next to my emergency pickle stash.
Yes. I have an emergency pickle stash now. Don't judge me.
I pull out the jar and twist off the lid, the vinegary smell making my mouth water in a way that should probably concern me. The pickles are salty and crispy and exactly what my traitorous body is craving.
"Emma?" A few hours later, Maggie's voice comes through the door. "The Preston partners called again. They want an answer by end of week."
Of course they do. Because apparently everything in my life needs to be decided by Friday.
"I'll call them back," I say through a mouthful of pickle.
"Are you eating pickles?"
"No."
"I can hear the crunching."
I swallow. "Fine. Yes. I'm eating pickles. Is that a crime?"
Maggie opens the door without knocking—a privilege she's earned after working with me all these years—and stares at the jar in my hands.
"That's a lot of pickles," she says carefully.
"I like pickles."
"You had pickles for breakfast."
"Your point?"
Maggie's eyes narrow. Then she glances at the merger offer on my desk, back to the pickle jar, then to my face. The wheels are turning.
"Emma—"
"I'm taking a long lunch." I stand abruptly, shoving the pickle jar back in the drawer. "Don't wait for me."
"But you have the Henderson deposition at two?—"
"I'll be back by then."
I grab my purse and keys and flee before Maggie can ask any more questions that I'm not ready to answer.
Twenty minutes later, I'm in Hibiscus Harbor wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap like I'm some kind of celebrity avoiding paparazzi. In reality, I'm just a small-town lawyer trying to buy pregnancy tests without running into anyone I know from Pelican Point who might mention it to my brothers or their wives or my husband or literally anyone with a functioning mouth.
I park three blocks from the pharmacy. Three blocks. Like I'm on some kind of covert operation.
Miles would probably find this hilarious. Miles, who actually ran covert operations as a Navy SEAL. Miles, who I'm currently hiding a potential pregnancy from because I'm a mature adult who handles things well.
The pharmacy is blessedly empty except for an elderly woman examining reading glasses without reading glasses onand a teenage cashier who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else.
I grab a basket and try to look casual as I browse the aisles. Shampoo. Lotion. Vitamins. And then—pregnancy tests.
