"I just really like pickles."
"Sure you do, honey." She pats my arm. "Congratulations. It's terrifying and wonderful all at once."
I watch her walk away, her words echoing in my head.
Terrifying and wonderful.
I grab three more jars of pickles and head to checkout. The merger offer is in on my desk. The positive pregnancy tests are in my purse. Brennen's deadline is Friday. Miles is waiting at home. And I'm standing in the pickle aisle like pickles are going to solve any of this.
They won't. But at least they taste good.
Chapter 4
Miles
Ineed Emma's car keys to move her car, so I'm definitely not snooping when I find the CVS receipt in her purse. Definitely not. Okay, maybe a little.
She blocked me in the driveway again—a habit she's had since we moved in together, parking wherever is most convenient without considering that other people might need to leave. Usually, it's endearing. Today it's inconvenient because I have a wine review deadline and she's still in the shower.
Her purse is on the kitchen counter where she dropped it tonight night after coming home late. Again. She's been working ridiculous hours lately, even by Emma standards. Yesterday she worked at home until almost nine, claiming she had to finish reviewing contracts.
When I asked if she wanted dinner, she'd stared at me blankly for a solid ten seconds before saying, "I already ate."
"What did you eat?"
"Food."
"Emma—"
"Pickles. I ate pickles. In the car. Don't judge me."
So yeah. My wife is definitely going through something.
I dig through her purse looking for keys—past the lipstick, the mints, the protein bars she never eats, the portable phone charger—and that's when my fingers brush against paper. A receipt.
CVS Pharmacy, Hibiscus Harbor. Today’s date.
I pull it out, already knowing what I'm going to find but needing to see it anyway.
Five pregnancy tests. One bottle of prenatal vitamins. Total: $42.18. Paid in cash.
I stare at the receipt for a solid minute, my brain processing the information in that methodical way I learned during SEAL training. Assess the situation. Consider the intel. Draw conclusions.
Hibiscus Harbor. Twenty minutes away instead of the pharmacy here in Pelican Point.
Five tests, not one.
Cash, not our credit card.
Prenatal vitamins.
She took the tests. Got results. Has been carrying this knowledge without saying a word.
That hurts more than I expected.
I sit on the edge of our bed, still holding the receipt, listening to the shower running in the bathroom.
She hasn't told me.
