"You know about Preston?" I stare at him.
"The papers were sticking out of your briefcase. I'm sorry. I saw them."
Great. He knows about one secret.
Just not the biggest one.
I look at our joined hands, at the pickle jars now in my lap, at the wine stain on my dress. Everything's falling apart and I can't keep pretending it's not.
"Miles—"
"You don't have to tell me right now," he says quietly. "Whatever it is. Whenever you're ready. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
The kindness breaks me. I cry harder, and he just holds my hand and lets me fall apart in the parking lot.
Eventually the tears stop. I wipe my face with a tissue from my purse—next to the pickle jars, naturally—and take a shaky breath.
"I'm a mess."
"You're human."
"I'm supposed to be the together one."
"Says who?"
"Everyone. Myself. The universe."
"The universe has terrible expectations." He starts the car. "Come on. Let's go home. I'll make you dinner."
"Bland chicken and rice?"
He glances at me, and there's something in his expression I can't read. "If that's what you want."
We drive home in comfortable silence, and I eat pickles straight from my emergency pickle jar, I left one in his car, without apologizing.
Because apparently this is who I am now. The woman who eats pickles in cars and lies about terroir and can't tell her husband she's pregnant.
Tomorrow. I'll tell him tomorrow.
But first, I really need to stop at the store for more pickles.
Chapter 6
Miles
Idropped Emma off at the house to take a nap and circled my way back to Celtic Knot. Now, Ryan's giving me his CEO interrogation stare across Celtic Knot's table. "You know what's going on with Emma. I can tell. What is it?"
I take a deliberately slow sip of the Merlot I'm supposed to be reviewing. "She's busy. Big caseload."
"Bullshit." Ryan leans back in his chair, arms crossed. Full SEAL mode. "She hung up on me the other day—said she was in a supply closet but I clearly saw a toilet in the background."
Brennen slumps in his chair across from us, looking like someone killed his dog. "She dumped my competition wine all over a table! A two-hundred-dollar bottle, Miles. She didn't even taste it. Just swished it around and said it was 'wine-y.'"
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. "Wine-y isn't a descriptor?"
"NO." Brennen drops his head into his hands. "And then she ran away. At my exhibition. In front of distributors. What am I supposed to think?"
"That your sister had a rough day?"
