"Get some rest," she says gently.
"I will."
"And Emma? Whatever's going on—you can handle it. You always do."
The words land wrong. My throat tightens and I turn toward my office before she can see my face.
I drive home on autopilot, my mind spinning through logistics and timelines and the medical question I'm not ready to ask. I need food. That's what I need. Real food, not crackers. Something that will settle my stomach and help me think clearly.
The grocery store appears like a mirage, and I pull into the parking lot without consciously deciding to stop.
Inside, the fluorescent lights are too bright. The aisles stretch endlessly. I grab a basket and wander, looking for something—anything—that sounds appealing.
Past the produce. Past the meat section. Past the?—
Pickles.
I stop. Stare at the jars lined up in neat rows. Dill, bread and butter, kosher, spicy.
My mouth literally waters.
Before I can question it, I'm grabbing a jar. Two jars. Three.
Then I'm in the peanut butter aisle, selecting the largest jar of creamy Jif they have.
At checkout, the teenage cashier rings up my items without comment, though she glances at my purchases with barely concealed amusement.
"Big pickle fan?" she asks.
"Apparently." I swipe my card, avoiding eye contact.
The drive home takes five minutes. Our house sits on a quiet street three blocks from the beach, a small craftsman with blue shutters that Miles painted last summer. His car is in the driveway, which means he's home early too.
I gather my bags and briefcase, trying to arrange my face into something that looks normal and not like someone who just bought three jars of pickles and is possibly having an existential crisis.
The smell of cooking garlic hits me the moment I open the door. My stomach does a complicated flip—not quite nausea, but not quite hunger either.
"Em?" Miles calls from the kitchen. "That you?"
"Yeah." I drop my briefcase by the door and carry the grocery bags toward the kitchen.
Miles is at the stove, stirring something in a pan, his sleeves rolled up and his hair slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it. He's in his standard after-work uniform: jeans and a t-shirt that shows off shoulders that still look like they belong to the Navy SEAL he used to be.
He looks up with that smile that made me fall in love with him—easy and warm and completely genuine.
"You're home early. Everything okay?"
I'm clutching three jars of pickles and a container of peanut butter like they're security blankets. The merger offer is burning a hole in my briefcase. Brennen needs an answer I don't have.I'm two weeks late and possibly pregnant and definitely falling apart.
"Everything's great!" My voice comes out too bright, too high. "Just hungry!"
Miles' eyes drop to the grocery bags. One eyebrow rises slowly.
"Interesting combo." He sets down the spoon and walks over, peering at my purchases. "Pickles and peanut butter?"
"I was craving something salty." I set the bags on the counter with as much dignity as I can muster. "And something... else."
"Peanut butter."
