"It's 9am."
"And?"
Tom's trying not to smile. "Are pickles a... regular thing?"
"Very regular." I take one from the jar, bite it with zero shame. "Crunchy. Salty. Vinegary. Perfect office snack."
Sarah and Tom exchange a glance—the universal "our new boss is eccentric" look.
"Moving on," I say briskly. "Henderson contract. Three hundred pages of commercial lease negotiations with competing buyout clauses. Let's dive in."
For the next two hours, we work through the contract line by line. Sarah catches details I missed. Tom asks questions thatforce me to explain my reasoning, which actually strengthens the arguments. They're good. Really good.
Maggie brings lunch—sandwiches from Seaside Sweets, because Julie's been mothering me since she found out about the pregnancy.
"She sent extra pickles," Maggie says, setting down the bag.
"Julie's a saint."
"Julie thinks you're insane."
"Also accurate."
Sarah's watching this exchange with barely concealed amusement. "How long have you two worked together?"
"Since Emma opened her practice," Maggie says. "I've seen her build this from nothing. Now she's smart enough to accept help."
"It only took a decade," I mutter.
"And a pregnancy," Maggie adds.
Sarah's eyes widen. Tom looks startled.
Right. They don't know yet.
"I'm pregnant," I say, since apparently we're doing this now. "Twenty weeks. Due in March. The pickles are a craving, not a personality disorder."
"Congratulations!" Sarah beams. "That's wonderful!"
"Explains the pickles," Tom adds. "My sister ate nothing but jalapeños when she was pregnant."
"That's horrifying."
"She said the same thing about pickles."
Fair point.
We finish lunch and dive back into work. By three PM, Sarah and Tom have absorbed an impressive amount of information and are already making suggestions on case strategy. I'm actually building a team instead of drowning alone.
It feels good. Really good.
At four PM, I pack up my briefcase—and my emergency pickle jar—and head out for the ultrasound appointment.
Miles is already in the parking lot when I arrive at Dr. Martinez's office, leaning against his car looking unfairly calm. He spots me and grins.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Absolutely not."
