The Baby Truce

Reggie came closer, took a deep whiff of the rich brown broth, and her stomach roiled violently. She clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Reg?”

The leather portfolio hit the rubber floor mat in front of the stove as Reggie turned and raced for the bathroom, barely making it before she heaved. She pushed away from the porcelain bowl as sweat broke out on her forehead. Then pulled herself closer as she heaved again.

“Reggie!” Eden knelt beside her, one hand on her back, offering her a wad of toilet paper.

“I’m fine,” Reggie said automatically, taking the tissue to wipe her mouth.

“Oh, yes. Totally fine.”

“No. Really.” Reggie focused on her sister. “I feel better.”

Eden regarded her for a moment. “Could you stop by the seafood shop right now?”

Reggie’s stomach convulsed at the mere thought of fish. It must have showed.

“Uh-huh.” Eden helped her to her feet. “You need to go home and lie down before you get really sick.”

“This was just a fluke. Besides, I have meetings.” That she couldn’t afford to throw up in.

“How long have you been feeling like this?”

“A couple days,” Reggie said. “Just a little out of sorts. Kind of sick in the mornings.”

“Morning sickness?!”

Reggie met her sister’s eyes, then slowly started shaking her head. “No. I feel sick in the morning. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, yeah? And what is that difference?”

“I believe what you’re talking about is called pregnancy,” Reggie said.

“No chance…?” Eden asked.

“Who are you talking to? I never take chances.”

Eden merely stared at her in a decidedly unconvinced way.

“Ever,” Reggie added. She glanced down at her shoes, which, thankfully, hadn’t suffered any damage.

“You’ve been damned cranky lately and now you’re puking in the morning.” Her sister lifted her chin, looked Reggie in the eye and asked flatly, “You swear there’s no chance at all?”

Next she’d have her putting her hand on the Bible.

“None,” Reggie replied. After all, she and Tom had used condoms.

TOM WALKED DOWN FIFTH AVENUE, hands shoved deep in his pockets, chin tucked low to his chest against the pelting rain. He hated rain.

Right now he hated just about everything, and especially Jervase Montrose. It was one thing to get canned, and another to get canned in front of his kitchen brigade just after service. Jervase had planned it that way. He’d all but called in a news crew. And he’d made such a fricking big deal about having taken a chance on him. What chance? Tom had delivered everything he’d promised. The number of covers had increased exponentially since he’d taken the helm of Jervase’s restaurant.

Ungrateful bastard.

Tom climbed the four stone steps to the entryway of Pete’s office building. The security guard nodded at him as he passed on his way to the elevator. His business manager’s receptionist did the same, then ignored him during the twenty minutes Pete kept him waiting. He hadn’t even sat down in one of the sleek ebony chairs on the opposite side of the equally sleek but cluttered desk when Pete announced, “It was your fault.”

Tom didn’t bother sitting after that, since it was going to be one of those kinds of meetings. Pete might be a good six inches shorter than Tom and generally soft spoken, but he didn’t take crap from anyone. “My fault? How the hell did you come to that conclusion?”

“Eyewitness reports.”

“What? Who? Because anyone there last night could tell you—”

“Not last night. The night before. When you told the group of diners how ridiculous upper management was.”

Tom shifted his weight impatiently. “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” Rampant inefficiency was making it damned hard for him to do his best work, and it wouldn’t have been that tough to fix it.

“But unfortunately, you said it to one of the men responsible.”

Tom snorted. “All the more reason to say something. If they would have listened to me weeks ago—”

“Play the freaking game, Tom! Other people do. Why can’t you?”

He placed his palms on Pete’s desk and leaned closer. “Because the game bites. If there’s a problem, you identify it and fix it.”

“Well, apparently Jervase has identified the problem and fixed it.”

Tom had no answer for that. Jervase was within his rights to fire him. He was stupid to, but within his rights.

“What now?” he asked.

“What the hell do you mean, what now? You’re burning bridges faster than I can build them.”

“Build faster.”

Pete slumped back in his chair. “Jervase is well respected. I hate to say this…but you may have burned your last bridge. For a while, anyway.”

“Meaning?”

“If he wants to, he can blackball you.”

Tom’s chin came up. “He’s a money man. He doesn’t know squat about running a restaurant—or creating a menu.” One of their first bones of contention. “I mean, seriously.”

“Money talks.” Pete got out of his chair and came around his desk. “Consider an apology. Possibly even a public one.”

“An apology?” Tom almost choked. “Give me one frigging reason why I should apologize to him when his head is so far up his—”

“He can do you some major damage, no matter how good you are.” Pete paused, then added significantly, “Even more damage than you’re causing yourself.”

“I am not the problem.”