The Baby Truce. Jeannie Watt

in public, then maybe I can do something for you.”

      Tom tapped the tips of his fingers on his thigh impatiently. Pete was missing a fairly big point here. The job, or lack thereof, was the problem. Unless…

      “What am I supposed to do? Wear a paper hat?” And he wasn’t talking a chef’s toque.

      “It might do you some good.”

      The flight attendant walked up the aisle, and Tom turned in his seat, shielding the phone from her. “It would kill my career if I settled for some mediocre job now.” In his gut he knew this was true, and Pete had to know it, too. Maybe he’d given Pete so much grief that he wanted him to die a culinary death. Disappear from the radar.

      “Well, you might have to settle. Your only other option would be to find the backers to open your own restaurant, and with this economy, and your track record, I don’t see that happening.”

      Neither did Tom. “That’s it?”

      “You asked for my advice. I gave it. Work for a year without raising hell, and people might be ready to take a look at you again.”

      “What kind of work, Pete?” Tom muttered in frustration.

      “Hell, it could be a school cafeteria. You simply have to behave and make good food. One of those won’t be a problem.”

      Tom shoved a hand into his hair. There were many other business managers out there. Ones he hadn’t yet contacted.

      “Six months,” Pete said.

      “Six months?” Tom repeated as the plane lurched forward and the captain’s voice came over the intercom, announcing that they’d been cleared for takeoff. He covered the phone with his free hand.

      He sighed. “It’s like chef rehab. Work sedately for six months, prove that you can do it, and I’ll see what I can do. Screw up and you can find yourself a new manager. Although right now, Tom…I don’t know of a reputable guy in the industry who’d take you on.”

      SIXTEEN GUESTS SHOWED UP FOR A sit-down meal booked for twelve. Tracy Bremerton, the hostess, dressed about a decade too young for her age, didn’t understand why this was a problem, apparently expecting Eden and Reggie to manufacture food out of thin air. Which they did, of course. Reggie cut the rolls in half; Eden raced to the store to buy ingredients to stretch the salad. Patty, who was there to watch two of Tremont’s regular temp waiters serve, and learn the ropes so she could fill in if someone didn’t show, ended up taking Eden’s place in the kitchen while she was gone.

      Thankfully, they had plenty of soup, and the entrée was a pasta dish, so it was easy to stretch. Dessert was not so easy to stretch. Reggie was not at all happy with the size of the tiramisu servings, and neither was the hostess, from the expression on her face.

      When dinner was over and the van was packed, Mrs. Bremerton stepped into the kitchen and gave it a critical once-over. It was spotless, because Reggie and Eden never left a place in any other condition.

      “Are the leftovers in the refrigerator?” she asked.

      “There are no leftovers,” Reggie said, wondering how the woman could possibly expect any under the circumstances. Even if there’d been extra food, the contract clearly stated that Tremont did not leave leftovers. They’d had a bad experience early on with a host not storing the food properly, and then getting sick days later—and threatening to sue. It’d taken months to move past the rumors he’d started. After that they’d rewritten their contract.

      “There was extra pasta and bread. I saw it.” Not much. Reggie was about to explain about the leftover policy when Mrs. Bremerton added, “I was a bit embarrassed at the size of the desserts you served.”

      “It couldn’t be helped,” Reggie said as tactfully as possible. Finesse was part of the game. But this was the time to be blunt. “I had a final count of twelve. We served sixteen.” And worked our butts off to do that.

      “I called as soon as I found out my friend and her family would be able to make the dinner, after all,” the hostess said, taking hold of her long string of definitely not fake pearls and running them through her fingers.

      “The call came a little late.” As in while they were driving to the Bremerton house high on the hill overlooking Reno.

      “It seems to me that caterers should be prepared for this type of emergency.”

      “Yes—as long as you don’t mind paying for the extra food.”

      “Which you refuse to leave. Very unreasonable.”

      “I’m sorry you feel that way. Perhaps we can get together and discuss ways to avoid this in the future?”

      Mrs. Bremerton sniffed. “I don’t foresee a future.”

      “Well, good night, then.”

      Reggie made one final visual sweep of the spotless kitchen, nodded at the hostess, then left through the back door, a smile frozen on her face until the door closed behind her.

      “Not a happy hostess,” Reggie said as she got into the van, where Eden and Patty were waiting for her.

      “I don’t see why not,” Patty said stiffly. “It was a lovely dinner.”

      “Because we couldn’t read her mind and guess that she had extra people coming.” Eden put the van in gear. “I’ll do some damage control tomorrow.”

      “Good luck with that.” Reggie leaned her head against the window.

      She was so very tired. More tired than a catering event and disagreement with a host should have made her.

      Pregnancy, coupled with the unfinished business with her baby’s father, was wiping her out.

      Reggie hoped Tom got this job so their personal negotiations could begin.

      IT WAS RAINING. OF COURSE. HE comes to Nevada, one of the driest states in the union, and it rains on him. And not just a little. It rolled down his cheeks, into the corners of his mouth, collected on his lashes and got into his eyes when he blinked.

      And Reggie wasn’t answering her door. Finally, he heard a shuffling noise and then the peephole went dark. The door swung open.

      “How did you find me?” she demanded.

      “Could you please change that to ‘Come on in. It’s wet out there?’” And it had been easy to find her, thanks to the internet.

      Reggie looked past him at the cab idling on the wet street, then stepped back so he could come inside. “Why are you here?”

      She wasn’t any more welcoming now that he was under her roof, but he was going to be a damned sight warmer.

      “Did you get the job?” she added with a frown, since they’d met less than two days ago.

      “Do you mind if I take my coat off?” he asked, buying time.

      Reggie gave him a pained look, but nodded. He couldn’t help but glance at her abdomen under the form-fitting T-shirt she wore. There was no sign of pregnancy.

      “I’ve gained four pounds,” she said, interpreting the look. “But I probably won’t start showing until next month. Why are you here?”

      “We did well together once.” Reggie stiffened at his opening words, delivered as if they were part of a memorized speech. That’s what he got for not practicing.

      She casually folded her arms, shutting him out. “Agreed. Then one of us changed.”

      “I want another chance.”

      Reggie took a half step back, bringing her hand up to the base of her neck in a way that totally pissed him off. “With me?”

      “Don’t look so horrified.” Plan B, Plan B. “I didn’t get the job in Seattle.”