The Baby Truce. Jeannie Watt

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.”

      “So this has all been what?” Pete asked calmly. “A run of bad luck?”

      Tom slapped his hand down on the desk. Why in the hell couldn’t the man see what was going on? “It’s been a run of idiots with money thinking they know more than the experts they hire. Assholes who can’t handle hearing the truth because they didn’t think of it themselves.”

      “Assholes who do the hiring and firing.” Pete pointed a finger at him. “Assholes who hold your future in their hands.”

      “They don’t hold my future,” Tom said. “I hold my future.”

      “Don’t be so sure of that.”

      Tom’s head started to pound. Pete was missing the point, and Tom needed to get the hell out of there before he really blew. He turned and headed for the door. “I’ve got to go.”

      “Don’t do anything stupid,” Pete said. “Or should I say stupider.”

      “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Tom yanked the heavy paneled door open and strode out into the hall. “I’ll check back with you.”

      Pete didn’t answer. Tom didn’t know whether that was good or bad, and didn’t care. Pete had been his manager since he’d been a candidate for the James Beard Upcoming Chef awards, and once they weathered this particular storm, things would be good again.

      He could see why Pete wanted to make nice with Montrose—after all, Tom wasn’t Pete’s only client. But he was his biggest name, and Tom would pound nails with his knife before he’d apologize for speaking the truth.

      Let the man do his worst.

      THE UNOPENED PREGNANCY TEST stood like a sentinel on Reggie’s kitchen island. She walked slowly around the granite-topped fixture, not quite ready to take the plunge, mainly because she couldn’t be pregnant.

      No. Way.

      She and Tom had used condoms. Both times.

      So why didn’t she just pee on the stick and get it over with?

      Because the possibility of being tied to Tom for the next eighteen years was simply too much for her to handle. Yeah, she’d once loved him. But that wasn’t why she’d slept with him.

      Never sleep with someone you don’t want to raise a kid with—no matter how hot they are. Her ninth-grade health teacher’s words, which had been repeated at least fifty times during the semester.

      No question about Tom being hot. And if Reggie pushed aside her resentment about how he’d walked out on her, how he’d chosen a high-risk job on the other side of the ocean over staying with her and starting the catering business that had become Tremont, she could concede that he had good points besides hotness. But he wasn’t father material. Fathers needed to be steady. And there.

      Reggie grabbed the box and opened the top. Enough. She was settling this once and for all.

      IT TOOK TOM A LONG TIME TO wake up enough to realize that the constant ringing was not in his head. He pushed himself upright on the sofa, stared at the cell phone he held in his hand, then answered.

      “Are you crazy?” Pete barked into his ear, making him wince.

      “According to you, I am,” Tom said, his voice thick. He cleared his throat twice, trying to ease the cotton mouth. “Why?”

      “Do you recall talking to any reporters lately?”

      Tom planted a palm on his forehead, trying to hold in the pressure. “Why in the hell are you calling me about reporters?”

      “Because of what greeted me in the paper this morning!” Pete, normally the most patient of men, even when Tom was on a rampage, sounded utterly pissed. “I sent you the link. Take a look once your vision clears enough to read it.” The phone went dead.

      Tom let his head fall back against the sofa cushions. Closed his eyes. His head was throbbing. Mescal? Was that what he’d drunk? He remembered demanding something strong to kill the disappointment of having everyone he’d called for a job lead give him a helpful suggestion as to somewhere else he might want to call.

      Whatever he’d drunk, it’d been a killer night. But he hadn’t talked to any reporters. He was certain of that.

      The room spun as he got to his feet and trudged naked to the bathroom. A woman’s red sequined top hung on the doorknob by one strap. He stared at it for a moment, then continued into the john, closing the door just in case. When he came back out, he looked around the apartment, which didn’t take long since it was only four small yet highly expensive rooms. No woman.

      He sat in front of the computer, brought up his email and clicked on the link Pete had sent. Obviously some