The Baby Truce. Jeannie Watt

set. “I know we won’t win, because Candy will have a booth that would put a Hollywood set to shame—”

      Mims took a flying leap at the table from her chair just then, didn’t quite make it and would have hit the floor if Eden hadn’t caught her. “Have you been ignoring your kitty?” she asked as she set her on the floor. Mims instantly started a bath.

      “Not on purpose.” Reggie went to pick up the cat, but Mims walked away, tail held high, before Reggie could scoop her up. Maybe she had been ignoring the cat.

      “Anyway…” Eden reached for the cider and topped up her glass “…I thought I could take the helm of the Reno Cuisine, since both you and Justin are so busy.”

      “Please,” Reggie replied. They had just booked a big wedding on short notice—three weeks—and that would consume most of Reggie’s time, particularly since they already had a business dinner booked that same week. “Take the helm, take the entire ship, because right now I have to make amends with my cat and battle plans for a big-ass wedding reception.”

      HUMILIATION SUCKED.

      Numbly, Tom took his seat on the flight back to Reno. Not only had he not gotten a job, he hadn’t even gotten to interview or cook. In fact, he was going back to New York sooner than he’d expected. Days sooner.

      He didn’t know if Jervase had gotten hold of these guys or what, but after a very short, very terse and uncomfortable meeting with three members of the Letterbridge cuisine vision team, one of them had taken him aside and explained that rather than put him through an interview for a job he had no chance of getting, they were simply going to come clean. Inviting him had been a mistake. Literally a mistake. The associate in charge of contacting the top candidates had pulled his file in error. Tom had no chance of working for Letterbridge.

      “None?” he had asked, flabbergasted. Two years ago they’d offered him a damned handsome deal.

      “None,” the guy had said flatly.

      Tom felt as if he’d just swallowed a chunk of cement. How in the hell had he gotten to the point where he was disappointed—no, make that devastated—at not being a candidate for a freaking corporate kitchen job?

      The man babbled about public opinion and image, and how all members of the kitchen staff and management had to be team players, because Letterbridge was a team, from the top on down. Then he looked at Tom and said, “You have to see how we cannot possibly have someone like you on our team.”

      And that was when Tom, despite his vow in the Reno airport not to indulge in public fits of temper, told the HR guy exactly what he could do with his team and how.

      Shortly before security showed up, Tom left the building of his own volition.

      He was screwed. Royally. Just as Lowell had said.

      Worse yet, he was beginning to suspect that part of it was his own fault.

      So what now?

      Letterbridge had arranged for an earlier flight back to New York, but he’d booked his own on their dime. He wanted to stop in Reno again. Had to stop in Reno, since he had no idea when he’d get another chance to meet with Reggie face-to-face.

      What was he going to tell her after his assurances that the job was all but his?

      As he stared morosely out the window, waiting for takeoff, he became aware of the woman across the aisle staring at him. He glanced at her, she looked down, then when he shifted his attention back to the window, she started studying him again.

      “I’m not him,” Tom said.

      “Not who?” the woman asked, perplexed.

      “Whoever you think I am.”

      “Right now I don’t think you’re anyone,” she said curtly.

      “Sing it, sister,” he muttered, looking back out at the tarmac.

      Right now, he wasn’t anyone. And being someone—in the cooking world, that is—had become a huge part of his identity.

      Shit. He let the side of his head rest against the cool glass of the window, closing his eyes. There was a commotion across the aisle and he glanced over to see that the woman who’d recognized him had scooted over to the window seat to let a woman with a baby sit on the aisle. A baby.

      Tom leaned his head back and rolled his eyes heavenward.

      I get it. I’m going to be a dad. I have a responsibility here. I don’t need it hammered home.

      His not so prayerlike prayer didn’t make him feel any less tense. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the mother settled the child on her lap. What was it? A boy? A girl? Whatever, it was totally bald. The baby looked around, wide-eyed, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Then his mouth opened and he let out a howl. Every muscle in Tom’s body tensed.

      The mom pulled her child closer, but he pushed away with his chubby fists, turned his mouth upside down and wailed again.

      “I know, I know. It’s all right,” she murmured, jiggling him on her knees, rubbing his little shoulders and neck. The kid howled some more. Tom turned to the window.

      How on earth was the mother dealing with this?

      The hiccuping sobs continued, and when Tom looked back—because he couldn’t help it—the kid’s gaze fastened on to his. One fist clutched his mother’s collar and she continued to soothe the baby until finally he slumped against her, pulling in shaky little breaths. But his eyes stayed on Tom until they finally drifted shut. Asleep.

      He’d fallen asleep. Just like that.

      The mother smiled at Tom and he made an effort to smile back. Then she took advantage of the moment to shut her eyes, too. But her arms stayed wrapped tightly around her young son, until the attendant arrived with a travel seat and the kid woke up again. Wonderful.

      This time he didn’t cry. He watched in fascination as the attendant put the seat in place. As soon as she was done, a person sat in the aisle seat next to Tom, blocking his view.

      The plane started to back away from the terminal, then slowed to a halt with a slight jerk. A moment later, the captain’s voice came over the intercom.

      “Ladies and gentlemen, there’ll be a slight delay before takeoff. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

      Tom wasn’t a huge believer in signs—well, other than the baby, perhaps—but he did believe in opportunity. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and turned it on, shielding it with his hand in case the attendant went militant. He needed to make this call now. Because he didn’t know what else to do, and he suddenly felt as if he was running out of time.

      He had seven months, which wasn’t very long at all. He didn’t want to be an unemployed bum of a chef when his child was born.

      By some miracle Pete answered his call.

      “Pete…I need advice.”

      “No.”

      “Can you at least give me the name of a decent manager?”

      “No, because you’ll tell him I sent you.”

      “I won’t.” There wasn’t a hint of irony or amusement in his voice. “I, uh, need some advice here.”

      “You’re a talented guy, but that talent’s a waste if your opinion of yourself is so high that you don’t think anyone else knows jack.”

      Tom almost said, “They don’t,” but managed to hold in the words. Progress. He was making progress.

      “You cut your own throat, Tom. No one did it for you.”

      “I know. I know.” He didn’t want to hear about cutting his throat. He wanted to hear about saving his ass. “What can I do to uncut my throat?” That didn’t involve a lot of public kissing up.

      “Nothing.