The Big Reveal in Pelican Point (Pelican Point #9)

Chapter 1

Emma

Monday - No way I’m pregnant

The opposing counsel is mid-sentence about breach of contract when my stomach lurches so violently I have to grip the conference table. Not now. Please, not now.

"As I was saying, Ms. Dawson, the contractual obligations clearly state—"

Another wave hits. My mouth floods with saliva. I press my lips together and focus on breathing through my nose like I'm defusing a bomb instead of sitting in a negotiation for Ryan's company.

"—and therefore Shadow Strike Ventures is in direct violation of—"

"Excuse me." I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the polished floor. "I need a moment."

The opposing counsel—a man in his fifties with a receding hairline and expensive suit—blinks at me. "I'm sorry?"

"Bathroom. Now. Continue without me." I'm already moving toward the door, my hand clamped over my mouth.

"But Ms. Dawson, we're in the middle of—"

I don't hear the rest. I'm sprinting down the hallway of the Preston & Associates conference room in heels that were not designed for speed, frantically searching for a bathroom sign.

There. I burst through the door, barely making it to a stall before my stomach empties itself with impressive violence.

Third time this week. Third. Time.

When I finally emerge, shaky and sweaty, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Mascara smudged, lipstick gone, skin pale. I look like I've been through a war, not a contract negotiation. Although sometimes they're the same thing.

I rinse my mouth, fix my makeup as best I can, and practice my game face. Emma Dawson does not get rattled. Emma Dawson handles everything with calm professionalism. Emma Dawson is definitely not currently falling apart in a bathroom.

When I return to the conference room, the opposing counsel has gathered his papers into a nervous pile. "Ms. Dawson. Are you... quite all right?"

"Fine." I slide back into my seat, flip open my legal pad like I didn't just spend five minutes vomiting. "You were saying something about contractual obligations?"

He stares at me. "Perhaps we should reschedule—"

"I have your client's entire argument already memorized, and I can dismantle it in approximately four minutes.

" I lean forward, channeling every ounce of courtroom confidence I possess.

"But if you'd prefer to reschedule, I'm happy to do this again next week.

When I've had even more time to prepare. "

The bluff works. It always does.

Two hours later, I'm walking out with a settlement that saves Shadow Strike Ventures approximately three billion dollars.

I text Ryan the good news and get back an immediate string of celebration emojis that would embarrass most CEOs.

But Ryan Murphy is not most CEOs. He's my oldest brother, former Navy SEAL, and the kind of person who uses emojis unironically.

My office is a ten-minute drive from Preston & Associates, which gives me just enough time to acknowledge that something is very wrong with me before I have to shove it into a mental box labeled "Deal With Later."

The Emma Dawson Law Office occupies a renovated cottage on the Atlantic Ocean in downtown Pelican Point, Florida.

It's small but mine—my name on the door, my cases, my reputation.

When I opened my practice all those years ago, everyone said I was crazy to go solo so soon out of law school.

Murphys work for established firms, they said. Build your reputation first, they said.

I proved them all wrong.

And now I'm drowning.

Maggie looks up from the reception desk when I walk in. She's sixty-three, has worked for me since day one, and sees right through every single one of my lies.

"You look terrible," she says cheerfully.

"Thank you, Maggie. Your support means everything to me."

"How'd it go?"

"Three-billion-dollar settlement." I drop my briefcase on her desk with more force than necessary. "Ryan's thrilled."

"Of course you did." She stands, disappearing into the small kitchen area. "You win everything. It's annoying… to the defendants."

I head toward my office, peeling off my blazer. The space is exactly how I left it this morning: organized chaos. Files stacked on every surface, sticky notes covering my computer monitor, three coffee mugs in various stages of abandonment.

My desk phone shows fourteen missed calls. My email inbox counter reads 247 unread messages. The stack of contracts waiting for review has grown from concerning to architectural feat.

I sink into my chair and close my eyes.

Maggie appears in the doorway holding a plate of saltine crackers and a can of ginger ale. She sets them on the only clear corner of my desk without comment.

I stare at the crackers. "What are these for?"

"You tell me." She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe.

"I'm fine."

"Mmm-hmm."

"I am. Just a stomach bug."

"That you've had for over a week?"

"Three days. And it's stress related. I'm stressed."

Maggie's expression says she's not buying what I'm selling, but she doesn't push. Instead, she nods toward a thick envelope sitting on top of my inbox pile. "That came yesterday. From Preston & Associates."

The merger offer. Right. That thing I've been avoiding.

"I'll look at it later."

"Emma—"

"Later, Maggie."

She sighs but retreats, pulling my office door partially closed behind her. I can hear her at her desk, typing away at something that's probably more organized than my entire life.

I pick up a cracker and nibble it experimentally. My stomach doesn't immediately rebel, which feels like a small victory. The ginger ale is cold and settles things further.

Then I make the mistake of opening my email.

The most recent message is from my brother Brennen, subject line in all caps: NEED YOUR VOTE ASAP.

I already know what this is about. Celtic Knot Winery, the family business that Brennen runs with our brother Ryan's financial backing.

He wants to expand—buy the adjacent vineyard property, increase production, grow the legacy.

Or he could sell to a corporate buyer, take the guaranteed money, and let someone else deal with the headaches.

The deciding vote is mine. Of course it is.

I'm the practical one. The logical one. The one who looks at numbers and makes the hard decisions. Ryan doesn't care either way—it's not a money-maker for Shadow Strike, he just backed Brennen because family. Brennen desperately wants to expand but won't do it without unanimous agreement.

Which leaves me.

I delete the email without opening it.

My phone immediately buzzes with a text from Brennen.

Brennen: Did you get my email? Need answer by Friday!

Friday. Everything needs an answer by Friday, apparently.

I silence my phone and shove it in my desk drawer.

The crackers are gone before I realize I've eaten them. The ginger ale follows. I pull up my calendar to check tomorrow's schedule and that's when I see it.

The little pink dot I put on every month like clockwork.

Two weeks ago.

I'm two weeks late.

The realization hits me with the force of one of Ryan's combat stories. I lean back in my chair, staring at the calendar like it betrayed me. How did I not notice? How did I miss this?

Because I've been working eighty-hour weeks, that's how.

Because I take on every case that comes through the door, handle every client call personally, review every contract myself.

Because admitting I need help feels like admitting I failed at the one thing I was supposed to prove—that Emma Dawson can handle anything.

My hands are shaking when I minimize the calendar and open a new browser window.

Pregnancy symptoms early signs

I type it fast, like someone might see over my shoulder. Then I scan the results:

Nausea and vomiting. Check.

Fatigue. I laugh out loud. I'm a solo practice attorney. I'm always exhausted.

Food cravings or aversions. I think about the crackers I just inhaled. The ginger ale that tasted like heaven. The way the smell of coffee this morning made me want to die.

Missed period.

Check.

I close the browser so fast I almost knock over my water bottle.

This is ridiculous. I'm not pregnant. Miles and I are careful. We're safe. We're—

My phone buzzes in the drawer. I ignore it.

We're careful.

Mostly careful.

There was that weekend last month. When we got back from the wine festival in Tampa and we were both a little drunk and very happy and—

No. No, no, no.

I can't be pregnant. I have a trial next month. I have the Shadow Strike contract to finalize. I have Brennen's vote hanging over my head and the merger offer judging me from across the desk and approximately nine million other things that require my full attention.

I cannot be pregnant right now.

My computer screen has gone dark. I stare at my own dim reflection, looking for something I don't want to find.

"Emma?" Maggie's voice filters through the door. "You okay in there?"

"Fine!" My voice cracks on the word. "Just reviewing something!"

Silence. Then: "It's almost six. You should go home."

Six? I glance at the clock. I never leave at six. I usually don't leave until midnight, sometimes later. But the thought of staying here, surrounded by all these decisions I need to make, feels suffocating.

"You're right." I grab my bag and blazer. "I'm going home."

Maggie's standing at her desk when I emerge, her coat already on. She studies my face with the kind of knowing look that makes me want to confess everything.

"Get some rest," she says gently.

"I will."

"And Emma? Whatever's going on—you can handle it. You always do."

The words land wrong. My throat tightens and I turn toward my office before she can see my face.

I drive home on autopilot, my mind spinning through logistics and timelines and the medical question I'm not ready to ask. I need food. That's what I need. Real food, not crackers. Something that will settle my stomach and help me think clearly.

The grocery store appears like a mirage, and I pull into the parking lot without consciously deciding to stop.

Inside, the fluorescent lights are too bright. The aisles stretch endlessly. I grab a basket and wander, looking for something—anything—that sounds appealing.

Past the produce. Past the meat section. Past the—

Pickles.

I stop. Stare at the jars lined up in neat rows. Dill, bread and butter, kosher, spicy.

My mouth literally waters.

Before I can question it, I'm grabbing a jar. Two jars. Three.

Then I'm in the peanut butter aisle, selecting the largest jar of creamy Jif they have.

At checkout, the teenage cashier rings up my items without comment, though she glances at my purchases with barely concealed amusement.

"Big pickle fan?" she asks.

"Apparently." I swipe my card, avoiding eye contact.

The drive home takes five minutes. Our house sits on a quiet street three blocks from the beach, a small craftsman with blue shutters that Miles painted last summer. His car is in the driveway, which means he's home early too.

I gather my bags and briefcase, trying to arrange my face into something that looks normal and not like someone who just bought three jars of pickles and is possibly having an existential crisis.

The smell of cooking garlic hits me the moment I open the door. My stomach does a complicated flip—not quite nausea, but not quite hunger either.

"Em?" Miles calls from the kitchen. "That you?"

"Yeah." I drop my briefcase by the door and carry the grocery bags toward the kitchen.

Miles is at the stove, stirring something in a pan, his sleeves rolled up and his hair slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it. He's in his standard after-work uniform: jeans and a t-shirt that shows off shoulders that still look like they belong to the Navy SEAL he used to be.

He looks up with that smile that made me fall in love with him—easy and warm and completely genuine.

"You're home early. Everything okay?"

I'm clutching three jars of pickles and a container of peanut butter like they're security blankets. The merger offer is burning a hole in my briefcase. Brennen needs an answer I don't have. I'm two weeks late and possibly pregnant and definitely falling apart.

"Everything's great!" My voice comes out too bright, too high. "Just hungry!"

Miles' eyes drop to the grocery bags. One eyebrow rises slowly.

"Interesting combo." He sets down the spoon and walks over, peering at my purchases. "Pickles and peanut butter?"

"I was craving something salty." I set the bags on the counter with as much dignity as I can muster. "And something... else."

"Peanut butter."

"Yes. Peanut butter."

He picks up one of the pickle jars, examining the label like it holds the secrets of the universe. Then he looks at the second jar. The third jar.

"That's a lot of pickles, Em."

"I really like pickles."

"Since when?"

"Since now."

His expression shifts into something I can't quite read—concern mixed with curiosity and maybe, possibly, the beginning of understanding.

"Want me to make you a sandwich with those?" His voice is careful, like he's testing the waters.

The question hangs in the air between us. A pickle and peanut butter sandwich. It sounds absurd. Disgusting, even.

My mouth waters again.

"Yes," I hear myself say. "Yes, I really do."

Miles' lips twitch into a smile. "Okay then. One pickle and peanut butter sandwich, coming right up."

He turns back to the stove, and I'm left standing in my work clothes, clutching a pickle jar, watching my husband hum while he makes me the most ridiculous sandwich I've ever requested.

My briefcase sits by the door with all those unanswered questions inside.

But right now, all I can think about is whether pickle and peanut butter will actually taste as good as my body is insisting it will.