Chapter 2
Miles
Brennen's pacing Celtic Knot's office like a caged animal. "Miles, I need Emma's vote by Friday, or we lose the vineyard property. Why won't she call me back?"
I lean against the tasting room counter, swirling a glass of their new Cabernet blend. The wine is excellent—rich, balanced, with notes of blackberry and oak. But Brennen's not interested in my professional opinion right now. He's wearing a path in the hardwood floor.
"Maybe she's busy," I offer. "Shadow Strike case is huge."
"She's always busy." Brennen runs both hands through his hair, making it stand up in different directions. "But she always returns my calls. Always. This is different."
Sophie appears from the back, wiping her hands on her apron. She's been working with the new fermentation tanks all morning, preparing for the potential expansion that hinges on Emma's vote.
"Still no word from Emma?" she asks.
Brennen makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper. "Nothing. Radio silence. Complete avoidance."
"She's probably just thinking it through," I say, though I'm not entirely convinced. Emma's been strange lately. More than strange. But I'm not about to tell Brennen that.
"Thinking it through?" Brennen stops pacing long enough to stare at me. "Miles, the property owner needs an answer by Friday. That's this week. If we don't commit, he's selling to a developer who wants to build condos. Condos, Miles. Right next to our vineyard."
Alex walks in carrying a clipboard, his reading glasses perched on his nose. He's the practical counterpart to Sophie's creative genius—together they make Celtic Knot's wine operation actually function.
"Just got off the phone with the distributor," Alex says. "They want to know our production capacity for next year. Which depends entirely on whether we're expanding or not."
Brennen lets out another distressed sound.
"What does Ryan think?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Ryan thinks whatever we decide is fine." Brennen's voice takes on a slightly mocking tone. "'Not a money maker for me, you two figure it out.' That's a direct quote."
Classic Ryan. Shadow Strike Ventures makes enough money that Celtic Knot is essentially a passion project for him—a way to support his brother's dream while staying connected to Pelican Point. He doesn't need the winery to be profitable. He just needs it to make Brennen happy.
Which leaves Emma as the deciding vote between her brothers. Again.
"Emma's caught in the middle," I say carefully. "That's not an easy position."
"I know." Brennen collapses into a chair, all his nervous energy suddenly deflating.
"It's not fair to put this on her. But I need this, Miles.
This expansion—it's not just about the business.
It's about continuing our family's legacy.
Building something that lasts. Something for the next generation. "
The way he says "next generation" makes my chest tight. I take another sip of wine to cover my reaction.
"She'll make the right decision," I tell him. "Emma always does."
Sophie exchanges a look with Alex that I can't quite read. Then she turns to me with an expression that's far too knowing for comfort.
"Speaking of Emma," Sophie says slowly. "She's been acting strange lately."
My hand tightens on the wine glass. "Strange how?"
"At the last tasting, she dumped a whole glass of our best Pinot in that ficus." Sophie gestures toward the decorative plant in the corner, which does look suspiciously healthy. "Looked green when she did it. Like she was about to be sick, Emma, not the plant."
I file this information away with growing suspicion.
"She also left early," Alex adds, checking his clipboard like he's reading from notes. "Said she had a client emergency. But I saw her sitting in her car eating. For like twenty minutes. Just sitting there. Eating."
"Maybe she was hungry," I suggest weakly.
"At eleven in the morning?" Alex raises an eyebrow. "After dumping out wine without tasting it?"
Brennen sits up straighter. "Wait. Emma didn't taste the wine? She always tastes the wine. She's our quality control."
"She didn't taste anything," Sophie confirms. "Just kept making excuses. Said she had a big lunch planned. Then mentioned she was fighting off a cold. Then something about needing to drive later. The excuses kept changing."
"You think something's wrong with her?" Brennen's panic is shifting from professional to personal. "Like medically wrong?"
"I think Emma's dealing with something," Sophie says diplomatically. "And maybe giving her some space would be good."
"But the vote—"
"Will happen when it happens." Alex sets down his clipboard with finality. "Brennen, pressuring her won't help. Trust me. Pressuring women never helps."
"He's not wrong," Sophie agrees, kissing Alex's cheek.
The door to the tasting room opens and Ryan walks in, looking every inch the successful CEO in his tailored suit. He must have come straight from a meeting.
"Why does everyone look like someone died?" Ryan asks, heading straight for the wine selection behind the counter.
"Emma won't return my calls," Brennen says miserably.
"She won't return mine either." Ryan pours himself a glass of the Cabernet, tastes it, nods approvingly. "Keeps cutting our video meetings short. Yesterday she hung up mid-sentence. Said she had to handle something urgent, but I heard a toilet flush in the background."
I nearly choke on my wine.
"A toilet?" Brennen looks horrified. "She's taking meetings with you in the bathroom?"
"She claimed it was in the office supply closet." Ryan shrugs. "I didn't ask questions."
Sophie and Alex exchange another one of those looks.
"Is Shadow Strike too much for her?" Ryan asks me directly. "Should I get another lawyer? I don't want to add to her stress if she's drowning."
"She's not drowning." I set down my glass. "Emma's the most capable person I know. She's just busy."
"She looks exhausted in our video calls," Ryan continues, studying me. "Like she's not sleeping. And she's been weirdly emotional. Last week she almost cried when I told her we won the preliminary motion. Emma doesn't cry over case wins. She saves that for commercials with puppies."
More data points to add to my growing list.
Exhaustion. Check. Nausea. Check. Avoiding wine. Definitely check. Emotional. Check. Hiding in bathrooms. Check.
And then there's last night. The pickle and peanut butter sandwich incident.
I came out of my office late from doing a wine review to find Emma on the couch at eleven PM, wearing her pajamas and staring blankly at a home shopping network infomercial.
In her hands was the strangest sandwich I'd ever seen—thick layers of peanut butter on white bread with pickle slices arranged in meticulous rows. The third one she’d eaten last night.
"What are you eating?" I'd asked.
She'd looked at me with these wide, slightly defiant eyes. "Dinner 3.0."
"That's another pickle and peanut butter sandwich."
"Your observational skills are just as sharp as the day you left the SEALs."
"Em—"
"Don't judge me. It's good." She'd taken an aggressive bite, maintaining eye contact like she was daring me to comment further.
I'd sat down next to her, watched her eat the entire thing while an enthusiastic host sold kitchen gadgets on television, and said nothing.
Because Emma Dawson doesn't make strange food choices.
She's the practical one. The organized one.
The one who meal preps on Sundays and color-codes her calendar.
Unless.
"Miles?" Ryan's voice pulls me back to the present. "You okay? You zoned out."
"Fine. Just thinking."
"About Emma?" Brennen asks hopefully. "Do you know something? Is she going to call me back?"
"She'll call you when she's ready." I push off the counter, suddenly needing to leave. "I should get going. Reviews to finish."
"But you just got here," Sophie protests.
"I know. But I have deadlines." I head for the door, my mind already cataloging everything I've learned.
Ryan catches up to me in the parking lot. "Miles. Hold up."
I stop beside my car, keys in hand.
"Something's going on with Emma," Ryan says. It's not a question.
"She's stressed. Big case. Life stuff."
"You know what it is." Ryan crosses his arms, giving me his CEO/SEAL interrogation stare. The one that probably makes his employees confess things they didn't even do. "You're her husband. You know."
"If something was seriously wrong, I'd tell you." That's honest, at least. "But Emma gets to share her own news in her own time. That's not my call."
Ryan studies me. Then his expression softens slightly. "You're protecting her."
"Always."
"That's good." He claps me on the shoulder. "That's what she needs. Someone who lets her handle things her way."
"Even when her way involves avoiding her brothers?"
"Especially then." Ryan grins. "We're pretty annoying."
I laugh despite myself. "You really are."
"But seriously—if she needs anything, if there's something I should know—"
"I'll tell you," I promise.
Ryan nods and heads back inside. I slide into my car and sit there for a minute, staring at the Celtic Knot sign.
Old habits from my SEAL days kick in. When facing uncertain situations, make a list. Assess the intel. Draw conclusions.
I pull out my phone and open a new note.
Emma - Recent Changes:
Nausea (multiple instances, morning and afternoon)
Exhaustion (falling asleep at 9 PM, never does that)
Food aversions (dumped wine, won't drink coffee anymore)
Strange cravings (pickle and peanut butter sandwich)
Avoiding social situations (won't return calls, left tasting early)
Emotional (almost cried over case win, cried during dog food commercial last week)
Period: Late (I pay attention to these things, two weeks overdue)
I stare at the list.
There's one obvious conclusion. One that explains every single symptom.
Emma's pregnant.
The thought should terrify me. We never discussed kids. Never made plans. Never even had the "do we want this someday" conversation. We've been married for years and perfectly happy with just us.
But sitting in my car, looking at this list, I feel something else entirely.
Hope. Excitement. A weird fluttery thing in my chest that might be joy.
I'm ninety percent sure my wife is pregnant.
And she's terrified to tell me.
That's the part that hurts. Emma's carrying this alone—the knowledge, the fear, the decisions.
She's avoiding her brothers because she can't handle one more thing on her plate.
She's probably drowning in work, panicking about logistics, and convincing herself she has to handle everything by herself.
Classic Emma.
I could confront her. Ask her directly. But that would be pushing.
And pushing Emma Dawson never works. She's like a cat—you have to let her come to you on her own terms. Otherwise she just digs in her heels and gets more stubborn.
The kid would be graduating college before she told me she was pregnant.
No, I need to be subtle. Supportive. Make it safe for her to tell me when she's ready.
I start the car and head home, already planning.
Our house is quiet when I arrive. Emma's not home yet—probably still at the office working her usual twelve-hour day. I have time.
I head to the kitchen and start pulling out ingredients. Chicken breast. White rice. Plain vegetables. The blandest, most pregnancy-safe meal I can make.
Nothing with strong smells. Nothing that might trigger nausea. Just simple, gentle food that won't upset her stomach.
I'm halfway through cooking when I hear the front door open.
"Miles?" Emma's voice sounds tired.
"Kitchen," I call back.
She appears in the doorway looking exactly like Ryan described—exhausted and beautiful, her blazer rumpled, her hair escaping its professional bun. She's carrying more grocery bags.
And she won't meet my eyes.
"You're home early," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Everything okay?"
"Everything's great!" Her voice is too bright. "Just hungry!"
She sets the bags on the counter with slightly too much force. I glance at them and have to bite back a smile.
Pickle jars. More pickle jars. And another massive container of peanut butter.
I pick up one of the pickle jars, examining the label like I'm conducting a professional wine review. Then the second jar. The third jar.
"That's a lot more pickles, Em."
"I really like pickles." Her chin lifts slightly—that defensive gesture she makes when she knows she's being ridiculous but refuses to back down.
There it is. The confirmation I needed. Emma doesn't make strange food choices. She doesn't buy three jars of pickles on a random evening. She doesn't eat peanut butter and pickle sandwiches at eleven PM.
Unless she's pregnant.
I turn back to the stove, add the bland chicken and rice to plates, and start assembling another strange sandwich. Peanut butter on white bread. Pickle slices arranged in neat rows.
Emma sits at the kitchen table, watching me with an expression I can't fully read.
When I set both plates in front of her—the bland dinner and the bizarre sandwich—she stares at them for a moment.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I sit beside her, watching as she takes a bite of the chicken first. She eats it without questioning why I'm making the world's most boring meal. Without asking why there's no seasoning. Without commenting that this isn't my usual cooking style.
She just eats it. Because her stomach can handle it. Because it's exactly what she needs right now.
And then she reaches for the pickle and peanut butter sandwich.
I'm going to be a father.
My hand tightens on my fork. Emma keeps eating, completely unaware that I know. That I've figured it out. That I'm sitting here watching her and trying to decide if I'm more terrified or excited and landing somewhere in the realm of both and neither and everything in between.