Page 2 of The Bartender's Baby

“I’m okay. I’m still a little nauseous now and then, but for the most part, it’s passed.”

“When did you find out?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“A few weeks ago?” I nearly shrieked, annoyed that she’d been walking around here, working as if everything was fine. Everything was not fine. She was pregnant, and I was positive pregnant ladies shouldn’t be serving beers to dumbass twentysomethings. I studied her, from the top of her head with dark, almost-black hair to the tips of her black boots. She appeared all right. But still. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was important for you to know yet.” She tipped her head back, lips pursed in a way I knew that was the best I’d get.

I took a breath, all kinds of questions forming in my mind, and picked the closest one. “How many months…?”

“I’m fourteen weeks, about three and a half months along,” she said, with so much calm it made me nuts.

And everything else in my brain came rushing out. “Who’s the dad? When are you due? I didn’t know you wanted a baby.”

Her right eyebrow arched so high, I bet she put a curse on me mentally. “Why would we have ever talked about children? All you say is you don’t want them, so…”

“Yeah, but…” I pulled off my knit beanie and dragged my hand through my hair a few times. “This is different.”

She laughed, low and reverberating, like a deck of cards being shuffled. An evil queen kind of laugh. “Why is it different?”

I tossed my arms out to my sides. “I don’t know. It just is. Who’s the dad? Don’t tell me it’s Henderson.”

“Harrison.” She folded her arms across her chest, briefly drawing my focus to her ample breasts. She was stacked. A true dime piece. And that simpering douchebag she was always on and off with wasn’t worthy of spit shining her Doc Martens.

“Whatever.” I waved away her correction, waiting for her answer. When she didn’t give me any more, I had all the information I needed. I leaned against the wall, unexpectedly overcome with ire. Fucking Henderson.

“When did you tell him?”

“I didn’t yet.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I—” She halted, gaze slanting to the corner. The office at the back of Walt’s was small, but it had never felt as small as when I noticed how her throat bobbed and her eyes blinked rapidly. Was she about to cry?

I sank to my haunches, curling my hands around the arms of the chair so I didn’t touch her. “What can I do?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“It’s a universally acknowledged rule that when women say they’re fine, they are, indeed, not fine.”

“Oh yeah?” She shot her gaze back to mine. “Where’s it written?”

“The Feminine Mystique accords.”

“Not a thing,” she said, standing and forcing me away.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to work.”

I jumped up, blocking the door. “I don’t think so.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t work. You’re pregnant.”

She scoffed, and chills rolled down my spine. “Do you think pregnant people don’t work?”

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