Excitement and anticipation knotted in her stomach. Under normal circumstances she would celebrate with friends, food and wine. For now the wine would have to wait.

“For a good cause,” she whispered as she put a hand on her stomach.

A car pulled into the parking lot. She turned to watch a dark blue BMW Z4 pull up next to her. She eyed the expensive convertible and thought of at least a half-dozen comments she could make when Cal climbed out. Had he been paying attention to the weather for the past thirty-one years? Was a convertible in winter really a smart idea?

But when he opened the door and stepped out, she found herself unable to do much more than smile and wave. As he straightened to his full six-plus feet and adjusted his leather jacket, she felt like a bit player in a men’s cologne commercial. Her job was to watch the male model in question while staring with slack-jawed adoration. Any speaking parts would have to be played by someone with a functioning brain.

Not good, she thought as her throat got tight, her thighs trembled and her already sensitive breasts seemed to strain toward him. Under the circumstances, a visceral reaction to her ex-husband seemed like a very bad idea.

She wasn’t worried about them actually meaning anything. She was pregnant, which meant spending her days in a hormone bath. She teared up at Hallmark commercials, sobbed when little kids clutched puppies and generally wanted to send the world a candygram.

Nope, whatever she felt this moment about Cal had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the pencil eraser-sized zygote in her tummy.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t fully capable of making a fool out of herself.

She had to remind herself she was a big, bad chef with a reputation for being tough and difficult and something of a perfectionist. She worked with very sharp knives for a living. She could snap chicken bones with her bare hands.