The tea wasn’t even that hot. It left a faint amber stain across my husband’s designer jeans and a darker one across the young waitress’s face when she realized what she’d done. “I—I’m so sorry, sir,” she stammered, clutching a towel to her chest. Her other hand instinctively moved to her stomach, round beneath her apron. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. There were dark circles under her eyes, and the kind of exhaustion you don’t fake. George shot up from his chair so abruptly it scraped across the tile. “Are you blind?” he snapped. “Clumsy pregnant women don’t...
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