Page 57 of Babies for the Christmas Grump

The smell, the taste… it’s all wrong. My body is suddenly rebelling against something I’ve loved for years.

My mouth goes dry, my chest tightens, and before I know it, I’m standing there, frozen, staring at the half-eaten tartlet like it’s some cruel joke.

I’m not sure if I’m going to puke or pass out, but both options are a real possibility at this point.

I set the tartlet down like its toxic waste, my hands trembling ever so slightly. I try to swallow, to get my act together, but it’s no use. I feel off.

Just what I needed. Now I’m one of those people who can’t even eat a fig tart without losing it.

I look at Chef Andre, who’s talking about something probably vital, but all I can hear is the ringing in my ears. His words are so far off in the distance, and the nausea is suddenly too much to ignore.

I barely make it through the next few seconds before I’m excusing myself with what I’m sure sounds very lame. “I just need a second.”

I rush into the hallway, trying not to show that I’m losing my mind, but it’s all I can do to keep from collapsing against the wall.

I lean against it, feeling the coolness seep into my skin as I take deep breaths, willing myself to stop feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck.

What the hell is happening? I’m probably just stressed out. I mean, it could be because I skipped breakfast, or I’m just onsome weird adrenaline high from the hotel chaos. That makes sense, right?

Back in my office, I collapse into the chair. The day is spinning, and I’m caught in its whirlwind, barely holding on. I stare at the walls for a second, focusing on nothing at all.

The warm cinnamon scent from downstairs is still lingering in the air, mixing with the smell of old books and paperwork. Anything familiar that I can use to ground myself.

I take a few deep breaths, willing the nausea to pass, but it doesn’t. In fact, the tightness in my chest only seems to get worse.

What iswrongwith me?

I sit up straighter and shake my head, trying to dismiss the way my body feels like it’s failing me.

“It’s just PMS,” I mutter aloud, as if saying it will make it accurate. “It’s exhaustion. You’ve been running on fumes for weeks. That’s all. Stress. Lack of sleep. There’s no reason to overthink this.”

But my stomach churns again. My body doesn’t seem to be listening to my mental pep talk.

I grab a glass of water and take a sip, hoping it’ll settle the weird buzzing in my veins. I’ve never felt so disconnected from my own body before. And I can’t quite figure out why.

Before I can spiral too much, the door to my office opens, and Ryder walks in.

He’s back!

But he looks… off. More tense than I’ve ever seen him. His jaw is tight, his eyes stormy, and his tie is already pulled loose. He walks in like a man who’s been dragged through hell and is just barely holding it together.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He drops into the chair across from me with a long, low groan that’s almost animalistic in its frustration.

“Everything okay?” I ask, trying to sound casual, even though I can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

“Don’t ask,” he mutters. “My mother… weaponized charm.”

I blink at him, taken aback. “What happened?”

He rubs a hand over his face, looking both exhausted and furious. “She showed up here like some … of… brand ambassador or some shit, trying to drag me back into that nightmare of a reunion movie. She’s relentless. I told her it was a no-go, but she just… won’t let it go.”

He slumps back in the chair, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him an escape.

“It’s always the same with her. Always about her. Always about the image. The damn brand.” He pauses, the bitterness heavy in the air. “And I’m just the product.”

I feel the urge to reach across the desk, to offer him comfort, but I hold back. I know this is something he’s been carrying for years.

I open my mouth to speak, but then I stop myself. What could I possibly say? The last thing he needs right now is another person telling him everything’s going to be fine.