Page 68 of Babies for the Christmas Grump

Tinsel is perched on my chest, staring at me with those big, unblinking eyes, like she’s been waiting for hours for me to wake up. Her weight makes it even harder to sit up, but I don’t have the heart to shove her off.

At least one of us has her life together.

It takes me a second to even remember what day it is, what time it is, or why I’m not already up and about, dealing with a million things that won’t handle themselves.

But then I glance at the clock on the nightstand.

Three p.m.

I stare at it like it’s a ransom note. How the heck did I sleep this long? I’m supposed to be finalizing catering orders, checking lighting, and making sure the staff isn’t about to burn the place down accidentally.

Instead, I’m wrapped up in this cocoon of exhaustion and, okay, fine, regret.

I groan and attempt to sit up. But my body? Not having it.

My legs might as well have been replaced with cement. And my stomach does this weird, unsettling flip. It knows I shouldn’t have let myself get this far gone.

Great.

I push myself upright, but I’m immediately sure I’m gonna pass out. The room tilts, the walls start to spin, and I grab the side of the bed like it’s my lifeline.

I need food, maybe some coffee, or at the very least, a good, strong shot of denial. But the thought of food, especially anything greasy or heavy, makes my stomach do another flip.

Ugh.

I put a hand to my stomach, willing the nausea away, but it’s still there. A little ghost in the pit of my stomach, tugging at me. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to tell myself that it’s just stress.

Stress from the gala. Stress from trying to figure out how in the world I’m going to juggle the hotel, the renovations, my whole existence falling apart at the seams.

But still, there’s that gnawing feeling in the back of my brain. A voice whispering,What if it’s something else?

I drop back onto the bed, trying to breathe through it. Nope. Not today. I’m not dealing with that right now. I’m not ready for that kind of emotional chaos, and frankly, my body is already doing enough to me today.

I need a plan. A small plan. Just get out of bed, drink some water, eat something, and try to piece myself back together.

It’s what I do best. Put on a smile, fake it until I can make it.

I grab my phone, hands shaky, and dial Marjorie’s number without overthinking it. I need her, likerightnow.

As the phone rings, I lean back into the pillows, hoping the world will slow down for a second. But the longer I lie here, the worse I feel. I can’t breathe without dragging it in hard.

“Hey, Sunny,” Marjorie answers on the third ring. “Everything okay?”

I swallow hard, trying to clear the lump in my throat, but there’s no air in my lungs.

“I’m… not okay,” I mumble, the words coming out weak and raspy.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Sunny, what’s wrong?” she asks, immediately picking up on the way my voice trembles. “You still sick?”

I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, feeling the heat there. “I don’t know. I woke up way too late. My body is made of bricks. And I’m… I’m so tired, Marj. Just so tired, and my stomach’s all wrong. I thought maybe it was just stress, but it’s not going away.” I pause. “Something’s… off.”

Marjorie softens, that steady, calm tone that always reminds me that someone cares about me. “Hey, slow down. Take a deep breath. You need to eat something. Have you had anything today?”

I wince at the thought of food making my stomach turn even more. “I… haven’t. My body says no every time I think about it.”

There’s another pause, then Marjorie turns serious. “Okay, listen. I’m not buying that you’re just stressed. You need to see a doctor, Sunny. It’s time for me to visit, okay? Don’t even try to argue.”

I shake my head even though I know she can’t see it. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. It’s probably nothing.”