Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Sunny
I have too much on my plate to think about Ryder today. Way too much.
Same as yesterday, and the day before.
Naturally, though, that’s all my brain wants to do. Think about him. Think about how we haven’t really talked since the whole baby bombshell situation.
We’ve been so busy, running around with the gala prep, the hotel crisis, and the usual bedlam of, you know, life… that I haven’t had time to figure out what to say to him, or even how to say it.
Or maybe I’m just avoiding him.
My stomach gives an angry little lurch, as if to remind me that I don’t have the luxury of thinking about anything but this right now.
The morning sickness has officially hit me like a freight train, and it’s relentless. I’m either nauseous, starving, or both every five minutes.
I’ve barely made it through breakfast without wanting to hurl into the nearest potted plant. If I’m being frank, I’m not entirely sure I’m going to survive tonight without doing something mortifying in front of the entire gala crowd.
The last thing I need to worry about right now is Ryder. Or the twins. Or the fact that my life is about to be turned upside down in ways I never planned for.
But here we are.
I’m standing in the hotel kitchen, trying to choke down a granola bar while Chef Andre barks orders and runs through the final checklist for tonight.
His French accent cuts through the noise like a warm butter knife through croissant dough, and I’m just trying to keep my stomach from staging a full-on rebellion.
The granola bar is my only hope of survival.
“Miss Quinn!” Chef Andre calls from across the room. “We need more decorations for the dessert table. And where is my cranberry sauce? I want it perfect!”
I blink at him, dazed. “What? Oh. Right. Cranberry sauce.”
I honestly have no idea what’s happening anymore. All I know is that I can’t focus on the cranberry sauce for much longer without either passing out or, ugh, throwing up. It’s just not happening today.
I duck out of the kitchen, seeking refuge in the cooler air outside. A blast of cold hits me as I step onto the sidewalk, and I immediately suck in a sharp breath, feeling the fresh chill clear my head a little bit.
The cold air feels just what I need. I stand there for a minute, hands on my hips, breathing in deeply as if I can somehow suck all the madness out of my lungs and just reset.
But of course, that’s not how life works.
“Okay, Sunny. You’ve got this,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head as I turn back toward the hotel.
The last thing I need is a moment of peace. I need to keep moving. I need to make sure everything goes perfectly tonight. Because if the gala goes south, I don’t even want to think about what’ll happen to this place.
The Garland Rose can’t afford to fail. Not now.
Back inside, the warm, cinnamon-scented air hits me like a hug, and for half a second, I think I can escape into the Christmas magic. But then Chef Andre is at my side again, clipboard in hand, as if I’m his personal project.
“Where’s the holly? The table needs more sparkle!” he practically demands, eyes wide and serious.
Oh, right. Sparkle.
I give him a thumbs-up, then take off in search of someone, anyone, who can help me at this point. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to do with holly, but I figure I can fake it.
I’m good at faking it. I’ll keep smiling, nodding, and running around until no one notices I have no idea what I’m doing.
I’m not cut out for this. But here I am, running around, the one responsible for this entire hotel, and a soon-to-be mother, while trying to ignore the nausea that keeps creeping up behind me as an uninvited guest.
By the time I make my way back to the lobby, I’m starting to feel like a walking disaster. The decorations are gorgeous, but there’s no time to admire them. There’s more than enough on my to-do list.
The musicians we hired in place of the DJ are tuning up, the bartenders are rehearsing their cocktail list, and the staff are running in all directions.
I spy Eli in the corner, directing the waitstaff, and I make a beeline toward him. If anyone knows where the last-minute panic will hit, it’s him. He’s the one who gets it done.
“Eli! Do you have the final seating chart? We need to check the VIPs—” I start, but he holds up a hand, giving me a reassuring smile.
“Already done. And I’ve got the cranberry sauce handled,” he says, raising an eyebrow as if he’s in on some secret.
My stomach clenches again, but I try to keep it together. “You’re a lifesaver, Eli. Seriously. You’re like the calm in the storm.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
His grin is wide and wry, and it reminds me of the reason I love this place. The people here are why I can keep going, even if everything else is falling apart.
I manage a half-smile before I turn and head for the back hall, determined to check on one more thing before I lose my mind completely—a last-minute check on the tablecloths.
But as soon as I step into the back hall, I’m greeted by a scene straight out of a Christmas-themed disaster movie.
Two of the bartenders are standing over a giant ice sculpture that’s started to melt, sending water flooding across the floor.
There’s a pile of crumpled napkins and spilled champagne bottles near the wall, and I almost trip over a stray chair leg in my haste to get closer.
“What the hell happened here?” I demand, squinting at the scene.
Dex looks up from behind the ice sculpture, his face pale but oddly calm. “Uh, the ice sculpture… um… melted.”
I blink at him. “I can see that. Why is it melting on the floor?”
“It… wasn’t supposed to do that,” he says, with a helpless shrug.
I stand there, staring at the watery mess. I’m so tired. So done with this day already. And then, of course, my stomach decides now is the perfect time to give a little warning signal.
I clutch my stomach, trying not to double over in front of everyone.
“But… I’ll handle it,” Dex insists. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Sunny.”
I want to argue, to tell him that I am worried about everything, but my body has other ideas. The nausea surges again, and I feel my face go pale.
I just need a minute. A break. I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine when I’m a walking disaster in heels.
“Right. Handle it. You’re good at that,” I mumble.
That’s when I spot Marjorie.
She’s standing by the back hallway, hands on her hips, surveying the scene with the same wide-eyed intensity she brings to everything. And then, because she’s been waiting for me, she zeroes in on me.
“Sunny Quinn. You look like you just survived a war zone.” She marches over and grabs my elbow, tugging at it. “Come on, get your butt upstairs. I’m doing something about this.”
“About what?” I ask, confused, barely keeping up with her as she drags me toward the stairs.
“About you,” she says. “You need to stop pretending you’re not a complete wreck. It’s Christmas Eve, the day of your gala, for your hotel, in your aunt’s memory. You need to look the part. I think you need a breather as well.”
I shoot her a quick glance, trying to hide the exhaustion on my face. “I can’t afford a breather right now, Marj. I’ve got a gala to survive, a hotel to keep running, and a million things going wrong. And my stomach’s making me feel like I might pass out any second—”
“Which is exactly why I’m taking you upstairs,” she interrupts, her tone leaving no room for argument. “If you’re going to survive tonight, you’re gonna need some backup. And that starts with looking like you know what the hell you’re doing.”
Before I can protest any further, we’re halfway up the stairs, and she’s pulling me toward my room.
“Marj, I really don’t have time for—”
“Shut up,” she orders with a wink, and then it hits me.
She’s not giving me a choice. It’s one of those moments where I know she’s about to do something that I will thank her for later. But right now? I’m so far past my breaking point that I can’t even think straight.
I follow her into the room, and the door shuts behind us. Immediately, she starts pulling out all sorts of beauty products from a high-end department store’s cosmetics section.
“Sit. Relax. Close your eyes,” she instructs, pushing me down onto the couch. “I’m giving you a makeover. You’re going to look amazing tonight, even if you have to fake it until you make it.”
I look up at her, about to protest again, but something about the way she’s so damn confident makes me stop.
“You’ve got this. I’m just… helping you shine for once,” she says, throwing me one last look over her shoulder. “Trust me, it’s what you need right now. Everything else is under control. I am in constant contact with Claire, Eli, Dex, Charles, even Nolan… if there is a disaster, we’ll know.”
I sink into the couch and let out a long breath. I don’t even have the energy to fight her anymore.
She starts with my hair, gathering my messy curls into an intricate twist and securing them with pins. As she works, the familiar comfort of her hands on my scalp calms me, and I start to relax.
With Marjorie around, it’s hard not to feel a little lighter, a little less like I’m about to sink into the floor.
“I don’t know how you do it,” I whisper, eyes half-closed as she gives my hair one final tug.
“Do what?” she asks, focusing on her work, but I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Make everything seem like it’s not a disaster.” I sigh. “I feel like I’m about to trip over my own feet at any second.”
“Girl,” she says with a snort, “this place is a disaster. We both know it. But you’re not alone. You’ve got me. And I’m gonna make you look like a damn queen tonight. Tonight is the night where you turn it all around.”
She pulls back and moves to the vanity, digging through various beauty products. I barely have time to adjust before she’s working her magic with blush, a little mascara, and even some shimmer to make my skin glow. Something I haven’t seen in a long time.