Page 32 of Triplet Babies for the CEO
I finish my soup slowly, hoping she’ll return soon, if only to let me know she’s okay. But I’m alone, and once I’m done with dinner, I rinse out my bowl in the sink, glancing down the hall one last time.
Tasha’s bedroom door is still closed, no sign of movement, and a flicker of worry nags at me.
I walk back into the kitchen, noticing her laptop still open on the table, her notes scattered around it in a pile. She’s beenpouring herself into these assignments, but I know the pressure is getting to her.
I take a seat in front of her laptop, scanning her notes. She’s trying hard, but some of it’s a mess, jumbled thoughts, and half-finished ideas, proof of how lost she feels right now.
The urge to help pulls me in as I find myself reaching for a pen. Flipping open her textbook, I begin going through the chapters, making notes for her to follow along with. I jot down key points, definitions, anything that might make this easier when she’s ready to tackle it again.
Tasha’s fighting so hard to make this work, and it makes me admire her even more.
I glance down the hall again, looking at her closed door, wondering if she’s resting or just hiding from her own frustration.
She’s a firecracker, determined and driven, but tonight, she looked so…fragile, like she’s carrying the world on her shoulders.
I write notes for nearly an hour, filling a couple of pages with clear, organized notes, and when I’m done, I leave them on top of her laptop, hoping it’ll help her find her footing.
Chapter Twelve
Tasha
The shrill blaring chime of my phone startles me awake, its light piercing through the early morning darkness, reminding me that I’m supposed to be up and moving.
But the second I crack my eyes open, a wave of nausea crashes over me, sudden and fierce.
My stomach twists and turns, and I clamp a hand over my mouth, barely having a moment to brace myself before I’m scrambling out of bed.
The room blurs as I dash toward the connected bathroom, the coolness of the floor under my bare feet a small mercy as I push the door open and drop to my knees, barely reaching the toilet in time.
Gripping the edges of the porcelain, I squeeze my eyes shut as my stomach convulses, heaving until there’s nothing left but an awful burning in my throat and a sour taste in my mouth.
I press my forehead against the smooth, cold surface of the toilet tank, breathing through the nausea as it finally begins to subside.
The bathroom light feels harsh and bright, cutting through my foggy vision, and I can’t decide if the light is making my head pound harder or helping me stay grounded. I take in a shaky breath, my forehead now damp with a cold sheen of sweat that feels clammy against my flushed skin.
My muscles are like jelly, and all I want to do is to curl up under warm blankets and shut out the world.
I don’t have time for this, I have too much to do today.
Forcing myself to stand, I catch sight of my reflection in the bathroom mirror, a grimace forming along my lips. My hair’s tangled, my eyes shadowed and tired, while there’s a paleness to my face that makes me look like I’ve seen a ghost.
With a deep breath, I turn on the faucet and splash cold water over my face, trying to wash away the dizziness that lingers. The water feels refreshing against my feverish skin, but it’s not enough to shake the lingering queasiness.
Slowly, I make my way back to my bedroom and sink down onto the edge of the bed. My phone is still glowing on the nightstand, and I reach for it, pulling up my messages to send Brody a quick text.
My fingers hover over the screen, guilt tugging at me as I type out a message.
>>Brody, I’m really sick. I’m so sorry, but I can’t make it in this morning.
The words feel heavy as I stare at them, feeling like I’m letting him down. I hate calling in sick. I’d rather push through and make that money, but this sickness is kicking my butt.
Still, Brody’s been so understanding, so supportive, and here I am, missing work at a crucial time. But there’s no way I can face a full day at the office like this.
With a sigh, I hit send and slump back against the pillows, the cool sheets soothing against my skin as I close my eyes, hoping the nausea will fade.
I lie there for a while, eyes closed, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the heater kicking on. My phone chimes loudly, but before I can reach for it, there’s a light knock on my door, gentle but firm.
I manage a faint “Come in,” and when the door opens, Brody steps inside, looking calm and steady as always.
