Page 37 of Mafia Boss' Surprise Baby

I stumble back to bed, messaging HR to report I’m sick and can’t make it to work today. I roll over in bed and berate myself for giving in to anxiety. It has to be that. I’m lightheaded and freaked out about last night and I puked. It’s worse but not too far off from the anxiety attacks I had before I left LA when I realized I couldn’t make rent anymore and I had to admit failure.

I squeeze my eyes shut and tried counting backward from one thousand by sixes which is just annoying enough to distract from the anxiety sometimes. Unfortunately, just when I’m getting to the seven hundreds, I feel another wave of nausea. I make it to the toilet where I grab a towel to cover up as I lay on the floor, teeth chattering, head swimming. I wake up a short bitlater and manage to rinse out my mouth and crawl into bed. It’s two in the afternoon and I just pull the covers up and lay there, miserable.

I’m sick off and on all day. I doze, I cry, I throw up some more, and mostly I feel like crap. Weak and dizzy and I gag every time I even think about last night’s dinner. I take a bath very slowly and carefully. I sip some water and eat a cracker. When that stays down, I eat a few more and eventually manage to make a grilled cheese and eat it.

I go through my work emails on my phone but I don’t have my laptop or tablet—they’re in the crow’s nest still. If I hadn’t insisted on going back for them, we wouldn’t have been in danger and I could’ve gone home with Mickey and spent the night in his arms.

Mistakes were made, that was for sure. I spend the rest of the evening starting my next prep course and taking abundant notes. My heart isn’t in it but it’s a decent distraction. Around ten, I get a call from Mickey.

“Hello?”

“Are you okay?” He asks gruffly.

“Yeah,” I answer weakly.

“I heard you were sick. I got your tablet and all, thought I’d bring it by or I can have one of the guys deliver it.”

“No, that’s fine. That’s nice of you. Go on and bring it by,” I say.

“Okay. I’ll be there in like five minutes.”

I scramble out of bed and drag a brush through my hair. It doesn’t help much. I look like a pasty gray ghost or a dying Victorian child with big dark circles and clammy pale skin. I grab a robe to cover my pajamas and run down to the door. He’s about to ring the bell when I open it.

He’s so big that he fills the doorway and towers over me. It’s a physical sensation, how large he is, and my stomach swoopsin response. He holds out my laptop and table alongside my notebook and file folders.

“I don’t really care if you do any work while you’re sick. I just wanted an excuse to drop by and check on you,” he says.

“I know,” I tell him, my voice too high and thready.

“You think it was the duck fat thing that made you sick?” He asks.

I’m about to answer when the mere thought of the duck fat makes me recoil, stomach heaving. I clap a hand over my mouth and dash for the kitchen sink where I throw up. I cough and choke, rinse my mouth right from the faucet. His hand on the small of my back startles me.

“I thought you left,” I stammer.

“Why would I leave with you this sick?” He asks.

“I’m sorry, this is embarrassing. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I thought maybe you were upset after last night, but I can see you’re actually really sick.”

“Check to see I’m not playing hooky?” I ask.

“Not unless I can stay and play hooky with you,” he says in a low voice that’s nearly a growl.

“You don’t have to,” I start.

“Would you feel better if I stayed a while?”

“Of course, I would but then we’d be right back where we started from. There’s no way for us to be together. There’s too many moving parts. Too many complications. The least of which being I’m Rory’s baby sister.”

“Let’s get one thing straight right now, Mary Kathryn Donahue,” he says and his face is angry all of a sudden. Not the dialed-up charm anger but the kind he lets me see.

I like it when he says my full name, I admit it. It gives me the shivers in a good way.

“You’re more than just Rory’s little sister. You are a strong, beautiful, fierce, independent woman who deserves the world.”

“Thank you,” I say, and I don’t qualify whether I’m thanking him for the compliment, thanking him for bringing my laptop, or for being the single brightest spot in my entire life. I’m afraid if I try to explain, I’ll just start crying. So I walk him to the door. I feel about a hundred years old, my steps heavy and plodding.

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