Code Name: Ghost - Sawyer Bennett Page 0,68

at work at some point?” she asks with concern. “Because hiding isn’t good.”

“Soon,” I promise. “We will. I think we just want some time to be with each other first to make sure this is real.”

“It’s real,” she insists. “I know it.”

“You’re a romantic,” I reply dryly.

“So?” she challenges. “It’s the romance that makes it so great. That makes it sustainable. That makes it the best of stories that are meant to last. Don’t discount that.”

And somehow, the fierceness of her words and the way the rest of the men at the table aren’t rolling their eyes—Van even now nodding in support of his wife—has me feeling she might be right.

CHAPTER 22

Anna

I curse the invention of toast as I bend over my toilet and throw all my effort into heaving up the doughy ball my body is insisting on expelling from my body.

“Toast is good for nausea,” my mother had said. “It will make you feel better.”

I’m never listening to my mother again.

Granted, it did feel all right for about five minutes before my body said, “Nice try, Anna. But we accept nothing into this stomach today.”

And so, I’m praying to my toilet again.

We’ve become good friends… my commode and me. It’s supported me through much of the night as whatever stomach bug I felt coming on earlier in the day decided to become a raging party of infection and viral mischief.

When I’d begged off from the hockey game last night, I did so only after debating it within my heart and head for a couple of hours. I felt yucky, but I couldn’t tell if I was just having an off day and was perhaps overtired or if I was on the verge of truly getting sick. It’s when low-level nausea hit me that I knew there was no way I could sit through a three-hour game and beer with the Fournier siblings after.

Just no way.

I absolutely hated canceling because, most importantly, I wanted to share Malik’s excitement and pride over watching his brothers play hockey. Even though I’d be rooting against them, my intent last night would have been to root for Malik.

For his return to our world where he could have fun, relax, and enjoy a glorious life.

Malik was disappointed, but he understood. He was even incredibly sweet by offering not to go to the game and coming to hang out with me instead. I told him he was all kinds of a fool to even suggest missing his brothers’ game and the opportunity to spend time with them after. He didn’t even need me to tell him that, but his offer was flattering all the same.

Overnight, my sickness became worse. The nausea waxed and waned, getting worse over time until finally, in the wee hours of the morning, I was a permanent vomiting resident of the bathroom. It was awful, and I’d never experienced anything like it before.

The worst was trying to be a mom to a baby in between bouts of puking my guts up and just lying on the couch, suffering the unrelenting nausea.

But somehow, I managed.

By seven, I realized the vomiting had slowed—not that anything was coming up—but the dry heaving was definitely dissipating. Still, there was no way I was going in to work, so I texted Kynan and my mom I was coming off an overnight stomach bug and wouldn’t be going in.

Kynan’s response was short but effective. “That sucks. Feel better.”

My mom was on high alert, and she called rather than texting me back. That conversation was painful because my mom loves any opportunity to fly into “super mom” mode to try to break through my stubborn independence. She was poised to fly out the door to come to my apartment and take care of me. It was with a gentleness I really wasn’t feeling that I assured her I was fine, intended to rest, and I was well enough to handle Avery without her help.

By the time we hung up, she was sore with me. I had thought it was a moment of solid motherly advice when she’d recommended the dry toast to help settle my stomach, but now I’m thinking it was a method of torture. My body wasn’t ready for food, so now it’s just sitting there in one huge lump while taking forever to come out.

Tears are streaming down my face as I continue to retch. My head is pounding from the effort. For a blessed moment, while I flush the toilet, I remember I’ve been