Page 124 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
“Please. You coined the phrase ‘color-coded stress.’” She arches a brow. “That’s a cry for help.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
She taps her screen and opens the updated seating chart. “Alright, boss. Tell me what still sucks.”
As we work, I feel the fog in my head start to lift. Not completely, but enough. Jenna’s no-filter commentary and breezy confidence cut through the chaos like a grounding wire. She doesn’t flinch at the spreadsheet chaos or the sudden burst of emails I forward her.
She just mutters “rude” when she sees the caterer’s edits and color-codes three new rows like she was born for this.
“I think we’re actually okay,” I murmur, staring at the updated timeline. “It’s a lot. But it’s not unmanageable.”
“You’ve already raised six figures,” she says, nudging her glasses up her nose. “You could fall asleep in the middle of your opening remarks, and it would still be a success.”
She studies me for a beat. “How are you really?”
I hesitate. “Tired.”
“Tired I believe,” she says. “The color’s coming back to your face, but barely.”
I shrug. “I didn’t sleep much. I think I’ve been overdoing it the past month.”
She doesn’t push. Just nods once and hands me the trail mix. “Here. You need actual food, not whatever that ginger tea was trying to do.”
My stomach’s been mostly calm since this morning, but there’s still a faint queasiness. I chew slowly, hoping food will convince it to behave.
Outside, the sky is starting to shift into early evening. The twins have moved on from foam stick hockey to an enthusiastic reenactment of some movie involving swords and capes. Miss Taylor sits on the porch swing with a magazine in her lap, sipping tea and letting them run wild with a watchful eye.
Inside, the house smells like the stew Miss Taylor started earlier. It’s cozy. Warm. And for the first time all day, I feel like I’m breathing normally.
I glance at the clock. The game starts soon.
“I’m going to head out,” Jenna says, already standing to stretch. “Now make sure to eat some real food, and yell at the TV tonight like your man can hear you.”
I laugh, following her to the door. “Thanks, Jenna.”
Miss Taylor calls us in for dinner just as the sky starts to dim. The boys burst through the door in a flurry of noise and half-untied sneakers, still mid-debate about who won the foam stick championship.
“You can’t be goalieanddeclare yourself MVP,” Liam complains, shaking his head.
“Sure, I can,” Noah says, biting into a cracker. “I was also the coach.”
“That’s not how real games work.”
I smile into my bowl, letting their voices swirl around me like comfort food.
When the bowls are mostly empty, Liam leans toward me with wide eyes. “We get to stay up for the whole game, right?”
“It’s Saturday,” I say, tapping his nose lightly. “So, I think that’s a yes.”
Both boys cheer like I just handed them the Stanley Cup.
Later, as they settle into the couch with snacks and Miss Taylor dims the lights, I pause at the doorway for a moment.
My body’s still tired, my head still fuzzy.
But the house smells like stew and tea, and the people inside it feel like home.
Chapter Thirty-Six
