Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 28750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 144(@200wpm)___ 115(@250wpm)___ 96(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 144(@200wpm)___ 115(@250wpm)___ 96(@300wpm)
“Thank you.” I fight the tears pressing against the backs of my eyes as I push into a seated position, wincing slightly at the pain in my left shoulder. “Sorry you won’t make it home for Christmas Eve.”
She flashes a sympathetic smile. “You, too. It was nice to meet you. You’re as sweet in person as you are on the news. I love your segments. They’re so funny, and they always make me feel better about my two left feet.” She laughs. “I think you’re about as accident prone as I am.”
My lips tremble into a curve. “Thanks. Though in my defense, the outfits they make me wear don’t help much.” I waggle my jingle belled toes back and forth. “I’m at least fifty percent more graceful in normal shoes.”
“I bet. Here, let me help you up.” She reaches out a hand.
I take it, letting her haul me to my feet, before releasing her fingers and smoothing my elf skirt down over the fluffy red crinoline and decorative shorts beneath. The shorts are like those diaper covers toddlers wear under their skirts, opaque and covered with tulle. They’re cute, relatively modest, and help make my skirt stand out like a holiday bell.
After my run through the terminal, they also itch like crazy.
Even through my thick tights, it feels like the lower part of my bottom is covered in a swarm of fire ants.
“Thanks so much,” I say, giving the affected area a discreet scratch that does nothing to alleviate the skin-crawling sensation. I motion to the empty bottles strewn across the carpet. “Should I put these back in the bin?”
She waves a slim hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll put a call in to the maintenance team. They need to empty it anyway.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, barely resisting the urge to scratch again. “I feel terrible for making a mess.”
“It’s fine,” she assures me. “I promise. We’ve all seen way worse. As long as no bodily fluids are involved, it doesn’t even register on our yuck scale.”
“Okay, thank you,” I say. “And happy holidays.”
“Happy holidays,” she echoes, backing toward the wide entrance leading into the main part of the terminal. “Make sure to sign up for a shower as soon as you get to your lounge. On nights like this, shower slots are the first things to go.”
My jaw clenches at the sides of my forced grin. “Will do.”
As soon as she turns her back, I reach down to claw at my ass, squirming my fingers beneath the tight shorts and scratching my booty through my pantyhose.
My head falls back with a soft groan as relief spreads through the aggravated area.
But my respite is only temporary. As soon as I start walking again, the chafing and fire-ants-loose-in-my-undies sensations will resume. If I’m going to spend the night here, I need to get out of these clothes. And since I don’t have a lounge membership—starving reporters don’t spend enough on their credit cards to qualify for fancy perks—I’ll be changing in a gross airport bathroom.
For a moment, I consider putting it off until after I call my mother but dealing with her inevitable “Christmas is ruined” meltdown will be even more miserable in elf gear.
Bending down, I collect my carry-on, chucking a few stray bottles into the bin before dragging my suitcase away and lifting it onto a row of empty seats.
I unzip the side and splay it open to reveal…beef jerky.
No, not beef jerky. This jerky has a holiday theme.
“What the…” I reach down, moving one of the plastic bags of Rompin’ Reindeer Jerky aside to reveal more jerky beneath. There have to be at least thirty packages squeezed into this small gray suitcase that looks exactly like my gray suitcase.
But it isn’t.
Sometime during the hectic rush through security, I must have grabbed someone else’s bag by mistake. And now, that person has my change of clothes, my reading material, my iPad, and most of my toiletries.
“Rats,” I curse, scratching at my ass again.
I’m really digging in there, rummaging around in my fluffy panties like the Grinch after Whoville’s Christmas presents, when a deep voice murmurs from behind me. “I think you have my bag.”
I spin, my cheeks already flushing from the shame of being caught mid-ass-scratch.
Then I see whose bag I managed to steal and want to sink straight through the floor.
It’s Bear Hanson.
Bear, the rock star of the cat influencer world.
Bear, my former best online friend, and the last man I kissed.
Bear, a guy I’m pretty sure would like to turn me into jerky for treating him the way I have.
But he also appears to have a broken leg. If I decide to make a run for it to avoid confrontation, he probably won’t be able to catch me.
I’m assuming that’s the reason for the cast that stretches from above his knee, down to his sock-covered foot, and the little red scooter he’s currently driving. But even injured, Bear is an intimidating figure. His broad shoulders dwarf the motorized vehicle, his thick arms strain the seams of his dark green sweater, and his head is nearly level with mine, even though he’s sitting down.