Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
This is what I get for being charmed by a cute, grumpy face. But at least I’m not susceptible to a handsome face. I was vaccinated at an early age against that particular condition, courtesy of John and Reed Knowles—a father and son who might be the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen but who are also vengeful bullies and lawless cheats. Now I’m utterly immune to chiseled good looks.
They’re also the reason I’m hiding out here in my boss’s cabin, desperate to be alone, instead of spending the holidays at my own home.
Ugh. Why am I thinking about the Knowles? Those assholes don’t deserve to take up space in my head. And they definitely don’t have any place in the best Christmas ever.
Deliberately I shove them from my mind—along with all the horrible history that they represent—and start unpacking.
I wake up the next morning with fifteen pounds of feline disdain sitting on my chest and his right front paw smashing the center of my tit. Never would I accuse a cat of hurting me deliberately, but holy shit—it’s like he knows where the most painful place to step is.
Cursing, I push him off and roll out of bed. I instantly wish I’d had the forethought to lay out my slipper socks and fuzzy robe before I went to sleep. The cabin is freezing. But wearing any kind of pants or socks in bed drives me crazy, so I dance around on the frigid floorboards in my panties and flannel pajama top while I dig through the suitcase sitting atop the chest of drawers. My toes are nearly ice by the time I yank on a pair of fleece socks, then hurriedly drag on the flannel pants that match the top.
It’s slightly warmer near the fireplace, where embers remain from last night’s fire. I toss in a few pieces of wood, then stand there shivering with my hands tucked inside my sleeves and my arms wrapped around my chest. Hot Biscuit Slim winds his way between my feet, meowing for his breakfast.
My brains thaw out a few minutes after my toes do. I fill his dish, then check my phone out of habit.
No messages. Because, of course, no cell service. The cabin is completely off the grid.
And it’s only 4:54 a.m.
That effing cat.
I give Hot Biscuit Slim a look of disgust. Not that he cares. And I suppose that even though he woke me up early, I also went to bed far earlier than usual—around eight o’clock. So I’ve had a full night’s sleep and might as well get a jump on the day.
It’s strange not to begin the morning on my computer or my phone. Usually I have coffee at my desk, not curled up in an armchair in front of a fire. Weird, but nice to just sit and take stock of everything I need to get done today.
First will be removing the padlocks from all of the window shutters so that I won’t have to use my battery-powered lanterns during the day. Second will be to finish unpacking—although, since it’s still dark outside and will be for a few more hours, maybe unpacking should come first. Yesterday, my surge of energy lasted long enough to bring in everything from the car, but I only managed to put away my groceries before I crashed.
Once all that is done, I can start on my third—and most anticipated—item on the to-do list: hunting down a Christmas tree. Normally I wouldn’t go traipsing out into the forest alone, because I’d have a one hundred percent chance of getting lost. I won’t worry about that today. The snow stopped soon after I arrived but won’t melt anytime soon, and my tracks will leave a clear path for me to follow on my way back to the cabin.
So as soon as I finish items one and two on my list, I’ll unleash my inner Paul Bunyan and go get me a tree.
I’m unlocking the last shutter when the wind suddenly picks up and the temperature drops. For a few seconds, I think about going to look for a tree anyway. The icy burn against my face persuades me to head back inside.
Christmas is still four days away, so there’s no rush. Instead of playing lumberjack, I can decorate the cabin or start on a new painting while waiting for the weather to clear. And even if I never get a tree, this will be the best Christmas ever.
But then, just about any Christmas would be better than another year spent with my mom and my sister.
That thought immediately makes me feel guilty. Then angry for feeling guilty. Neither emotion is what I want to feel, so I get out my portable bluetooth speaker, load up Mariah’s Merry Christmas album, and sing along at the top of my lungs while aggressively threading a popcorn garland.