Page 2 of The Flirty Vet

It may have been morning on the East Coast, but Sydney was fourteen hours ahead, which meant it was late night there. I think? Time zones have never been my thing.

I drank, stopping after three vodka sodas because I'm responsible like that. Dad FaceTimed me, which was nice, I got to speak with Brant again, I knocked off a few things from my work to-do list, and I managed not to pass out from nerves before boarding. Bonus!

Of course, there's no direct flight from New York to Sydney, because that would be too easy. Instead, there's one long-ass flight to Auckland, New Zealand, before hopping over to Australia.

The meds and the booze kicked in a few minutes after we reached altitude, and that, combined with the super comfy, fully retractable business-class pod—not a seat, but a freaking pod—I was nestled in, resulted in the flight itself being…fine.

No panic attacks.

No vomit-inducing anxiety.

No unwanted visions of what happened to Mom.

Heck, we barely even had any turbulence during the course of the entire seventeen-and-a-half-hour flight, which meant I didn't even get the chance to envision all sorts of gruesome, nightmarish ways we'd meet our fates if the plane were to drop from the sky.

But still, we were in the air forseventeen and a half hours. That is not okay. Humans are not designed for that shit.

Finally, I touched down on Australian soil, and the time was…only two hours after I left New York.

Sooomindfucky.

My hotel is located a few blocks from the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge, so of course I checked them both out and snapped a ton of selfies, which I then sent to the WhatsApp group I have with Brant and my dad.

It's late June, which means it's winter in Australia. Although, if this is what winter in Sydney is like, I'd hate to think how hot it gets in the summer. I wore jeans with a light jacket all day, and apart from a few gusts of wind, I was perfectly fine.

After the obligatory tourist selfies, I checked out a museum, had some great seafood by the water, and moseyed through the Botanic Gardens, all in the hope that staying awake during the day would help me sleep at night.

No such luck.

I let out a disgruntled breath, kick the sheets off my sweaty body, and pick up my phone.

9:57 p.m.

Letting out a groan, I look around the darkened hotel room. Why can I not sleep? And why the fuck is it so hot in here?

I've already peeled the comforter off the bed and stripped out of my sleep shorts, and I'm still boiling. Maybe the air conditioning isn't working?

I trudge over to the panel on the wall, tap it so it lights up, and frown at the display. It's set to thirty degrees. Why am I not freezing my balls off?

I press the down arrow button, stopping when it doesn't go any lower than sixteen degrees. That's when I notice the bigCafter the number.

"Hey, Google," I call out, waiting until my phone screen lights up on the bed to say, "Convert twenty-four degrees Celsius to Fahrenheit."

"Twenty-four degrees Celsius converts to eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit."

"Of course it fucking does."

No wonder I'm overheating.

Keeping the air con on the lowest setting, I put my sleep shorts back on and climb into bed, resting the quilt at my feet for when the room cools down.

It takes a few minutes but the cooler gusts of air circulating in the room slowly make my eyelids grow heavy.

Finally, I can rest…

"Oh-oh-oh-whoa… Oh-oh-oh…!"

What the fuck was that? I sit up and look around.

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