Page 7 of Christmas in Comets Valley
By the time I made it to the cottage, I was abnormally exhausted from being on edge the last part of the drive that I didn’t even stop to take in my surroundings before trudging up the stairs with all my luggage in hand.
I was in desperate need of stress relief, and the only thing keeping me from that was not being able to remember which bag I packed my vibrator in.
After tearing apart two suitcases, my purse, and a duffel bag, I concluded I wouldn’t be cumming unless I was going to do it by hand, and that simplywasn’tan option for me in my current state.
I briefly debated downloading one of those godforsaken dating apps with the hopes of reining in a quickie until I remembered Juliet telling me this town was more desolate than Tristan da Cunha when it came to men.
I fished out a pair of knee-high boots from one of my suitcases—which I should note were the furthest thing from snowshoes—and squished my feet into them with a gripe. Charging down the stairs and out the front door, I began my trek toward the town square from Juliet’s pictures.
If I couldn’t have an orgasm, the least I could do was grab a snack.
However, it only took the two hundred steps to the mailbox before water had soaked through to my socks. And there werefewthings in life more disgusting than wearing wet socks.
Huffing, I pivoted around on my heels and marched back up the driveway. Once inside, I kicked off my shoes by the front door and dried off the soles of my feet. I pulled my phone out of the pocket of my far-too-thin-for-twenty-degree-weather jacket, then hung it on the coat rack.
Plopping down onto the couch, I opened one of the food delivery apps on my phone and sifted through my options for dinner. After spending a solid twenty minutes internally debating between Momma and Pop’s Pizza Kitchen or Comet Queens Cookin’ Counter, I decided to order both.
What was the harm in supporting a few local businesses, right?
Twenty minutes later, a knock sounded on the front door, and I hopped up from the couch to open it. Cold air chilled my face and my eyes widened at the sight of two different delivery drivers standing on the front porch with multiple boxes and bags in each of their arms.
“Guys, the food's here!” I called back to absolutely no one.
I was confident both men caught onto my ploy based on the knowing side glance they shared with each other. My betrayal of a stomach growl as I stood in the doorway only solidified what they already knew.
“Thanks so much!” I snatched my food from them and slammed the door shut behind me.
I felt a flush creep across my cheeks once I was alone. Of course, of course this would happen to me today of all days.
Fine. Maybe five pizzas, jumbo bread sticks, a family-size lasagna, and two cobblers—one peach, one blackberry—might have been a bit of an overkill for one person. But I was on vacation, for God’s sake! I refused to be shamed by the people of Comets Valley for supporting small businesses!
Popping open one pizza, I took out a slice of pepperoni and shoved half of it into my mouth. Pizza in hand, I poked my head around the living room, trying to find the remote until I spotted Juliet’s cat, Mr. Whiskers, erotically rubbing himself against it.
Did I forget to mention there was a cat? And that he had humpedeverythingin sight since I arrived. Seriously, everything.
Deciding I wouldn’t be touching the remote until I was able to fully disinfect it, I turned the television on from the button on the bottom and flipped through the channels until I landed on a holiday movie premiere.
With half a pizza down the hatch and a quarter of peach cobbler missing, I started my third Christmas movie of the night. And it was right then when I came to the conclusion that vacation was stupid.
That’s right, I said it.
Vacation was stupid.
During the entire first movie, I mindlessly watched while mentally planning the fall collection for next season in my head. And the second movie? Thought about new pitch ideas for investors. Oh, and my plans for the third? You guessed it, jot down ideas for the womenswear shows for Milan Week of Fashion in February.
Even when I was away from work, I couldn’t turn off my brain. More than that, I didn’t have my laptop or work cell on me to actually get the ideas out of my head and filed away, which was my personal equivalent to hell via brain overload.
How did people do this whole vacation thing? Having this much free time to think and do… nothing was my personal equivalent of having teeth pulled.
I hadn’t felt an ounce of relaxation seep into my bones since I woke up this morning, so what was I supposed to do here for a few more weeks?
Nope. Not happening.
I pushed myself off the couch and shut off the television before trotting up the steps—that I’d learned creaked every other stair—and removed my luggage from the guest closet.
Throwing the suitcases on the bed with vigor, I waltzed over and scooped up all the clothes hanging on the clothing rod and threw them inside. Deciding I couldn’t be bothered with taking off the hangers, I made a mental note to send Juliet a DollarApp payment to buy some new ones instead.
All was going swimmingly with my escape plan until the zipper on the second suitcase broke off completely.
