Page 35 of The Vacation Mix-Up
He snorts.
I freeze.
He snorts again, eyelids spasming before relaxing again.
Despite how freaking annoyed I am at him, I can’t deny his rugged good looks. I also can’t help but wonder if he’s wearing any underwear, because I can’t see any sticking out from under the sheet.
Wait! Is he naked?I step back.He better not be!
Slamming the pillow down on his face, I wrench it back again, and shout, “Wake up!”
Riley releases a cacophony of grunts, blinking as he wrestles with his sheets until he’s upright and leaning back on his palms.
I whack him again for good measure. “You liar!”
“What the fuck?” He raises his hand, shielding himself from further blows.
“Yes, what the fuck indeed.” I stab my finger at him. “You snore like a damn freight train.”
The jerk searches the room and then looks at me as if I’m an imbecile. “Freight trains don’t snore.”
“Whatever! You do!”
Growling, I whack him again, then storm to the closet and collect my clothes for the day.
“What time is it?” he grumbles as if it’s too early to be awake.
“Time you moved cabins.”
“Wait! What?”
“You heard me.”
“Come on, Riles. You don’t mean that.”
I wrench open the bathroom door, step inside, and allow it to slam behind me, shouting, “I most certainly do!”
“I’m sorry,” he calls out. “I don’t usually snor?—”
“Liar!”
Growling again, I slam the toilet lid down, lay a towel over it, and place my clothes on top before boxing the air like Mike Tyson’s uncoordinated twin. I’m not normally the violent type. Frustrated air-boxer? Yes. Physically connect my fists with someone else? No. Yet, for some reason, Riley makes me want to kung-fu his ass. Twice over.
Clenching the edge of the vanity, I grit my teeth and stare at myself in the mirror, my hair awry, my eyes puffier than a pufferfish.Oh my God! I look like Beetlejuice.
I groan, turn the faucet on, and grab my toothbrush, scrubbing my teeth like a mad woman before spitting out the froth more forcibly than intended, white foam spraying the mirror.
Tempted to leave it there, because Riley seems to think mess is acceptable, I end up wiping it away, since the clean freak within me won’t stand for it, and then I secure my shower cap and step into the shower, hot water massaging my shoulders and neck and slowly easing my volcanic tension.
I press my palms against the wall, hang my head, and exhale, once again counting to five—a stress-relief technique I picked up not long after starting my job with Georgia. It’s a daily ritual I perform, but I certainly didn’t anticipate having to continue it on vacation. Then again, what would I know? I never go on vacation. Perhaps they are stressful.
No, they’re not. Vacations are enjoyable. My vacationwillbe enjoyable, just as Mom wanted it to be. Riley and his snoring be damned.
Today, we dock in Halifax, Nova Scotia—one of my bucket list ports of call—and I plan to visit St. Mary’s Basilica, the Fairview Lawn Cemetery, and theTitanicexhibit at the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic. Ever since I was a young girl and watchedTitanicat the theatre with Mom, I’ve been fascinated—borderline obsessed—with the ill-fated maiden voyage. More than fifteen hundred people tragically died on April 15, 1912, and what’s worse is their demise could’ve been avoided.
I’m also a hardcore Leo DiCaprio fan.
Humming “My Heart Will Go On” as I psych myself up for the day ahead, I finish showering, then I spend the time needed to put on my makeup and do my hair when a knock on the bathroom door has me almost poking my eye out with my mascara wand.
