Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 38786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 129(@300wpm)
My confusion is why I’ve spent the past week with my head in future trades and investments.
And perhaps my anger.
It seems so odd that Zane founded a company that’s so disrespectful to women. He loves his sister and would do anything for his mother, so how did his notion of respect become so skewed?
After shrugging off my confusion for the umpteenth time this week, I log into the Facebook app to send Christmas messages to my online family and friends.
I’m halfway through my slim list when an advertisement hogs my phone screen.
“For crying out loud.”
When I spin my phone to show my mother the advertisement that’s just popped up, my father exposes he has his ear to the floor more than I realize. “Can’t you say you’re not interested, then the bots will stop showing you Zane’s ads?”
I swear I’m smarter than my broken-hearted head makes out.
As I’m about to click the not interested button, my half-blind cat jumps onto my lap and bumps my hand, sending my clicking finger half an inch lower.
I’ll never be saved now.
My inward whine ends when I notice Zane’s website displays a banner announcing it is closed. It has a number to contact if you wish to claim reimbursement for any losses incurred by his company, then a link to a charity that will assist you with your claim.
Too curious for my own good, I click on the link.
My mouth gapes only a minute later. The charity won’t solely assist women in suing Single All The Way for any wrongdoings they believe they may have faced. It will also help women in situations similar to mine—the women who think they have to leave a relationship with nothing because they’re not married.
“Kelsey…” my mother murmurs when my throat works hard to swallow. I assume she’s worried I’m storming down a path that will only cause me more pain, but I am proven wrong when she says, “Dios mío. Look at the time.” She pushes my father off her before snatching her car keys off the kitchen counter and tossing them into my chest. “You should have left half an hour ago. The traffic will be bumper-to-bumper all the way to the airport.”
I gulp when I notice the time. My grandparents are due to land in forty minutes.
“Flying fruit bats,” I gabber out before cussing the day my parents learned of candy cane cocktails. They were meant to collect my grandparents from the airport since we cashed their travel credits for flights to Ravenshoe instead of Oregon, but they got a little festive early, so I offered to pick them up on their behalf.
Now I’ll most likely get a speeding ticket from Santa instead of the million-dollar startup capital I’m seeking from investors for my first solid trade.
Santa should thank his lucky stars the streets of Ravenshoe don’t get icy at this time of the year. When he steps out in front of me outside Ravenshoe Airport, I narrowly avoid hitting him by the tip of his red nose.
Our near collision blows off his hat and veers me into the departure lane of the airport instead of arrivals, but Christmas is spared from imminent disaster, nonetheless.
“Excuse me,” I shout through the passenger window of my mother’s car when I spot Santa’s hat on the hood of her Mazda. “You forgot your hat.”
When I fail to get Santa’s attention, I park in the next available spot and slip out of the driver’s seat.
“You can’t leave your car, ma’am. This is a no-stopping zone,” an officer warns when I try to catch up to Santa before he darts through the departure doors.
“It's his hat,” I reply, showing the officer the impeccably crafted hat with ‘made by Mrs. Claus’ stitched on the inside. “Santa forgot his hat.”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” mumbles a little boy who’d only be five or six. “You can’t let him leave without his hat, or he won’t be able to communicate with the elves when he’s in his sleigh.”
“Oh no,” joins another child with cheeks as rosy as the first. “Christmas will be ruined. You have to give him back his hat. Please, kind lady.”
When I look at the officer for advice, he succumbs to the children’s pleading eyes even faster than me. After nudging his head to the departure lounge, he says, “Make it quick.”
Nodding, I sprint in the direction Santa went. He should be easy to spot in the crowd. He should be the only one minus the hat that makes his suit authentic, but the arrivals lounge replicates a Where’s Wally Santa edition. They’re everywhere.
My head cranks to the right when a familiar “Ho, ho, ho” bellows over the crowd’s chatter.
It is too authentic to belong to a wannabee Santa and lubricated enough to announce nothing but warm milky goodness is lining his throat.