The Holiday Trap Read Online Roan Parrish

Categories Genre: GLBT, Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
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I’m gonna go take a bath and drown my sorrows. In wine, I mean. Not in the bath. I mean, not literally in the bath. I mean…

We know what you mean. You’re not killing yourself. That is a good choice. Charlotte sent a thumbs-up emoji, then a bathtub emoji.

Germaine wrote, Good, take care of yourself. Things will look brighter in the morning! <3

Literally, Charlotte added. Sorry, sorry, ok bye.

Truman turned on the taps in Greta’s clawfoot tub. She had a jar of bath salts with thyme and rosemary in it that he sprinkled into the tub. The aroma rose around him as the herbs hit the hot water, and Truman took a deep breath, trying to relax.

“Ooh, Ash could sell flower-scented bath salts at the shop!”

The thought hit him, accompanied by a surge of excitement. He caught himself just before he pulled out his phone to text Ash. Then he realized it didn’t matter, because Ash had never given him his phone number.

“Ugh, pathetic,” he diagnosed. Suddenly the thyme and rosemary didn’t seem so relaxing. Instead, he pictured himself as a turkey about to be brined in savory herbs. He certainly felt like a fucking turkey. He found some lavender and added it to the bath, hoping to conjure a vibe of calm rather than poultry. He’d just take a bath, read, and go to bed. Alone.

Truman grabbed book two of the Dead of Zagørjič, The Heart Soars, and a bottle of wine and slid into the hot, herb-scented water.

Chapter 12

Greta

The boardwalk twisted around moss-draped live oaks and through the bayou. The sign in the parking lot of Barataria Preserve had warned visitors not to allow small children or dogs too close to the water’s edge and to listen for the telltale rattle of snakes.

Greta was in love. In love with the gothic drips of moss and the warmth in December and the murky-sweet smell of the bayou and the risk.

“So what was Greta like as a roommate?” Carys asked Ramona. It had been Ramona who suggested Jean Lafitte Park as a destination hangout when Greta texted her about meeting up. As a New Orleans transplant, she knew all the best local spots but had also once been a new arrival who’d learned the city.

It was a Tuesday morning out of tourist season, and in the twenty minutes they’d been walking so far, they’d yet to see another soul. They’d yet to see an alligator either, and Greta kept her eyes peeled.

“She was a dream roommate,” Ramona said breezily. “Clean but not super neat, slept like the dead so I didn’t have to tiptoe around all night, up for hijinks and late-night snack runs, great conversationalist, and very open to letting me boss her around. Perfection.”

Greta snorted.

“Boss her around?” Carys asked curiously with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, you know. Very open to hearing about all her faults and the behaviors that were holding her back in life.” Ramona gave her a wicked grin.

“The real question is were you actually good at knowing them?” Greta said.

But the truth was that Ramona had changed Greta’s life more than she knew. Well. Maybe she did know. When Greta had been left alone in her dorm room with the hugs and tears of her family still imprinted on her skin, all the elation she’d felt at being free of them evaporated. She’d sat in the quiet-loud of move-in day and found her head strangely empty. She knew she should start unpacking but couldn’t quite get up off the bed.

When the tall girl with white-blond curls, blond eyelashes, and the coolest gray eyes Greta had ever seen breezed into the room, stuck her hand out, and said, “I could murder a slushie. Wanna bounce?” Greta had followed her. Once her legs were moving, it was easier to talk. Once she talked, it was easier to think. And once she could think, she thought Holy shit. I’m in Portland, drinking a slushie that I don’t have to share, in the flavor of my choice, and I can do…whatever I want. It had blasted through her like a gust of wind off the ocean, sending shivers down her spine. Or maybe that was the slushie. Ramona would go on to teach her a lot over the next year, but Greta had never forgotten that first, unintentional lesson: sometimes, when all else fails, get off your ass and get a slushie. Or, you know, a whatever.

“Of course,” Ramona said. “I give stellar advice. Giving advice and being able to take it are two entirely unrelated gifts, I’ll have you know.”

Carys smiled at Greta. “So what was a really good piece of advice you gave Greta?”

“Oh god, allow me to flip through the veritable card catalogue of options.” Ramona struck the pose of The Thinker. “So it was fall semester and Greta had made the horrible mistake of signing up for a psychology lab from seven to nine on Friday evenings.”


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