Page 24 of Stuck in Christmas

A snowbank outside of Bonnie’s Diner.

“Ffffffffuuuuuuuuuudge,” I swore and rolled over into the wet pile of snow.

Part Six

Eleven

The bustling streets of Christmas, Mississippi, were alive with the holiday spirit, a cacophony of laughter, music, and twinkling lights illuminating every corner. If you were looking at it from the outside, you’d be charmed by the whole scene.

But if you were stuck in it, you’d think differently.

At first, I thought I was stuck in a dream or a holiday movie time loop.

Now, I know.

This is hell.

I’m in hell.

A holiday hell.

Hell. Hell. Hell.

I was surprised I could even think hell, much less say it.

“Hell.”

Yep. Hell. I’m in hell.

This was getting freaking old. At 35, I couldn’t take much more of this falling on my face in the snow. And the holiday lights and Christmas carol music were beginning to get on my last good nerve.I had half a mind to write a different story forPositively New Orleansthat was a warning to all visitors to the town.

The headline would read:Stay away from holiday hellhole.

The article would detail how this was like one of those movies where everyone was in on the plot to brainwash the newcomer into thinking they were crazy. Zero stars. Do not recommend.

The only saving grace to this whole thing was the hottie former Marine waiting for me on the town square. In this day's iteration, we went straight to the Gingerbread Competition after I saw Bonnie’s pin with six geese.

Eli stood outside the diner, his breath visible in the crisp air. The thick blue sweater under his jacket made his eyes pop against the snowy backdrop. The two cups of steaming goodness in his hands promised to warm me from the inside out, and my money was on hot chocolate.

Because I’m in holiday hell.

It’s always hot chocolate.

Not a drop of whiskey to be found.

“Hot chocolate?” Eli offered me a cup.

I sighed and shook my head, taking the hot chocolate offered. How can you say no when a smexy former Marine offers you sweetened hot beverages?

Smexy?

Dang it. I can’t even think the right word.

“I can’t help thinking I’ve met you before,” Eli began, a playful smile creeping onto his face.

I smirked. “Like five different times?”

“It’s not that,” Eli replied, leaningagainst the café’s wooden railing. “It’s your name. Renee Douglas. Have you only ever written forPositively New Orleans?”

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