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I HATE CHRISTMAS
HENSON
Ifucking hate Christmas.
Well... What Itrulyhate is traveling during the holidays.
It’s the day before Christmas Eve at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, and I’m uncomfortably close to someone who clearly had garlic for lunch, waiting in line to see if I can get on a different flight, as mine was just canceled due to bad weather.
A snowstorm in Seattle.
Of all places, of all days. Snowstorms here are rare, but, of course, the city decides to turn into a snow globetoday.
Just my luck.
I flick my wrist over to expose my watch. 1:45 p.m.
Fuck.
I’m definitely missing family dinner tonight. I can already hear my mother complaining that I shouldn’t have booked a last-minute flight. She’s not wrong. What I won’t tell her, though, is that I almost didn’t book the flight at all.
I love my family, but I wasn’t born with that Christmas spirit they all seem to have inherited. My brother even calls me The Grinch.
I let out a sigh—louder than intended, because Mr. Garlic Man turns around and gives me a side-eye.
“You gotta wait in line like the rest of us, big shot.” He scans me from head to toe, lingering on my suit.
I scrunch my nose, the stench of his breath assaulting my nostrils.
For God’s sake, eat a fucking mint.
I don’t usually let the opinions of others affect me, but the way he called me “big shot” doesn’t sit well with me.
I work damn hard for everything I have. My brother, Worth, and I own one of the largest construction firms in North America. We started the company from scratch—no handouts—and built it into what it is today.
We didn’t start out in boardrooms. We were blue-collar workers from Mid-Island Nantucket; I was an electrician before Worth came to me with the idea. I figured it waswortha shot…
Anyway, when the company started gaining traction, we made the move to Seattle, for easier access to international business overseas.
We went through hell and back for our success—so this man can fuck right off.
Instead of giving him the tongue-lashing he deserves, I force out a smile, which probably looks more like a snarl.
He finally turns back around.
Suddenly, the fabric of my ridiculously expensive suit feels suffocating, as if it’s shrinking with every passing second, clinging to me like a second skin. I yank at the collar, trying to find some relief.
Come on. The line hasn’t moved in… I check my watch. Two minutes. Two goddamn minutes.
This is what I get for booking at the last minute. Worth had suggested I left with him on his private jet a few days ago, but I refused, too busy with work. I don’t usually mind taking a commercial flight, but now I kind of regret my decision.
I exhale sharply, the sound more of a hiss than a sigh.
Turns out, Genevieve, my assistant, was right. Patience isn’t exactly my strong point.
With a groan, I pull out my phone.
