Page 9 of Not Home Alone

“I got it. This wouldn’t have happened if I weren’t such a gentleman and hadn’t attempted to help you carry your things.”

She growls at me. It’s almost as intimidating as being growled at by a tiny puppy. “A gentleman would find somewhere else to stay and let me enjoy the entire house I rented by myself.”

I pick up a zippered plastic bag with a weird rubber Santa Claus decoration in it. Santa’s mouth is wide open and he has devil horns. “You brought a Christmas decoration in your carry-on bag?” I say, laughing while inspecting it some more.

She answers with an evil grin. “Yes. That’s right. It’s a Christmas decoration. For my clitoris.”

I clear my throat, drop it into the shoulder bag, and stand up, taking a step away from her.

“Aww. I know how impossible it is for you to think of me as a sexual being. Does that make you uncomfortable? Because if it does, you should leave now. This thing is waterproof. And despite the inconvenience of running into you here, I will not be changing my plans to use it tonight. In the bath. Loudly.”

So sweet. She thinks she can outcocky me. I’m calling her bluff. I see her evil grin and raise her two eyebrows. “You’re wrong about almost everything except that thing being waterproof, Tucker.” I lean in, lower my voice, and say, “I’m very comfortable. It’s not impossible for me to think of you as a sexual being. It’s unfortunate. And you’ll be using it because you ran into me here.”

THREE

MERRILY

Well, somebody needs to get over himself.

He probably can’t hear me slamming my personal items onto the bed from down the hall because I closed the door. And because there’s a down comforter covering the bed. It’s not like I’m doing it so he can hear anyway, because I do not, in fact, do anything because of him. But I will do things in spite of him.

And he can try to gaslight me all he wants, but it won’t work.

Not this time, buddy! The entire town of Holly Grove might still believe he finds me repulsive, but I don’t. I saw how uncomfortable he was about the Santa vibe. Grant Moody. Mr. Rich Cocky Playboy, who gets caught canoodling with a starlet in a corner table at a fancy Manhattan restaurant. Mr. Too Busy To Return To His Hometown Except At Christmas, who attends the Met Gala on the arm of a stunning older former supermodel—according to one ill-advised tipsy Google search a couple of years ago. Mr. Hey Look At My Abs! was absolutely silenced and dumbfounded by little old me in my hand-knitted snowman sweater.

He expects me to make a fool of myself by splashing and moaning while I take my relaxing bubble bath—hah! Joke’s on him! I’m going to do the opposite of what I said I’d do.

I’m not going to loudly and joyfully stimulate my lady parts in the bathtub while he is in the same house as me. Of course I’m not. Because it turns out I need to charge my personal pleasure item for two hours before using it, and I forgot to do that.

It just goes to show how worked up I get because of him, and that is exactly why I need to figure out how to drive him out of this house.

I will figure it out while I’m taking a relaxing bubble bath. I open my Spotify app to find one of my Christmas playlists. The upbeat one I listen to while cleaning the apartment whenever my roommate is out. All year long. Like my entire year, it begins and ends with Mariah Carey. I turn up the volume on my phone while carrying a change of clothes and my toiletry bag to the bathroom across the hall. I want that xylophone intro to ring in Grant’s ears all night.

I don’t want a lot for Christmas; I just want Grant Moody to get out of this house.

And to never see his aggressively handsome face again.

I’m squealing along with Mariah so loudly, and I’ve turned the volume up so high, that I can barely hear myself yelp when I catch sight of Grant standing in the doorway of the master bedroom down the hall. He’s wearing a pair of pants, but he’s still shirtless. Just standing there, arms crossed, like a bouncer at the front door of a club that features angry male strippers. Why? He’s just reminding me he’s here so I don’t enjoy myself too much.

I sing even louder and more out of tune while locking eyes with him. He doesn’t even blink his big, hazel eyes. His expression is frozen in sort of a half-scowl, half-smirk. It shouldn’t be hot, but it is. And that is absolutely infuriating.

Without even thinking first, I kick a foot up in the air, smiling gleefully, like Mariah kicking snow in the music video, and then disappear into the bathroom and lock the door. My parents always warned me against locking bathroom doors—What if I fall in the tub? How will anyone get in to rescue me?—But I’ll take my chances. I’d risk death over Grant Moody seeing me on the toilet.

This bathroom is super cute. It has red and green flowery wallpaper, which is a little weird, but it’s also excellent. The floor has wall-to-wall carpeting, which is also weird, but weirdly cozy. I don’t hate it at all. I am now wondering why there isn’t carpeting in all bathrooms. The tub is squeaky clean, and the brass fixtures are polished. I finally feel like I’m in the house of my dreams. I place everything on the counter, look at myself in the mirror, and slap my face, mouth agape. Now that that’s taken care of, I plug the drain and turn on the water, which is thankfully still hot.

I choose one of the small bottles of homemade scented bubble bath from my toiletry bag. I brought three holiday fragrances with me. This one contains drops of ginger and clove essential oil, with just a dash of cinnamon oil, because hoooo-boy did I learn the fun way that cinnamon oil creates quite the zinging sensation! I’m going to make the entire house smell like gingerbread and Grant is going to hate it.

I was very upset that I didn’t have room to pack scented candles in my suitcase, but I plan to buy all the scented candles on Main Street tomorrow. Fortunately, there are two pillar candles on the counter, as well as a pack of matches. That is a nice touch that surely the supposed owner of this house did not think of. I turn off the overhead light once the candles are lit, before undressing. The bathroom door might be locked, but I still feel strange taking my clothes off knowing that Grant might still be down the hall, frowning and flexing.

When I’m in the tub, I start belting out “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” along with Darlene Love at the top of my lungs. The tub is only half-filled with water when I have to turn it off because it’s overflowing with gingerbread-scented bubbles. I’m fine with this. The water is the perfect temperature and the acoustics in here are fantastic.

Just as it occurs to me to look up whether I can rent a Santa bouncy castle for the front lawn ASAP, my phone pings, and I realize I haven’t checked in with my dad since he dropped me off. But it’s not my dad. It’s a text from my friend Joy. My best friend in Holly Grove. I’ve been so busy with events leading up to my travel day that I didn’t have time to let her know I’d be here.

JOY: Hey! The janitor at my office building said his wife heard from someone that you were in your dad’s van on Main Street today. Are you in town?!

I dry my fingers on the hair at the top of my head, hold the phone up at the level of my eyeballs so it doesn’t get covered in bubbles, and reply.

MERRILY: Hi! Yes! Not at my dad’s house. I’m renting the Home Alone House! For two weeks!