Mr. Hot Grinch - Lindsey Hart Page 0,1

at the time. It was only four hundred dollars, sadly. That’s a lot to carry around, but it won’t get me far in the real world.

I no longer have a working credit card since I can bet my dad froze it the second I walked out of the house, seeing as it was jointly in his name. So was my bank account, so that’s, of course, frozen as well.

You know what sucks? Being hopeless this close to Christmas. Being hopeless in general.

Thank god we live in Florida. Pinecrest, of course, so we blend in with all the other well-off families. My parents have houses elsewhere too, but they’ve owned this one since before I was born, and it’s the one I call home. Or rather, called home. As in, past tense.

So here I am. Hopelessly slogging down the street in my canvas runners, my ripped up skinny jeans, my plaid shirt, and a cardigan. My car is in my dad’s name too, so I couldn’t take it. I literally had to walk out of the subdivision and just keep going. I’m still trying to hold my head up high and pretend like my heart, head, and shoulder aren’t breaking from the stupid, heavy duffel bag.

Anyway, the nice thing about living in Florida is that it’s hot, at least. I could be worse off, living in the northern states, where it’s snowy and absolutely frigid. I’d really be screwed then. As it is, the sun is beating down hard on me, and I have a few more hours of daylight left. It’s the weekend, so it means tons of people are out walking, running, and doing family stuff with the kids. No one looks at me like I’m some kind of delinquent.

Which I’m totally not.

My parents are the ones who wanted to marry me off to someone I don’t even know. For business. I’ve never known them to be controlled by the dollar before, and it’s insulting. It’s criminal. They’re the delinquents.

I might be seriously solo here, but after walking for an hour, I’ve already formulated a pretty shitty preliminary plan.

My BFF is also rich. Of course she is since I went to boarding school and then an Ivy League college. I went to the best of the best, which is where we met. Samantha’s parents are pretty normal as far as rich parents go. They wouldn’t try and betroth her to some hairy troll who probably has a problem with nocturnal emissions. Why can’t he get a wife the normal way? Jesus. I don’t even know if the guy wasn’t like eighty-five.

No, I do. My parents would never do that to me.

I hope.

Right now, I’m not sure what I would and wouldn’t put past them.

But the guy was probably nasty. Rich, entitled, and so spoiled that he thought he could just buy his way into my dad’s company and also buy a wife to sweeten the deal and warm his gross bed. He probably is hairy. Like, eight-inch back hairs or something. Someone with butt hairs, nose hairs, and ear hairs.

I giggle as I start imagining a really hairy dog—the kind you have to actually pick up the hair and brush it back to find the eyes. I cut my thought off because it’s weird to be laughing by myself, to myself, for no apparent reason. It’s also not funny. Nothing about this is funny.

I’m normally pretty easy going, and I’ve been told I have a good sense of humor, but right now, it’s not going to help. Much.

I pull out my phone and slide my finger over Sam’s contact. My plan is to call her and have her come pick me up. I know I can’t hide out at her place because that’s the first place my parents would expect to look for me. I’ll get her to help me figure out somewhere to go. Sam has lots of friends, all sorts of friends. Some of them are from normal, middle-class families who live in less expensive areas of the city. Maybe one of them needs a roommate. I know Sam’s good for a few hundred bucks too. She’ll sport me enough for a month’s rent, and I’ll pay her back when I have a job, of course. At least I have my Degree, and since my parents forced me to take business, I’ll be able to use it. I shouldn’t have trouble finding a job—any job. I won’t be fussy. I’ll work my way up like everyone else,