A Killer Retreat Read Online Free PDF Page B

either, unless you counted the dust bunnies. Apparently, I slumbered alone.
    Bella’s single, sharp bark sounded from the kitchen, followed by Michael’s voice, goading her on. “That’s right, Bella girl. Go wake up Kate.”
    At seven in the morning? On vacation? I groaned and covered my head with the pillow, determined to ignore them both until a more civilized hour. Like noon.
    Three sharp barks later, Michael changed tactics. The bitter-sweet smell of caramel-laced caffeine wafted into the room. Nice try. It would take more than designer coffee to get me out of this bed.
    Like carbohydrates.
    The oven door squeaked open. Sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla beckoned me like a siren.
    A few frustrated barks, I could ignore. Coffee, I could drink any day of the week. But cinnamon rolls? My mind and my body declared war, fighting for dominance. My mind craved deep, dreamless sleep; my stomach, gooey cinnamon pastry.
    My stomach won.
    I slipped on a pair of sweatpants and staggered out of the bedroom. Before I could adequately stuff my belly with coffee and pastries, I needed to make a pit stop. I veered to the left and trudged, zombie-like, into the bathroom. I didn’t bother to open my puffy eyes; I already knew the room’s layout from the prior night’s explorations. Instead, I staggered to the far corner, stifled a yawn with my fist, and lowered my bottom into a perfect Half Squat—right before I fell into the toilet.
    That was one way to wake up. Muttering words never used in yoga class, I slammed down the open toilet seat, grabbed a towel off the towel rack, and wiped the morning dew off my backside, grateful that Michael at least had the decency to flush. One thing was certain: my eyes were wide open now.
    Michael and I had spent multiple sleepovers together, but always at my house, since his apartment didn’t allow dogs. Looking around the disaster that used to be the bathroom, I realized that I hadn’t fully grasped the dearth of his housekeeping skills.
    Red, white, and green gore oozed from an open toothpaste tube and semi-permanently adhered itself to the sink. My small, well-organized makeup bag competed for space with a medley of male personal hygiene products ranging from shaving cream to the world’s most disgusting flattened toothbrush to a deodorant labeled “Just for Men.”
    The rest of the room fared no better. A pair of wrinkled underwear lay bunched in one corner; a wilted black sock occupied another. Juniper-scented soap melted down the edge of the bathtub, oozing an Irish Spring slug trail that led to a bottle of antidandruff shampoo. The pièce de résistance was a tube of medicated cream designed to cure a multitude of fungal infections, up to and including jock itch. Gross!
    I swallowed back my disgust and joined Hurricane Michael in the kitchen. He grinned at me from the table. “Hey there, sleepy head! It’s about time you got up. Miss Bella and I have been waiting for you since five. I knew putting those cinnamon rolls in the oven would do the trick.”
    I stifled an impolite reply and poured some delicious, caramel-smelling brew into a chipped “I Love Tofu” coffee mug. Two swigs later, I took a huge bite of buttery, hot cinnamon pastry, trying not to imagine globs of cellulite swelling my thighs. Vacation food didn’t have calories, right?
    Michael sorted through several flyers he’d retrieved from our welcome packet. “What’s on today’s agenda? We should try to fit in as much as possible before you start teaching tomorrow.” He pointed to a map. “How about hiking the trail around Mountain Lake?”
    He ruffled Bella’s ears. “What do you think, Bella girl? Are you up for a seven-mile loop?”
    Bella responded with an enthusiastic bark.
    I gaped at them both. “Seven miles? I’d have to ride Bella out. I thought we could hang out here at the center and relax.” I