If I had my way, I’d still be in bed right now, buried under a mountain of fluffy white pillows with the blackout curtains drawn and nothing but overpriced room service on my tray and a murder documentary humming softly in the background.
And for the record, I did order the room service, full English breakfast (fancy, I know), mimosas (plural), half a papaya that came with edible flowers I immediately posted on i********:.
But lounging all day like a spoiled heiress wasn’t in the cards, because, surprise, I have a job. Even if it involves drinking mimosas for the aesthetic.
Callie, in all her Type-A glory, sent over a schedule so meticulous it practically had footnotes.
She even color-coded it. There’s a little sticky note next to each item with encouraging things like “Smile, b***h!”
