Page 1 of Booked for the Holidays
ONE
BRIDGET
November 1starriveswith little fanfare. It’s not circled in red ink on a calendar to denote it of any significant importance. No multi-colored leaves fall from the trees or litter the pavement, marking the onslaught of late autumn. The only indication as to what the date might be are the mutilated pumpkins and melted Twix bars left behind from last night’s Halloween festivities, chocolate and nougat bleeding onto the gray pavement. Ziggy, my rescue pit bull, eagerly sniffs the forgotten candy and whines when I give him a gentle tug to resume our walk, denying him a stolen treat.
The first sunrise of the new month peeks through tree branches as we make our way down the quiet sidewalk, refusing to bring with it a dip in the high temperatures that exist almost year round in central Florida. A bead of condensation rolls down my forehead, and I bat it away with the back of my hand. It feels less like the unofficial start of the festive season and more like the Fourth of July.
I hate it.
We get the occasional cold front, a blast of freakishly arctic air for three days when everyone scrambles to pull out jackets buried deep in their attics for the last eleven and a half months. The weather folks panic, strongly advising parents to not let their children stand outside in the positively frigid fifty degree temps without a hat and scarf.
The Northerners must think we’re lunatics.
The Sunshine State is far from a winter wonderland, and justonceI’d love for the impending holidays to be authentic. Like what you’d find in a classic Hallmark movie and not the swampy humidity I’m currently trudging through.
Dodging a particularly dismembered gourd vaguely resembling Chris Evans inThe Avengers,I slow my stride as I approach my shop. It’s empty out front, save for a figure looming there, to the left of the door. A man. Tall. Somewhat broad shouldered with his arms crossed over his chest. I snort when I recognize who it is.
Theo Gardner, the manager of the hardware store next door.
He’s the textbook definition of cantankerous, a frequent scowler and an all-around prickly human. Even from here, half a block away, I can sense the waves of indignation rolling off of him. It’s a steady stream, ebbing away from friendly and moving toward profoundly annoyed.
I pause, my gaze raking over him. He’s wearing dark brown leather work boots with a drop of black paint on the toe of the left shoe. Jeans hug his thighs, molding over the muscles hidden beneath the denim. A red flannel shirt is unbuttoned over a simple white tee, the outer layer rolled to his elbows. Tattoos of various shapes and colors are visible on both arms. The artwork is intricate; an inky collage covering every inch of tan, tawny skin it can find.
“Bridget,” he says. “You’re late.”
“Good morning, neighbor,” I answer, cheerily lacing the greeting. “How are you? It’s November 1st and we’re officially in the holiday season, my friend!”
His response is a scoff.
Next, a grunt.
Then, in dramatic conclusion, as the epitome of Perpetually Disappointed, he frowns.
Creases form deep between his eyebrows, creating a valley of disgruntlement. The downward slope of his lips suggest I hurled a barrage of lethal words his way instead of merely saying hello. His arms flex, drawing attention to the tendons and cords of muscle sharpened and toned from years of what I assume is manual labor.
Jesus.
Those forearms haveveins, sneakily disappearing under his sleeves in a way I’ve definitely never noticed before. Now it’s all I can focus on.
“You’re three minutes late,” he clarifies.
The chastising snaps me out of the momentary trance and appreciation of his body, pointing out the extent of my apparent transgression. He pushes his thickly framed glasses up his nose with his pointer finger, waiting. The glance he gives me is cool, bordering on frosty, glacial indifference.
“What time is it?” I ask.
Confusion crosses Theo’s face. After a check of his phone, he answers. “Seven o’ three.”
“Really? In that case, I’m sorry to tell you, you’re wrong.”
“Wrong?” he repeats, as if I’ve spoken a verbose monologue in a foreign language. “Wrong how?”
“You never stand outside the shop before 7:07. I’m not late. You’re early.”
Seconds tick by without a response. A car door slams. A train horn blares faintly in the distance, approaching the station up the street. Above us, a bird sings from a branch. Still, he says nothing.
I wait with bated breath. A thousand different scenarios run through my head, but I don’t anticipate the response he gives me that will certainly, without a doubt, go down in the books under literary refinement.
“Are you fucking with me?” he asks.
