Page 118 of Booked for the Holidays
FORTY-SIX
THEO
This ismy first time in Bridget’s house. Like her bookshop, it’s warm and homey. There are subtle traces of her in every room. A vase of flowers on her square kitchen table, petals bright and vibrant against the white walls. A stack of books next to her couch, bookmarks shoved into nearly half of them. A dog bed next to the door out to her backyard.
Ziggy is in the living room, curled up and uncaring about his surroundings. Bridget and I are in her bed, showered, fed, and warm. She’s propped up against the pillows, staring at me. Her leg hooks around mine, and I smile at the feel of her socks against my bare feet.
A wool pair, with little alligators wearing top hats on them.
“I have a question,” she whispers.
I turn on my elbow to face her. Under the glow of the moon, she looks like she’s made of ether, a woman from a different world besides Earth. Her hazel eyes blink hesitantly, and my thumb reaches out to rub the scrupulous bend of her eyebrows away. “What’s that?”
Bridget blows out a breath and drifts closer. “You said all those wonderful things earlier, but I have to ask. Is this just a Christmas thing? A declaration in the heat of the moment?”
The question is backed by nerves, and she’s afraid to hear the answer. Buried under the need for assurance is a lilt of hopefulness, too. My hand reaches out and I tilt her chin, tracing the line of her jaw.
“No, Bridget. I was thinking more of an everyday thing. A forever thing, if you were okay with it.”
Long eyelashes fan out as she blinks, bottom lip wobbling. “Really?”
“You don’t deserve one holiday, Bridget. You deserve them all. New Year’s. Valentine’s Day. St. Patrick’s Day, too. A random Tuesday in July when we’re both drenched with sweat from the summer sun, wishing for a spot of clouds. Even then, it’ll be you and me.”
“Every holiday? What about Arbor Day?”
“I’ll plant you a forest of trees.”
“Way down in the bottom of November?”
“I’ll like you then, too. Over and over again, I’ll keep choosing you. And then we’ll do it year after year.”
“I’ll keep choosing you, too, Theo,” she whispers back.
“I want to show you something,” I mumble, peeling away from her.
“Oh, my god. You aren’t… this isn’t…”
I pause, one foot on the ground, my knee balancing on the mattress. “You think I’mproposingto you when I don’t know your middle name?”
“I don’t know,” she sputters. “You got all serious.”
“It’s not a ring. I promise.”
“Is that something that would interest you? Marriage? Hypothetically, of course. Down the road,” she says.
“I’m not opposed to marriage, but I’m also not ready to run down the aisle just yet. I want you, Bridget. If you wanted a wedding, we could have a wedding. If you want more kids, or you’re fine with just Mac, I don’t care. I’ve spent so much of my time not livingmylife. And now that I am, I want to do what makes me happy. Turns out, you make me the happiest guy in the fucking world. So whatever you want is fine with me. You’re up there with Mac for me, angel. There’s no one more important than you two.”
“I think you’re under Ziggy on my list. We’ll reevaluate after the holidays.”
“I’ll concede to the rightful Bowie heir.” I chuckle. “I’ll be right back.”
I climb off the bed and pluck my wallet from the back pocket of my damp jeans. Opening the leather, I fumble through the sections until I find what I’m looking for.
“Read this,” I say, handing her the small scrap of paper and an assortment of photos.
“‘Theo, I was out of line with my interview questions. When I saw the pictures from the magazine shoot, I realized you aren’t abrasive at all. You’re a good guy with a kind heart who’s head over heels for a wonderful woman. I thought you might want to keep these.’” Her forehead wrinkles and she looks up at me. “I don’t understand.”
“Look at the pictures.”
