Page 120 of Booked for the Holidays
“I’m so freaking nervous,”I say to Chandler on our walk to Central Park. The sidewalk is bustling with eager shop owners and employees making their way to the judging announcement. A nervous chatter is shared between hopeful participants and my fingers lace together, giving my hands something to do to quell the rising anxious energy.
“I don’t know why,” she answers bluntly. “Our store looks incredible.”
Our storedoeslook incredible, but the other stores on the avenue look different. It’s a high-quality designer level with their professionally strung lights, each bulb equally spaced out and not flickering ominously like half of ours do. They have matching color schemes and ballerinas waltzing toThe Nutcrackeron the sidewalk. We passed a towering ice sculpture in the shape of a Christmas tree three doors ago, and my jaw is still on the ground because of the intricate carving.
When the judges walked through the stores two days ago, it was hard to tell how they were feeling. They took detailed notes on their clipboards and asked for elaboration. I guided them to the Christmas tree trail. Bradley had the home videos rolling on the projector, a constant loop of sleigh rides and present opening. The judges were impressed with Lucas’s woodworking skills and the lit menorah. They took their time, meticulously examining all the small details; the photos on the clothesline, the notes to Santa under the trees, the uneven brush strokes on the hand-painted reindeer.
At the conclusion of the tour, we brought them back into the bookstore. Felicity presented the Hanukkah spread, complete with perfectly seasoned brisket, unburnt potato latkes, and enough jelly donuts to fill a well. We added in some homemade peppermint bark with sides of hot chocolate, eggnog and cider.
The food was delicious. They couldn’t offer explicit comments on the flavors or presentation, but I saw two of the judges take a plate with them, hiding it under their jackets.
“We deserve this,” Chandler adds. “We’ve worked so damn hard.”
She waves to our group gathered near the front of the stage. There are flowers and a large check set up on the platform. Cameras flank the outside of the park, photographers capturing the socialization. Buffet tables cover the grass, rows of food and drinks offered. My stomach is in knots, a tight spool of worry as we approach everyone. I spot Theo beside Mac and Lucas wearing… aSanta hat?
What the hell?
Theo must feel my attention on him, because he pauses his conversation and looks over his shoulder. His eyes find mine from across the grass and he beams, bright and wide. Whenever he does that–looks at me like I’m the only person in the world–I like him…shit,Ilovehim a little more.
He shuffles around the group, nodding hello to people before finding his way to me.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back. “You’re wearing a Santa hat. I thought that was a no-go for you.”
“Yeah. Figured we could use some Christmas luck. And, well–” He pauses, hand rubbing over his jaw. His eyes twinkle and his shoulders lift, a lackadaisical shrug. “I knew it would make you happy. So here we are.”
“You are…” I trail off, words mingled with a laugh. I shake my head. “Incredible. Absolutely incredible.”
“Come here, angel.”
Theo opens his arms and I find my way to them, metal to a magnet, just like I found my way to them every night this week. My palms slide into the back pocket of his jeans. Something sharp pricks my skin and I wince.
“Ow. What the heck?” I pull out a piece of mistletoe.
His smile is sheepish and timid. “You’re home to me, too, Bridget. I didn’t know I paused on the sidewalk before walking inside your shop until you pointed it out to me. After that, I figured out why. I watch you through the glass. Sliding new pastries into the display case. Dragging boxes of books to the shelves. All with this smile on your face and this love and joy I want to be a part of. I’m glad you put out those blueberry muffins three years ago. I’m glad you didn’t toss them in the trash. I’m glad you waited for me to come back, because you’re everything I never thought existed. But you do, and I’m the lucky fuck who gets to spend every day with you.”
“Holy crap,” I whisper. “That was quite the declaration.”
“I also realize we like to do things out of order, so I wanted to ask you this officially. Bridget…fucking hell. What’s your middle name?”
“Camden.” I giggle. “What’s yours?”
“Phillips. Let’s try this again. Bridget Camden Boylston. Maker of blueberry muffins. Keeper of my heart. Dog owner, book lover, woman I adore. Will you be my girlfriend and stay a while?”
I nod, the buttons of his shirt rough against my cheek. “Yeah, Theo Phillips Gardner. I will. It’s going to be more than a while. Decades and decades. It’ll be so long that when you scowl, you won’t have any teeth.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“Is the mistletoe a flower alternative?”
“No. It’s my pathetic excuse to do this.”
He holds the plant above our head. His chin tips down and his lips brush against mine, a kiss that’s not quite a kiss. I grab the collar of his flannel–a deep red tonight–and yank him toward me, crashing my mouth into his. I hear a faint whistle. A cheer and the sound of a scooter horn, blaring in rapid succession. They’re all muted noise. My only focus is Theo’s chuckle, and how it mixes into a low groan from the back of his throat when I jump into his arms.
“If we win–” he murmurs, teeth nipping my bottom lip, “I’m fucking you in my truck after. Checking it off your happy list.”
“Deal.”
