Page 128 of Booked for the Holidays
“No,” she grumbles. Her arms cross over her chest and she leans back in the front seat of my truck. “A blindfold and earmuffs, though? People are going to think I’m in a cult.”
“Don’t worry. I covered all our bases.”
I spent weeks making calls and talking to people, explaining my plan andswearingthe woman with me isn’t being held against her will. It took a half a dozen trips to the airport, printed documentation and proof of identities until I finally got the airline onboard with my plan.
“It’s going to be weird not spending Christmas at the house,” Bridget sighs. “But change can be good, and I’m excited to see what you’re planning.”
I smile as my hand drops from her hair to her arm, thumb rubbing over the tattoos she got three months ago. Every time I see the shapes, I grin like an idiot, a fool hopelessly in love. On her right arm is a muffin, complete with blueberries and steam rising from the top of the inked pastry. On the left is a soccer ball, Mac’s jersey etched into one of the hexagons, proudly displaying the number four.
The agreement was I'd also get a piece of artwork done. So, I did.
A series of three paw prints on my shoulder, taking over the small sliver of space under my Bowie tattoo. And, the most special one I’ve gotten to date: a stack of books and a snow globe beneath a decorated Christmas tree, etched over my heart.
Bridget only cried twice when she saw them. When I walk around the house without a shirt on, she stops me in the hallway so her lips can press a kiss to my bare skin, reverently outlining the shape with her fingers. It’s funny to think about the girl in the park, at the town hall meeting where our love story originated. The one who was afraid to get anymore ink on her body now proudly wears a symbol attributed to me for all the world to see, the two of us forever linked in this lifetime and beyond.
It’s taken months of planning to attempt to pull this excursion off, and the next four hours are going to be the most difficult part. People are definitely going to stare. Between the bright pink earmuffs I purchased half-price at a thrift store, the cheetah blindfold (a gift from Bridget last Christmas that’s been put to good use), and the obnoxious yellow shirt she’s wearing that says:I’m going to see snow for the first time and I have no idea, please don’t ruin it Chandler it sounds stupid we need to pick something elseplastered on the front and back of the cotton, we’re going to be the object of everyone’s attention.
There was an obvious miscommunication with the printing company.
We bought a house together ten months ago. It’s a ranch-style home on the outskirts of Park Cove, sitting on seven acres of land. Outside the back windows is a forest of trees and we watch the sun rise over a cluster of live oaks every morning, a chorus of birds greeting us with their wake-up songs. A wooden fence runs along the perimeter of our property line, a haven for Ziggy and his new friends to freely roam.
The first thing we did after we picked up the keys was head to the local shelter where we adopted two dogs. Add in a rambunctious teenager who has more energy than any human should, and it’s practically a zoo.
Bridget as a parental figure is… amazing. She fell into the role easily, setting a firm boundary between her and Mac’s friendship and an adult who scolds and praises. She helps with homework but also encourages Mac to problem-solve for herself. We’ve talked about more kids, maybe, but nothing in great detail. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, I’m still the luckiest bastard to walk the earth, the two greatest women by my side.
Business got out of hand when the holiday competition wrapped up, and exploded further when we sat down for an additional interview withTravel Living. I hired eight new employees after the features in the magazine brought an influx of customers from outside our city limits. We package and ship out hundreds of orders a day, nearly doubling our revenue in just a year. With Lucas’s pestering and my staff’s encouragement, I started doing a weekly video on our social media page, explaining how to do basic projects around the house.
Bridget cracks up at the comments.
In a crazy turn of events, we knocked down the shared wall between Gardner’s Hardware and A Likely Story. It made sense; all our employees kept running back and forth between the two shops to socialize, and the demolition awarded us significant floor space to set up displays and demonstration tables. Plus, it gives me more opportunities to spend time with Bridget, sitting on the couch in her office and watching while she debates which book cover she likes best.
Bridget is working on securing a Book Bus of some sort. She implemented the Little Free Libraries throughout the neighboring towns and visits them twice a month to make sure they are fully stocked.
Mac is in high school and thriving. She made the varsity soccer team and splits her free time between reading in the library Bridget designed in our house, and hanging out with friends, rolling her eyes when we–I, really, because Bridget always falls for the pouty lips and doe eyes–remind her of her curfew.
My parents are doing well, and Mom took her first steps since the accident three months ago. It’s been an extensive physical journey for her, and it’s encouraging to see even small improvements. Therapy is still a weekly occurrence for me, and I’ve let go of the animosity and guilt I’ve held onto for years. I met Bridget’s parents and siblings, and learned exactly where she got her zest for life and vivacious energy. Her family is bright and welcoming, treating Mac and me like we’ve been around for decades instead of only two years.
It’s stupid and cheesy as hell, but I’ve never been happier. The days before the accident were never thisgood, and I’m constantly questioning how my ass wound up trading the scowls for smiles, grinning from ear to ear every morning I wake up with the beautiful brunette in my arms.
“Can I make a guess?” she asks.
“Nope. I’ll warn you, though, it’s going to be a couple hours until you find out.”
“Hours? Are you out of your mind?”
“I’ll give you one hint. It involves an airplane.”
* * *
The airport isa total shit show. I picked the worst day for us to travel. Thousands of people are flying out for the holidays, eager to get to their loved ones in different states. Hundreds of families are heading home from their theme park and beach vacations, shoulders weighed down by heavy bags of souvenirs that will end up in a coat closet sooner rather than later. When we finally make it through security and onto the plane, I breathe my first sigh of relief in hours. My head drops against the leather seat, enjoying a brief moment of peace.
A buzz in my pocket breaks the solitude and I dig my phone out of the denim. My free hand rests on Bridget’s thigh, fingers drumming against the corduroy of her pants.
Mac: Dad are you on your way? We’re in the car!
Chandler: I need someone else to get here. Lucas is driving me up a wall.
Lucas: You know I’m in this group chat too, right? And sitting two feet away from you.
