Page 15 of Booked for the Holidays
“My vibrator works just fine, thanks.”
“Amen to that. Alright, time for me to head home, Picasso. Are you good until Brooke gets in after class?”
Chandler wipes her hands on her apron and unties it from her waist. She takes the early shifts on Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays while I take Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, alternating who gets up with the sun and who gets to sleep in.
I wave her off. “Totally fine.”
“Stick to brownies. The horrific drawings of chairs are close to rock bottom,” she calls over her shoulder, leaving me alone.
I grin and listen to her advice, grabbing the piping tube waiting for me. The brownies–double fudge with walnuts–were pulled out of the oven an hour ago, sufficiently cooled and ready for the homemade buttercream frosting I whipped up last night.
Some of my earliest memories involve books. The Scholastic Book Fair I looked forward to at school every year. The Accelerated Reader tests I passed with flying colors in fourth grade, winning pizza parties for my class. Attending midnight launch parties at Borders for my favorite new releases. Writing fan fiction online and scouring message boards, hypothesizing what might happen to a beloved favorite character. I’ve fallen in love with hundreds of fictional men and traversed through dozens of fantasy realms, imagining myself wielding a sword.
Baking, however, is a more recent hobby that came to me after a breakup in college. I had been dating the guy for two years, my first serious relationship. Young love. Adoring eyes and a thriving sex life. The pathetic assumption you’ll be together forever. The naivety of believing we would never experience heartache.
Until I found out he was cheating on me.
A week of tissues and tears later, I crawled out of bed, yelled “fuck him!” then made my first batch of cookies as a coping mechanism. I also started going to therapy, but pastries are more fun to talk about.
Baking is cathartic to me. I like to study a recipe and figure out ways to alter it and make it better. I like to work with my hands, preferring to stand over an oven rather than sit behind a desk in a skyscraper towering over the city. I like watching people try my creations for the first time, and experience joy when they devour them, leaving nothing but crumbs behind.
Fusing my two passions together has been a literal dream come true, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t need promotions or an office with my name on the glass. Give me a stack of books, some flour, chocolate and a whisk, and I’ll be content until the end of time.
The bells chime above the door and interrupt my work. I look up and am surprised to find Theo approaching me. A young girl walks beside him as they make their way to the counter. I put the piping bag down and give the pair a smile.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” answers Theo. It’s curt, more so than normal, nerves and discomfort hedged behind the salutation.
My eyes wander to the lanky girl with light blonde hair. She can’t be more than an early teenager, if I had to guess. Her head inclines to the side, and she offers me a grin.
“You’re pretty,” she says. It’s a matter-of-fact statement, not an opinion that’s up for debate. Her elbow jabs Theo’s side, below his ribs, and he flinches slightly.
“Bridget.”
My name is silky and commanding coming from his mouth, a polite ask mingled with a determined demand.
“Yes?” I answer. The syllable is shaky, uneven.
“I’d like you to meet Mackenzie.” A pause, a clearing of his throat. A splash of red on the tips of his ears. “My daughter.”
SIX
BRIDGET
“Your daughter,”I repeat, weighing the word.
“My daughter.”
“You have a daughter. And this is her.”
“Yup.” Amusement laces the confirmation, followed by the upward tip of his lips. Relief, it seems, at sharing the news.
The resemblance between the two is uncanny.
Mackenzie has Theo’s cheeks. There’s a mischievous tinge of joy to the dark brown of her eyes, making them a shade lighter than her father’s. Her mouth quirks up to the right, too, just like his. She has the same nose wrinkles when she smiles, and her body has the same tall stature, arms crossed over her chest.
Holyshit.
