Page 21 of Booked for the Holidays
I scowl and launch a red pen at his back. I throw a middle finger up for good measure as he leaves me alone to think about…
Her.
The irritation from earlier lessens, chilling to hesitant excitement.
I let myself picture a life full of hope. Good tidings and cheer. The things I so desperately wanted all those years ago. The desire, the imagination never fully dissipating. It’s always been there, waiting in the shadows for an opportunity to exist without burden or pain. Only joy.
The positivity–and the shift in my thinking–is brought on by the brunette next door. Her warm smile, encouraging eyes. That goddamn mouth and the way she looks at me not like I’m someone to toss to the side, but like I’m someone to keep around.
No one’s looked at me like that for a long time.
I’m a glutton for punishment, I guess, because I don’t hate the daydreams.
“Not my woman,” I grumble to the empty room. “Not my anything.”
She is pretty, though. Lucas got that part right.
I think I might have known that for a while.
EIGHT
THEO
I’m pathetic.
I’ve prioritized pointless tasks all day, going out of my way to do anything but have a conversation with Bridget.
I reorganize my file folders from alphabetical order to color-coordinated. I text Mac and ask for her Christmas list, not understanding what half the items are that she sends back. I schedule a tattoo appointment for the end of December, scratching an itch I have to add another piece to my body. A soccer ball, I think, in honor of Mac’s favorite sport.
At six on the dot, I trek next door, shuffling my feet the ten steps down the sidewalk until I reach the entrance to the bookstore. After a grumble, a sigh and three minutes of loitering on the pavement, I pull open the front door, wood slamming shut behind me.
“Hello?” My voice carries through the empty room and I stride toward the counter, our usual meeting spot. As I pass the nonfiction section, I freeze. Bridget’s tucked away between two waist-high shelves topped with paper Christmas trees and dreidels.
Her back is turned toward me, large, black headphones covering her ears. She’s bopping along to a song I can’t hear. I wonder if it’s Bowie. Maybe The Clash? There’s a pep in her step as she puts a book in place, briefly pausing her work to play an invisible air guitar. I lean against a recliner to my right and watch her, selfishly indulging, just for a second.
How can I not?
She’s mesmerizing.
Free. Long limbs, fluid movements. Cheeks with splotches of color. Her hair catches in the fading sunlight, a cross between melted milk chocolate and a spiraling tornado. She glides over the floor effortlessly. Her hips wiggle in her jeans, denim hugging her ass in a way that leaves little to the imagination. Tight around the globes of her backside, I can see the creases of her cheeks before they fan out further down, looser around her calves.
I want to feel the material under my palm as I run my hand up the inside of her thigh. Play with the stitching as I graze higher and higher toward the zipper, tugging it down while she watches with a content–and satisfied–smile on her face.
Her eyes are closed and her chest bounces as she spins, the tiny straps of her pink tank top doing little to conceal her breasts. She circles around, around, and around, not a care in the goddamn world.
She’s pretty, yeah, but this woman is also sexy as hell in a sneaky way that could get me in trouble. Soft curves, smooth lines. And when she bends over to grab something off the floor, I almost combust at how badly I want to sink my fingers into her flesh, littering her skin with little pink marks.
I haven’t been with a woman in… Shit. Three years? Or is it four? Time moves faster the older I get. The lack of physical interaction is catching up to me; I’m half tempted to drag her up to the counter, pull her ass to the edge, and bury my head between her thighs while her legs wrap around my neck.
Does she smile when she comes? Does she let out a little giggle, a breathy moan when she’s touched in just the right spot? What’s her favorite part of her body? Does she know she has a patch of freckles on her left shoulder? Could those jeans be any tighter?
And thatass.
I want to drop to my knees and worship it.
I want to make her dinner, too.
My mind works on overdrive and I slam the heel of my palm against my forehead, determined to dispel the image of her naked. I know I’m not supposed to, I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it.
