Page 27 of Booked for the Holidays
Here she is, laying out another altruistic act. Heart full of gold. A smile that could bring peace to the most hurting souls. Ideas that can change the world. And she’s talking tome.
“What if the Book Bus were a regular school bus?” I ask. “It could pick kids up during the holidays and summer break from designated meeting spots and bring them here. It eliminates the need for relying on parents for transportation. It gets them to the store. You could do a rewards program, too. Come to five readings and earn a free book.”
I’m overstepping, I know. I shouldn’t be proposing any changes to her idea. There’s this incessant urge, though, to throw piles and piles of cash and books at Bridget’s feet, asking her what else she needs to be successful.
To be happy.
She spins on her stool. Her knee knocks against mine. The touch is a jolt straight up my spine, and I don’t bother to pull away. I’ve learned over the years pain makes me feel alive.
And I haven’t felt this invigorated in ages.
“Did you come up with that right now?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
Bridget’s hand moves from the keyboard to my forearm. Her fingers press into my muscles. She grins. Teeth. Pink cheeks. Joy. Admiration. “That’s incredible, Theo. You just gave me so many good ideas.”
I think my location and time of death might be here and now. Quiet Riot playing, leather material under my ass, words likebrilliantandincredibleringing in my ears, and her touch, the final nail in the coffin. The surrounding space feels warm, far too pleasant of a sensation for an evening in a bookstore.
“Thanks for sticking around for a bit,” she continues. I haven’t found my voice yet, too preoccupied by the unintentional drag of her fingernails over the stem of a sunflower—Mac’s favorite—on my arm, below my elbow. Sharp. Biting. Not hard enough. “I was wondering if you wanted to get everyone together on Monday and talk about logistics. It would put us right under six weeks out from the deadline. We could do introductions and stuff.”
“Yeah,” I finally say. “I’ll let them know. Do you want to meet here?”
“Sure. I can grab pizza for us. I had a theme idea for the contest. It’s kind of cheesy, but it might work. Home for the Holidays. I thought maybe everyone between the two stores could share a tradition that’s important to them. Does your family do anything fun for the holiday you celebrate?”
Do I tell her about the car accident? The one that left my mom in a wheelchair, unable to reach the mugs at the top of the counter because standing is impossible, so we just… stopped? Do I mention we do the bare minimum these days, an artificial tree a feeble attempt at Yuletide cheer? I take a minute to find my words. How much do I want to share? How much do I want her to see? What happens when she learns these parts of me?
There’s a pause in the music, the room becoming quiet as I say, “hot chocolate with marshmallows on top. In mugs with our names on them. That… that was our tradition.”
Her smile is secretive and beautiful as she moves her hand back to the keyboard, resuming her typing. “That sounds lovely.”
I jump off the stool and slink to the exit, recognizing the natural end in our conversation. I pull the door open, fresh air filling my lungs. Pausing in the threshold, I’m compelled to share one more thing, to let her know what’s been on my mind since I walked inside sometime ago. “I think I could get used to being around you, Bridget Boylston.”
She tosses her hair over her shoulder, brown waves floating down her back. She meets my gaze, eyes dancing in the dim glow of the room. “I’ve been used to you for a while now, Theo Gardner, but take your time catching up. I want you to be sure. Once you start, there’s no going back.”
On the walk to my truck, hands shoved deep in my pockets and a smile lingering on my lips, I replay those words.
I’m stupidly certain I don’t want to go back. I want to keep going forward.
I think I want her there, too.
TEN
BRIDGET
“Pepperoni and cheesepizzas are set up on the counter. Beer is in the cooler on the left. Soft drinks and water are in the one on the right. There’s a plate of cookies at the far end, too. Help yourself to whatever you like.”
A frenzy of hands and elbows answers me. I scoot out of the way, almost knocked over by the mad dash to the food. The noise in the bookstore fills to an electrifying volume, drowning out the holiday tunes I queued up earlier in the afternoon.
“You like to take care of people, huh?” Lucas asks, hanging back with me.
I’ve seen him in passing dozens of times as I go in and out of the store, always offering a wave and a smile as I hurry to other tasks. But I don’t know anything about him. In just the last five minutes, as he unloaded the steaming pizza boxes from my hands, I learned he loves mushrooms, lives alone, and is Ziggy’s new best friend, if dog slobber pooling in the cuff of his jeans is any indication.
“Guilty,” I admit, sheepishly.
“That’s not a bad thing. We all need someone to take care of us. Some people are just too proud to admit it.”
For not knowing me well, he certainly hit the nail on the head. The desire to make sure everyone in my life is comfortable and happy is at the core of my being. The trait is high on the list of characteristics past partners have found undesirable.
