Page 36 of Booked for the Holidays
I’m grateful he’s walking toward the exit.
I’m grateful he’s about to stroll outside, far, far away from here.
That was…
Hot.
Electrifying. For a second, nothing existed but him and me, the only two left on earth. No other sounds. No other sights.
Just…
Us.
“All good with the asshole?” Chandler asks, appearing by my side.
“Yeah. Just a… a misunderstanding. He apologized for being a dick.”
“The never ending cycle.” She laughs. “It’s interesting, though.”
“What’s interesting?”
“The way Theo looked at you. Like you were a bite of food and he was a man starved.”
I gape at her as she walks away with a wink.
I wouldn’t be opposed to getting on my knees for you.
The declaration rings in my ears. It’s magnified, repetitive. I grab another flute of champagne and chug the contents, using the alcohol to try and soothe the ache he left behind.
FOURTEEN
THEO
“I cannot believeI’m doing this.” I drop to an empty bench. The ice skates in my hands hit the rubber floor, bouncing and rolling precariously close to my toes.
“You aren’t excited?” Bridget asks.
She sits next to me, working expertly to lace up and tie two perfect knots with far more finesse than someone living in Florida should have. She adjusts the hem of her pants and stands, giving me a quizzical look.
“I don’t know how to skate, given I’ve lived in this godforsaken state for four decades.”
“I knew you were over forty! Damn, we should have made a betting pool.”
“Forty-one,” I grumble. “And I feel it every damn day.” I kick off my work boots and slide into the death traps. “Good thing I already have a will signed.” The skate is warm around my foot, and moisture clings to the interior. Dampness seeps into my socks and I grimace, revolted. “For the record, this is disgusting.”
Bridget giggles and moves in front of me. She crouches between my parted thighs and looks up at me through a fan of eyelashes.Hell, that isnota position I need to see her in while I’m surrounded by small children and families. “Do you need me to hold your hand, Theo?”
Yes.
Maybe.
“I’m going to throttle Lucas for suggesting this in the first place. The fucker played hockey growing up, so he’s a pro on the ice. Selfish bastard.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah. For twelve years. He was offensive wing or whatever the fuck they call it.”
“Ah. Whatever the fuck is my favorite sports position.”
