Page 39 of Booked for the Holidays
“Hey,” Bridget calls out.
She’s gliding over to us. Her hands are on her hips—those hips will be the death of me—and she’s shaking her head, huffing in annoyance.
“Not fair,” she continues. “You two aren’t allowed to sit on the sidelines. This is a team bonding activity and you two aren’t bonding.”
“That’s not true. Maybe Theo and I are best friends now,” Chandler points out.
“Yeah, and hell has frozen over.” Bridget leans over the barrier, extending her hand toward me. Her fingers wiggle in my direction and I shake my head.
“No,” I say. “I’m done. There’s a welt in the shape of California on my ass. I’ve grown gray hair.”
“You wouldn’t look bad with gray hair,” Chandler adds.
“Stop it. You’re freaking me out.”
“Come on!” Bridget says.
“Nope.”
Her mouth forms a pout and her bottom lip juts out. “Please?”
Oh, fuck.
The word threatens to obliterate every grain of intelligence I thought I had. I stare at her and my pulse quickens.
It’s not like she’s dropping to her knees and staring up at me—again—and asking me to take her or begging for more, more, more. There’s nothing special about the six letters. Pieced together with bright eyes, full, pink lips, and half her ponytail coming undone, it’s enough to make even the strongest man crumble.
And I’m weak as shit.
“Fine,” I relent. I act like it’s a chore, a bother to stand when I’m doing my best to not spring to my feet.
I trudge back toward the ice. I expect Bridget to drop her hand and turn away, leaving me to fend for myself while she rejoins a group of friends. She doesn’t, though. She waits until I’m within reach. When I am, her palm slips into mine, soft and smooth, and squeezes once.
“Doing okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. My skate finds the ice again. “I’m good.”
“Good. Ready to have a little bit of fun?” Bridget tugs me along, picking up our pace, hand never leaving mine.
Funis an activity that’s become unfamiliar. I purposely avoid anything entertaining in life, bogged down by personal and professional commitments. If I’m not at work, I’m shuttling Mac to and from soccer practice or helping with homework. If I’m not with her, I’m answering emails, counting inventory and making sure our advertisements are running smoothly and efficiently.
I’ve shunned the things that used to make me smile and laugh, putting everyone first and ignoring whatImight want to do. What bringsmejoy. Hell, these days I have a hard time even knowing what that joy might be.
Cautiously, I lean into it. I accept my surroundings, letting them pulse through me. I shove away pesky responsibilities and savor the here and now.
The music thumping around me, a combination of a traditional festive song paired with some electric dance soundtrack. The smell of nachos and hot chocolate in the air. Strands of Christmas lights fixed around the edge of the rink, flashing from red to blue to green. Bridget’s thumb against the back of my palm. A kind smile.
It’s an incredible feeling, one I’ve forgotten for many years.
Maybe there’s hope for me.
“First time out of the house in a while?” she asks as we glide along.
“Yeah,” I admit. “My usual socialization is with Mac or my two best friends at a restaurant over beer. This is a whole new ball game.”
“And?” Bridget presses. “Thoughts so far?”
“I don’t hate it. It’s nice.”
