Page 52 of Booked for the Holidays
“Glad to know I’m not reaching for the stars. Now it’s your turn. Tell me what would makeyouhappy.”
“This,” I say earnestly. “This makes me happy, Bridget.”
Bridget laughs, light and gentle, slicing through the quiet of the night. “This makes me happy too, Theo. Really stinking happy.”
As she stands from the bench and offers me a hand, salt from the French fries sticking to my palm, and a smile on her face, I think this might be one of the best nights of my life.
TWENTY
BRIDGET
Untangling Christmas lightsis not how I thought I’d be spending my afternoon.
My back hurts from uncoiling the strands welded together from a year of sitting unused in my attic. Colored lights. White lights. A few bags of blue, too, my dad bought for me as a joke. They’ve taken up residency across the coffee counter, an array of bulbs stretching from end to end. I let out a groan as I roll my head from side to side.
We’re doing another group event tonight—a holiday movie in the park put on by the city. This time of year, they set up a large screen and roll the free films for anyone who wants some merry cinematic cheer. When Bradley asked whatNational Lampoon’s Christmas Vacationwas, Malik declared our next get-together would be a night of festive cultural appreciation for one of the best holiday movies ever produced.
Business has been slow today. We’re inching toward Thanksgiving, and family is taking precedence out of strolling down the avenue or shopping. The stillness of the room is a nice break from having a line out the door of folks waiting for lattes and cookies. I love being busy and find time passes quickly when I’m slinging cups and plates as humanly possible and giving book recommendations as I restock the depleted shelves. Between the contest, decorating, work, spending time with the hardware store employees, sleeping andTheo, though, I’m feeling like I can’t catch my breath.
“Goddammit.”
The curse causes me to look up. Theo’s standing in the threshold of the shop like I manifested him, angling his head to avoid a shower of green pine needles landing in his hair. A large Christmas tree is on one hand. There’s dirt on his forehead. A scowl on his face. A tear in his shirt.
Despite his disheveled appearance, I grin. I haven’t seen him since the Christmas tree lot, the hours we spent together ingrained in my memory. Him, asking what makes me happy and the words that spilled out, as if he could be the one to make them happen. Me, nestling into his palm as he wiped away a pesky tear that escaped from his honest admission of being Mac’s dad.
It’s like that every time with him, I’ve learned. My heart trips, stumbling and fumbling with every touch. My smile grows when I see him, and stretches wider when I seehimhappy, eager to hear what he has to say. When his breath grazes my skin, my brain short circuits and goosebumps erupt in its wake. Everything is magnified, senses and emotions heightened when he’s near.
I haven’t been able to get him out of my head.
Last night when I was in bed, I let my hand drift up my thigh. It dipped under my sleep shorts and teased over my underwear. My back arched as I thought about being over his shoulder, the heat in his eyes and the drag of his fingers. The warmth of his palm. How I was so close to him, I could have kissed him if I wanted to. In his car, behind the row of trees, on the plastic bench with a burger in my hand. Hell, Ireallywanted to. I wanted his lips on mine, devouring me, possessing me, controlling me.
He wasn’t even trying to get me worked up, and I was almost panting with need. How destructive would he be if he gave an ounce of effort?
He’d probably be my ultimate ruin, one I’d gladly welcome.
“Where do you want this behemoth? It didn’t feel the heavy when we loaded it into the truck on Saturday.”
Theo’s question pulls me away from the daydream of sheets pooled around his waist. My leg hooked over his. Sunrise sneaking through the windows as he looks at me from above, a reverent, lustful gleam in his eyes. Still waking up, still a little delirious, but already knowing how badly he wants me, hands tickling my waist as he buries his face in my chest.
I blink and shake my head, gesturing to the open spot I created earlier in the day.
“Let’s put it over here. Do you need any help?”
“I walked with it for five minutes by myself. I think I can survive ten more seconds.” He lifts the tree by the stump, heading toward the pre-positioned stand and setting it inside. “Is it straight?”
“No. It needs to go to your right. No. The other right, Theo. Okay, there.”
“Kind hard to move it when I have sap in my eyes and can’t see,” he grumbles.
I hold back my chuckle, knowing laughing at his misery would probably spook the hell out of him. I walk over and grip the interior of the tree. “Are you coming to the movie tonight?”
When he doesn’t answer, I look down to find him on all fours, head hidden by branches as he works. Through his white shirt—no flannel again today—his muscles are visible, contorting and flexing with physical exertion. His body is probably in prime condition from hours of working with his hands. His arms, constructing and building, and his chest, chiseled and toned. His stomach, sharp lines and masculine definition. I exhale a breath, flares of heat scorching me from the inside out.
“Yeah,” he finally responds with a muffled voice. “I am. I’m also bringing Mac.”
“You are?”
I must sound surprised, because he leans back on his shins and stares up at me. The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, threatening to slip beyond the horizon. Gold hour casts shades of red and yellow and orange through the front window like stained glass prisms, covering the room and Theo in an unearthly glow.
