Page 60 of Booked for the Holidays
I toss her clothes in the machine and stalk toward my bedroom, sorting through my dresser to find her something to wear. A pair of shorts. A T-shirt I haven’t worn in five years. Subtle, non-incriminating attire that will make her look like she’s getting ready for the gym and not obliterate my brain cells. I knock on the bathroom door, waiting for Bridget to answer.
“Yeah?” she calls out.
“I have some clothes for you.”
“You can come in!”
I push open the door, grateful for the steam engulfing me. My glasses fog and I can’t see, vision obstructed by condensation. It’s a good thing, really, the water cycle. The less I see, the less I’ll imagine. The less I’ll picture myself in the shower with her. Falling to my knees as my hands run up her thighs. Water in my hair. Her hands on my shoulders. A moan, long and low,satisfied, in the air.
“Yours should be done soon.”
“Thanks, Theo.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me through the shower curtain—thankfuckfor a shower curtain—and head toward the safe haven of my kitchen. I open the fridge, find the crockpot leftovers of the white bean chili I made last night and pour a heaping serving into a bowl. Popping it in the microwave, I set a timer and lean against the granite island in the center of the room. I scroll through my phone while I wait.
A message from Lucas on his day off, asking if everything was okay at the store. A text from Mac, letting me know she’s going to a friend's house for dinner and she’ll call me later.
“Whatcha making?”
My neck jerks up at the sound filling the room. Bridget is standing on the opposite side of the island. Her hair is still wet, clinging to her neck and shoulders. Her face, though, looks bright. More full, the color returning to her cheeks. She’s smiling, a wide grin stretching over her lips. I deflate at the sight. My eyes move down, away from her face, and I have to hold the edge of the counter to keep from toppling over.
I knew I handed her my clothes to wear, but seeing them on her body is pure fucking torture. A combination of both a heaven and a hell I never knew imaginable.
The black shirt is long, faded, and hanging well past her waist. The shorts she has on are baggy, a pair from my days as an athlete, hitting above her knees. Most of her skin is covered, fabric hiding her shape. Hell, I can see less of her body now than when she was wearing that soaked dress, the wet material almost sheer.
It’s difficult to breathe again. I’m staring at this woman, gawking at her like she’s a mirage. An image I’ve constructed in my head.
Seeing my store’s name—my fucking name—across her chest is debilitating. I think I’ve been knocked out with a concrete block. It’s as if the lightning outside struck me, electrocuting my nerve endings.
I blink, realizing she’s waiting for me to answer the question she asked more than a minute ago, and I run a hand through my hair. “Soup. Or, chili, more specifically. I thought, uh, it might help warm you up. Are you hungry?”
“Yeah.” Her smile widens. “I could eat.”
“Okay. Cool.”
Monosyllabic sentences are my best bet right now, afraid of turning into a blubbering idiot who’s never spoken before. The timer on the microwave dings, saving me from humiliating myself any further. I dive for the appliance, grabbing the scalding porcelain bowl and nearly dropping it to the floor.
“Fuck,” I groan, setting the dish on the counter. “That hurt.” Small welts form on my fingertips.
“No shit. It came out of the microwave, you numpty.”
Bridget saunters over to me with a sinister swish of her hips. She bumps me out of the way. Then, she pulls me toward the sink.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“As someone who’s frequently burning their hands on glass dishes from the oven, a few seconds under cool water will stop any blistering.”
She rolls up my sleeve and turns on the faucet. Her fingers curl around my wrist, gently guiding me to the water. When she leans over, I inhale, her scents cloaking me.
She smells like all the wonderful, nice things in life.
Cake. Vanilla. Coffee. Summer nights. Fall days. Piles of leaves. Three scoops of chocolate chip ice cream. Laughing in the rain. Sunbathing. Open fields. Bonfires. Flowers. All things I've ever enjoyed, summed up in human form.
“Where’s Mac?” she asks.
“At a friend’s house. Normally she’s with my parents after school until I finish work or at soccer practice.”
“That’s nice you have help.” Bridget grabs a dish towel and hands it to me.
