Page 68 of Booked for the Holidays
“Do you want to come to Thanksgiving at my house?”
Her lips part at the switch in topics, and no words come out. She stares at me, eyes uncertain about my ask, but I see a tentative excitement sprouting in the green. “Is this an invitation or an open-ended question you want my opinion on?”
I chuckle and shift on the stool so my leg presses against hers. My hand drops to her knee, touching the bare skin there. “Let me try again. Spend Thanksgiving with me, Bridget. With us. You shouldn’t be alone. Bring Ziggy. There will be plenty of food. I’d like you there with us.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure about anything.”
“Okay.” Her nervous smile transforms, the happy grin I’ve seen so many times taking its place. “I’ll come to Thanksgiving. What should I bring? What time should I get there?”
“How about pumpkin pie and eleven a.m.? We’ll handle the rest.”
“Okay,” she repeats, nodding her head. “Pumpkin pie. Eleven a.m. I’ll be there.”
My hand lingers, giving her a squeeze, then dropping away. “I can’t wait.”
TWENTY-SIX
THEO
I’mthe epitome of a nervous wreck.
Look up the term in the dictionary and you’ll find a photo of me checking my watch every ten seconds and pacing the foyer of my parents’ home.
Mac is sitting on the couch in the living room, swinging her legs back and forth as she relaxes on the cushions. She looks up from her phone every two minutes to give me a shit-eating grin. My dad is in the kitchen, grumbling under his breath about the inconsistency of meat thermometers. My mom looks like she wants to ask me five hundred questions but decides to get the potatoes ready for peeling instead, holding off on the interrogation I know she’s planning in her head.
A car door slams and I look out the front window. Bridget’s walking up the brick path to the front door, holding Ziggy’s leash and a glass pan. A bottle of wine is tucked under one arm, and a bouquet of flowers is under the other.
She knocks and I count to five before I open the door, doing my best to not pull the wood off the hinges.
“Hey,” I say casually.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” she answers, beaming at me.
“Happy Thanksgiving to you, too, Boylston. You look great.”
She’s wearing a corduroy dress and it might be the most problematic article clothing I’ve ever seen her in. It’s a deep shade of purple paired with a black turtleneck, I can already tell how well the material shows off her curves. Doc Martens are on her feet and black tights cover her legs.
Yeah, she looks fucking stunning.
“So do you, Gardner. New shirt?” She gestures to the plain white tee I’m wearing with a smirk on her face. “Haven’t seen it before.”
I roll my eyes and wave her inside. “Your jokes are falling flat. Come on in.”
“Wow,” she breathes out, surveying the high ceilings of the foyer. “This house is stunning.”
“My grandfather built it for my grandmother,” I say, shutting the door behind her. “Impressive, huh?”
“Very, very impressive. Is it okay if I let Ziggy off his leash? I don’t want him to break a vase.”
“Totally fine.”
Bridget unhooks her dog, and he bounds over to the couch.
“Hey, BB!” Mac says, giving a wave. She presses a kiss to Ziggy’s nose. “Hi, Zig.”
“Mac and Cheese! Happy Thanksgiving.”
