Page 7 of Booked for the Holidays
“I don’t know, B. The only takeaway from this is youhaveto be at that meeting. It’s going to be important.”
“As long as I don’t have to sit through an hour-long discussion on the size of flower beds, I’ll consider it a success.”
“Text me the minute you know what’s going on. I don’t care if I don’t have service. I’ll hold my phone above my head on the side of a mountain if I need to.”
“I highly doubt it’s going to bethatimportant, Chan, but I will. I promise.”
THREE
THEO
I’m notsure who I’ve pissed off in life–plenty of people, I assume–but running late for an event I do not want to go to is torture.
I’m not in the mood to be surrounded by chatty business owners who keep their shop doors propped open with rocks reciting inspirational quotes,Live, Laugh, Loveetched on the sandstone. They’re the same people who greet patrons like they’re long-lost friends, offering a bottle of water and a bowl of chocolate candy as rewards for spending lots of money.
Kiss-asses.
I stop at an intersection, impatiently tapping my foot as I wait to cross the road. The faster I get to this damn meeting, the faster I can get home. And,fuck, I want to go home. Having an gathering sprung on me when I was halfway out the door was not an ideal way to end my day. I was dreaming about the beer I was going to crack open and the steak waiting for me when a flyer got shoved in my hand by a passing pedestrian who didn’t offer any insight into the cryptic event. With the rest of my team clocked out and heading to their cars, I knew the responsibility of attendance would fall to me.
Others whisper about me behind my back enough. I don’t need to give them more ammunition, so I step off the curb and continue on my way, a scowl on my face and disdain boiling in my blood.
“Oh. Hey, Theo,” someone says.
I reluctantly look to the right and find I’ve fallen in step with Bridget Boylston. Her voice is light and airy, like a wisp of long-awaited autumn breeze. The free hand not occupied by a dog leash waves in my direction, greeting me like we’re best friends. Her companion, a medium-size dog with a light brown coat–the same one who roams around her store–sniffs my leg and wags his tail.
Dozens of adjectives pop into my mind when I think about the pastry-making, book-loving brunette by my side.
Bubbly. Lively. Perky. Sparkling. Kind.
Really happy, all the damn time.
Even now she’s smiling, not a glimmer of annoyance to be found.
Seeing her brings back the memory of Wednesday. The whole morning was bizarre. Me, apologizing for wrongly calling out her tardiness. Her, offering to cook me an egg sandwich.
Who offers to cook someone a random meal, unprovoked?
Bridget Boylston, apparently.
The dark circles under my eyes were probably a dead giveaway to my state of exhaustion, fatigue now a permanent fixture on my face. When I trudged back to my office, I realized she had given me a large drink instead of the usual medium I order. A small gesture, it threw me off balance and I was swept away by her thoughtfulness.
The sucker punch to my gut was the extra dash of cinnamon I know she sprinkles in the beverage on my behalf. She’s done it every time since I offhandedly mentioned liking the flavor a couple years ago.
For a second, everything felt manageable.
For a second, everything was brighter.
For a second, I couldbreathe.
“Are you excited for the meeting?” Bridget continues, engaging in a one-sided conversation I’ve yet to participate in.
She’s either ignoring myI really don’t want to talk to youglare, or she’s oblivious as hell. Anyone else on the end of that look normally mumbles an apology and leaves me blessedly alone.
Because that’s my thing, I guess.
People leave me. They never stick around.
Bridget Boylston has other plans, it seems.
