Page 76 of Booked for the Holidays
“Yeah,” Theo says. His lips tip up and he shakes his head, like he’s regretfully pushing a thought away. “Shame. Maybe next time.”
Next time,I think. My belly swoops low. A new blush covers me. I nod, then dip my head.
“Guess we’ll find out,” I answer.
TWENTY-NINE
THEO
“This is stupid,”I say under my breath. “Really fucking stupid.”
“Will you stop fidgeting?” Lucas asks. Irritation is evident in his tone as he adjusts my collar, hands working out the creases in the starchy, stiff fabric. The button-up I’m wearing is far more constricting than my normal cotton shirts and flannels. My arms feel confined under full sleeves.
The interview and photoshoot withTravel Livinghave been a dreaded event from the second we agreed to join the competition. In early November, it seemed a lot further away. Something I could procrastinate worrying about, a date in the distant future that would be a problem for later.
Later, unfortunately, has finally caught up with me, and here we are. Kicking off the month of December with an interrogation and flashes of cameras, my scowl and pinched eyebrows splashed across the pages of a magazine for all of America to see.
“I’m still confused why people care. You’re telling me someone in bumfuck Michigan is going to be interested in a bookstore and hardware store in the middle of Florida? They couldn’t find Park Cove on a map if they tried.”
“Ah.” My friend chuckles and pats my cheek affectionately. “There’s the cynical man I know and love. Theo, have you ever looked at Bridget’s social media? Her store has hundreds of thousands of followers. Do you know how she got there? Someone posted about the shop online. Followers mean sales, man. It’s abigdeal to be featured. This magazine is read by a lot of people. Our online store sees minimal traffic. This article and exposure could—and should—bump up our revenue.”
“Why order from us when they could go to a big-name chain? And get it in half the time?”
“People always like supporting small businesses, especially during the holidays. It’s my job to look at the numbers, man. This can only be a good thing for us. So why don’t you tuck that frown away, smile like you love wearing a shirt buttoned to your chin, and have a good time?”
Lucas is right. Our revenue is fairly substantial; we’re the best business in the surrounding zip codes. People drive forty-five minutes from three towns over to visit our store because they know they’re not just getting a product thrown at them. They’re getting information and knowledge, questions answered. We take the time to explain things to each customer, not letting them feel like an idiot when they don’t know the differences between gas and electric lawnmowers.
Every year we pull in millions of dollars, but it’s not all income and cash flow. A portion goes to charity. We pay ten employees’ salaries, including healthcare and 401k contributions. Products have to be purchased for the store. Electricity, gas, and water need to be factored into the cost of running the store.
If he calculated the numbers and says this interview is a good idea, I believe him. At the end of the day, this article isn’t aboutme. It’s about the store, and the potential to give my staff a larger bonus. To hire an additional body to lighten everyone’s work load. It would be in my best interest to quit my complaining and plaster the fakest smile on my face, ready to share my feigned excitement for the holidays.
“Okay. Fine. You win. For the good of the store,” I relent. “I’m heading over. Wish me luck.”
With a clasp of my shoulder and a reassuring smile, Lucas nods. “You’re going to be fine, man. Take a deep breath.”
I offer him a terse nod and walk a few short paces to A Likely Story. At the glass I pause, peering through the snowflake covered window to assess the battlefield I’m about to walk into. There are large lights on stands, stretched toward the ceiling. White backdrops lean against shelves. A small group of people are pointing and gesturing to certain areas of the room.
The door to the shop swings open, and Bridget leans against the entryway.
She's wearing a black long sleeve shirt. Dark skinny jeans. On her feet are her black Converse. Her hair spills down her shoulders and on her lips is a bright smile.
Beautiful.The thought catches in my chest. A rumble. A shake. A shove away.
“Hey, Collector,” she says
Instantly, I feel better. The patches of dread and apprehension are still there, yeah. But somehow, with those two words and the sound of her voice, I’m more relaxed. I believe that maybe, possibly, I can tackle this.
“Hey, Brownie.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m nervous. You know I’m not great at talking to people. I despise being the center of attention. Now we’re combining the two and I’m a little anxious.”
I scuff my shoe against the concrete. I hear her walk over to me, and her palm lands on my forearm. It’s an action that’s becoming a regular occurrence. Like always, her touch grounds me. Reminds me to take a deep breath, then another, then another.
“Would it make you feel better to know I’m freaking out, too?” she says softly, and I bring my chin up.
“You are?” I scan her face, searching for any sign of uncertainty.
