Page 78 of Booked for the Holidays
“If you aren’t going to ask us questions about the competition, like how many lights we’re using, what our theme is, or the best way to make hot chocolate, perhaps we should reschedule the remainder of this interview with someone whoisinterested in doing the job correctly,” Bridget says.
Lisa—shit, Lindsey—clears her throat. Her cheeks are pink and she looks mortified by the chastising. “My apologies. What a wonderful question. Theo, how do you prefer your hot chocolate?”
I look over at Bridget and smile. “Always made with milk, not water. Topped with marshmallows. Bridget here hates them.”
“Because they are disgusting,” she emphasizes.
The interviewer jots a few notes down. “And Theo, how do you feel about the theme your teams are doing? Home for the Holidays, correct?”
“That’s right. I’m excited,” I answer honestly. “It gives all of our staff members a chance to be involved, and they’ve also all loved adding personal touches to the decorations. I was hesitant about the contest as a whole in the beginning, but Bridget’s plans have been easily manageable and fun to contribute to.”
“This question is for both of you. What’s been your favorite Christmas gift you’ve ever received?”
“A Barbie Jeep when I was a kid,” Bridget says. “I loved that thing.”
“My favorite material item would be a bike I got when I was ten. It had flames on the side. My favorite non-material item would be taking on a new title and role I never expected, and feeling immensely grateful for every step along the journey.”
“Lovely. Why don’t we move to the photo portion of the day?”
“What kind of photos are y’all planning on taking?” Bridget asks.
“We figured we’d do two sets. One here, then another in the hardware store. The photos over there will have the employees in it, too.”
“Sounds easy enough. What are the photos going to be of?” I ask.
“We’re going to have you two making brownies.”
“I am not making brownies,” I chuckle. An apron hits my face at the end of the sentence. I pull the fabric away to find the front is covered with dogs wearing sunglasses.
“Nice try, Gardner. Come on.” Bridget inclines her head to the counter set up with an assembly line of bowls and ingredients.
I heave a sigh and reel in the comment I want to make, because I know I'm going to stand up. I know I'm going to follow her to the counter. I know I'm going to tie this damn apron around my waist, and I know I'm going to make brownies by her side, doing my best to not care about how much she lights up at the sight of damn chocolate chips.
THIRTY
BRIDGET
“You’re making a mess,”Theo observes from my left. He’s working diligently, whisking the eggs. His attention is laser-focused on the mixing bowl and the rhythmic circles he’s drawing in the batter.
He’s not wrong. Melted butter covers the countertop. A dusting of salt has accumulated on the floor, looking like freshly fallen snow. Sugar lines the metal farmhouse sink, granulated grains sticking to the lip of the basin. It’s a disaster zone I can’t wait to clean up.
“Shh,” I answer. The shared space seems smaller with his body compared to Chandler’s frame I’m used to dancing around, and my hip accidentally bumps his. We’ve migrated closer as we follow the recipe I picked out for us, doing our best to ignore the dozen cameras clicking away. They’re taking photos, directing us when to move on to the next step, how to angle our chins so we fit in the frame. It’s a bunch of professional lingo I’m clueless about, and I nod when they ask us to hold a position for several seconds, lens shutters filling the lulls in conversation.
“They could’ve used statues instead of us,” he whispers. “Probably would have been more effective.”
I snort, bumping his hip again. This time, it’s intentional. “Are you ready to add the chocolate?”
“Bridget, I’m flying by the seat of my pants. I thought we were supposed to add the chocolate six ingredients ago.”
A laugh tumbles out of me. I went with a foolproof recipe, one that’s impossible to mess up. As he tied his apron in a secure double knot, Theo admitted he’s never baked cookies, and certainly not brownies.
Pop-Tarts are the closest he’s gotten to being a pastry chef.
I steal a look at him, wanting to make sure he’s not overwhelmed. I grin at what I find. There’s baking soda on his face, sticking to his cheekbones. Flour, somehow, has also made its way to his forehead. He’s staring at the mixing bowl, determined to get every single detail correct.
He’s an all-in kind of guy, I’ve learned. When Theo commits to something, he commits fully. It’s with vigor, doing whatever it takes to complete the task at hand to the best of his ability. The sight of him now, a little unhinged, borderline not-put-together, out of his element, is sexy as hell.
“Chocolate it is,” I say. I reach past him to grab the cocoa powder. As I stretch, my chest grazes his arm. His grip on the whisk wavers. The metal object clanks loudly against the bowl, jarring and magnified.
