Page 83 of Booked for the Holidays
THEO
It’s10:30 in the morning and I haven’t been to my office. By now, I’m normally knee deep in paperwork, sorting through shipment tracking and counting inventory.
Not today.
I’ve yet to step foot inside my building, running hours behind schedule. Lucas sent me a dozen messages asking if I was alive.
I’m not sure I am.
My eyes are so bloodshot, it’s a miracle no one’s administered a sobriety test. I didn’t have time to shave and coarse stubble pricks my palm every time I run my hand over my jaw. Three cups of coffee are doing little to keep me upright and I feel dead on my feet.
Instead of heading for our stockroom, I make a hard left, stopping outside A Likely Story. I pause before walking in. There’s a question I need to ask, and I really don’t want to. Gathering a slice of courage, I push the door open and walk toward the counter. Chandler’s there, finishing the topping for a drink. She slides it to the far side of the coffee area for someone to pick it up.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Chandler asks.
“Uh.” I rub the back of my neck. “Is Bridget in?”
She blinks. Stopping by close to lunchtime isn’t something I’ve ever done before. Eyeing me suspiciously she crosses her arms over her chest. “She’s grabbing something from the back.”
“You’re here well past your usual time,” Greta comments from a stool on the opposite end of the bar. She doesn’t bother to look up from the magazine she’s flipping through, wrinkled hands turning the glossy pages.
“Late start,” I grunt.
I’m not about to tell these women Mac woke me up in the middle of the night, panicking because she got her first period. I drove around for an hour, looking for a 24-hour pharmacy before finally finding what she needed. I snoozed my alarm, she missed the bus, and now my routine isallfucked up.
Mac didn’t want to talk about what happened. She hid her face in her hands while I awkwardly shared articles I found from the internet, feeling woefully unprepared for the conversation. When I dropped her off at school and asked if she was okay, the car door slammed in my face. My texts have been ignored, and I think I’ve fucked up.
I slide onto the leather stool at the end of the bar. The seat has grown familiar to me since I first sat in it a handful of weeks ago, the morning Bridget offered me that egg sandwich. I’ve found myself on the leather more frequently as of late, and this is the first time I’ve felt a prickle of dread as I adjust my ass and lean my elbows on the counter, waiting.
The door to the hallway swings open and there she is.
Automatically, the room brightens at Bridget’s arrival. Plants grow. Flowers bloom. Sunlight streams through the window. How thehelldid I go years without ever realizing her effect on her surroundings?
“Theo Gardner. To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asks.
Her hair is up in a messy bun, pieces falling out of the elastic and framing her face. She’s wearing a purple shirt paired with a jean skirt that barely hits the top of her thighs. Yellow ankle-high Vans. And a smile on her face, looking at me like I’m a prize.
“There was a small crisis in the Gardner household, hence my late arrival.”
“Is Mac okay?”
“She’s fine. I’m stopping by because I have a question for you.”
“Yeah?” Her voice is breathier, lighter. “What’s up?”
“You can say no. Don’t feel obligated to agree.”
Her smile shifts to timid and shy. Nervous, maybe. “I can’t agree to anything if you don’t ask me.”
My hand runs through my hair and I notice Chandler and Greta watching us. It would have been nice to have this conversation somewhere without an audience present.
“I was wondering if you could watch Mac tonight for me. I kind of… I have a date.”
The admission feels bitter on my tongue. Acidic, sour, a terrible taste left behind. As soon as I say it, I wish I could take it back.
Bridget’s smile cracks and crumbles. Her face dims and she casts her eyes down. The air whooshes out of the room, a rush of oxygen leaving as her nose scrunches up. Her chin drops to her chest and she grabs a dish rag.
“A date?” she repeats.
