Page 89 of Booked for the Holidays
A nod, a smile. Her cheek turns, soft lips ghosting over my palm. I shudder at the contact and she hums in delight. “See you soon.”
THIRTY-FIVE
BRIDGET
“Beer?”Theo asks. He holds a bottle out to me.
“Sure.” I accept the drink, knocking the glass against his. “Cheers.”
We both take a deep pull and I savor the carbonation on my tongue. I take a seat on the edge of the pool, my feet dangling in the warm water.
“So,” I start. “How was your date?”
He shrugs and walks around the concrete, winding up directly across from me. “It was fine.”
The light of the moon reflects off the ripples of waves, bright enough for me to see him clear as day. It’s quiet out here, no sound except the water lapping against our shins and the chirp of a cricket. A chill is in the air but my body is feverish, heated, electrified, like something important is about to happen.
“Fine?” I press. “Your description for a night out with a woman isfine? You’re allowed to tell me. We’re friends, Theo.”
Theo sips his drink, lips wrapping around the top of the bottle. He’s so handsome. Sharp jaw. Long neck. His eyes never leave mine as he swallows and sets the glass on the deck. “I guess we are friends. I’m not seeing her again.”
“Why not?”
“Because she isn’t you, Bridget.”
I nearly tumble into the water at his admission. A pressure forms behind my ribs. I think the world is spinning, flying by at rapid speed, flashes of colors and words. “Wh-what?” I stammer.
“Come here,” he says roughly. “Please.”
I stand, walking down the steps into the water, submerging myself to my chest. Theo watches my every move, eyes tracking each step. The soaked shirt clings to my body, fabric heavy as I make my way toward him.
His thighs open and I stop in front of him. My hand reaches out to grasp his calf, using his muscles to stabilize myself. His palm cups my cheek, thumb tracing over my lips for the second time tonight. It’s like he’s committing the shape, the feel, the size to memory.
“I hate that I went out with someone else, but I needed to do it. I’ve thought about kissing you for goddamn days, and I can’t get you out of my head. I think about you when I go to sleep and when I wake up in the morning. I needed to know my feelings toward you weren’t just because I haven’t been with anyone in a while. I had to figure out if this was deeper than surface-level attraction or because you’re a beautiful woman. And it is. The date was onlyfinebecause I knew within two seconds I wasn’t interested. She didn’t make me laugh like you do. She didn’t smile at me like you do. When I got home and found you in my bed, hair sprawled out over my pillow, with an arm around my daughter I realized no one else willeverbe you. That date solidified it would be the last I go on with someone who isn’t you, Bridget.”
There’s conviction and purpose behind the words. His hand drops to my neck, fingers splaying wide over the column of my throat. His thumb presses into my windpipe and I reach up to fist his shirt.
“I was so jealous,” I whisper. “I didn’t think I had a reason to be because we’re not… I haven’t—”
“I know. I was so stupid. I’m sorry you were jealous. I’m sorry I was shitty. I hate that I made you feel like you were only a babysitter to me and not something more. I’ll take you on a date, angel, and it’ll be more than fine.”
“I don’t think friends go on dates. I don’t think friends kiss each other, either.”
“Then fuck being your friend,” Theo growls. It’s low and throaty, hot as hell.
He shimmies my shoulders back and slides into the water, clothes and jeans still on. Drops speckle his glasses and he wipes them away. I watch his eyes bounce to every part of my body he can find. The curve of my jaw, the line of my neck. The space below my ear and the freckles across my nose.
“Seeing you like this makes me want to die,” he whispers into the still of the night. Special words meant for me and me alone.
“Like what?” I whisper back.
“Under the stars. In the light of the moon. Wearing my clothes and paint on your face. A smile, a beautiful fucking smile.” He huffs and shakes his head. Reverence, I think, in his next words. “It makes me feel like I’m the luckiest guy in the world. Iamthe luckiest guy in the world.”
Finally,finally, his hand reaches out, finding mine. He tugs me closer. Muscles, firm and defined under his wet shirt greet me. The outline of hardness in his jeans–thick and long–presses against my thigh. His palms run down my arms, dancing across my skin, until they stop at the hem of my shirt.
“This goes well past the point of friendship,” he says. In warning? In anticipation? In hope?
“Fuck being your friend,” I say, using his words back on him. “I want you more.”
