Page 126 of Booked for the Holidays
“It’s not a doorknob aisle, and it’s cheesy as hell, but I said I love you, Bridget Boylston. And I have for a while. Since Thanksgiving. Since the interview. All the way back when you told me what would make you happy and mustard stained my jeans. Definitely the Wednesday you pushed back, telling me I was wrong about your late arrival. This morning, when you were the first thing I saw when I woke up. Last night, with joy on your face and tears in your eyes.” My hands cup her cheeks. “I love you so very much, sweetheart. You don’t have to say it back. I just wanted you to know. My heart is yours. Keep it, please. Don’t ever return it.”
The words don’t seem sufficient to convey how much I care about her. How much I plan to treat her right and how every day with her is thebest fucking day.Nothing has ever compared. And with a twinkle of trees behind us and fake snow under our feet, I’m sure, for the first time in many, many, years about one thing.
I’m going to keep this woman until the end of time, and even that won’t be long enough.
“I love you, too,” she blurts out. It’s a jumble of words, fused together to become a garble of syllables and sounds, but I hear her as clear as day. “I realized it a couple of nights ago. I’m glad you were early that Wednesday. I’m glad someone from your store entered the contest. I’m glad we got paired together, because otherwise I might not get the chance to say I love you so much.”
“How much?” My nose brushes against hers and I catch a falling tear. “A shit ton? A fuck ton?”
She laughs, arms draping around my neck. “More. An infinity ton. And then some.”
* * *
Wrestlingthe tree into the bed of my truck in the middle of a rainstorm is far from enjoyable. Pine needles coat my arms and sprinkle into Bridget’s hair. Water soaks the cuff of my jeans. Branches scratch our necks and hands, brittle wood coarse and leaving behind splinters. When we finally heave it in safely, we look like we’ve been through the ringer.
“Theo,” she yells, pulling aggressively on the locked handle. “Open the door!”
“Not yet,” I call back, holding out my palm. “Dance with me.”
“What?” she laughs. Her hair clings to her face, bangs matted to her forehead. “We’re soaked!”
“Exactly. What better time than the present?”
Bridget accepts my hand and giggles. Her head drops to my chest and I hum, rubbing up her back as we sway to the symphony of the storm. The howl of the wind. The cleansing of the earth. “I didn’t peg you as a dance in the rain kind of guy,” she whispers. Her eyes close and a smile, content and happy, stretches over her lips.
“I’m not,” I answer. “It’s on your list. It makes you happy, so we’re doing it. I’d dance with you in the rain any day of the week, though.”
It might be seconds. It might be days. Weeks and months might pass us by. I can’t tell, and I don’t care, because I’m too caught up inher. Her smile. Her mouth against mine. Her laugh as I dip her low to the ground. A million things I want to remember forever.
A new beginning. A new after. A new everything, with her by my side.
* * *
“Merry Christmas!”Bridget announces as we walk through my parents’ front door an hour later in dry clothes.
Ziggy jumps off the couch and runs our way. He barks at the six-foot tree we’re holding. We’re attempting to shuffle through the foyer and into the living room without marking up any of the walls. My mother would flip a shit if she found a scrape on the forest green paint.
“What’s going on? Theo? Is that you?”
“Hey, Mom!” I answer. “Meet us in the living room when you can.”
“Is this a good spot?” Bridget asks.
“Yeah. Watch your fingers, angel. There we go.”
We set the tree on the beige carpet and step back to admire the position. It’s to the right of the large couch where Mac sits every year to unwrap presents, near the center of the room and in the front window. Later tonight, it’ll be visible from the street.
It kicks the ass of the four-foot artificial tree on a cardboard box standing pathetically in the corner.
“Dad!” Mac runs into the room, enveloping me into a hug. The affection is cut short when she spots Bridget, heading for her next. I watch them, the way Bridget strokes Mac’s hair, pinches her cheek, and answers the half-pint’s hug with a strong one of her own.
“Hey, Mac Attack. Merry Christmas,” says Bridget. “Did you and Ziggy behave last night?”
“Maybe,” she answers with a grin. “We definitely didn’t stay up too late. We also didn’t have birthday cake for dinner. Of course I didn’t feed Ziggy half a pancake, too.”
“You’re trouble, kid,” Bridget laughs.
“Theo, honey, what in the world is going on?” Mom’s parked in the entryway, looking around the space.
