Page 22 of Booked for the Holidays
Here on the counter, paper cups and packets of sugar substitute careening to the floor.
In my room, jostling the lamp on the bedside table as we stumble to the mattress in the dead of night.
Bridget’s loud laugh slants through the air, fantasy shifting to reality. It’s a siren’s song; hypnotic and making me want to draw nearer. Her shoulders shake and her laughter grows, a building crescendo. Every book on every shelf is subjected to the bright sound that could probably, most definitely, end world wars. A paradigm of peace.
There’s still time for me to leave. I can walk out the door and pretend like I never came by, never saw her dance or laugh until tears leaked out of her eyes. Lucas can stop in tomorrow and let them know our plans for involvement. Better yet, I can send a formal email, outlining how we’ll be doing our own decorating, but we look forward to cordially supporting A Likely Story in any way we can. That’s the safest bet.
Minimal interactions, with less chance for her to–
“Theo? What are you doing here?”
Ah, shit.
Bridget spotted me. Her hands have fallen to her hips. Her hair is matted to her face, bangs sticking to her damp forehead. She’s looking at me like I’m positively insane, as ifI’mthe one who was just laughing maniacally in an empty room. Time to jump into this head-fucking-first, I suppose.
“Hey,” I say.
“What’s up?”
“I was stopping by.”
“Are you looking for a book?”
Double shit.
I didn’t think this far in advance.
Just tell the truth and get it over with, Gardner.
Competition.
Working together.
See you later, have a nice night.
“Um. Yes. I was looking for a historical fiction book,” I say instead.
I’m a goddamn idiot.
She laughs again, and you’d think I told the world’s funniest joke. “Good thing I have a whole section of those. Want me to show you some options?” Rocking on her feet, I can tell she's excited by the possibility of chatting about literature choices. Can I really be the one to deny her?
“Sure. That would be great.”
Nope. Guess I can’t.
“Come on, Collector.”
I follow her through the maze of shelves, not looking at the ass that’s taunting me with every sway of her hips. It’s a goddamn feat keeping my eyes on the ceiling until we reach the far side of the store and she’s a safe distance away.
“Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Any book will do,” I answer.
“That really helps narrow it down.” Bridget turns, focusing on the wall of books. I watch her contemplate the spines. Scan the options. From this angle, I can see her fingers tap her cheek. Her tongue is caught between her teeth, deep in thought. “Permission to pick something for you?”
I must have nodded, I think, because she rises on her tiptoes and reaches for the second highest shelf on the large built-in. The hem of her tank top rides up with the motion, revealing a patch of skin I haven’t seen before. I try to avert my eyes, I really fucking do, but I still get a peek. Smooth. Creamy white. Divots in the small of her back.
Horrible, stupid things I wish I could unsee.
