Page 23 of Booked for the Holidays
Her hand misses the book on the first attempt, centimeters short. I watch her reach again, straining and stretching, and I frown.
“You don’t have a step stool?” I ask. “How did you get the books up there in the first place?”
“Chandler sits on my shoulders. I’d love a rolling ladder. It’s on my list. One day.”
“I could, uh…” I pause, hand rubbing the nape of my neck. The skin is warm, flared with heat. “I could make you one,” I blurt out before I can think twice.
Carpentry is not in my skill set. I’m shit with a saw. Yet here I am, suggesting it and watching her face grow brighter with the idea.
And now I have to–wantto–build her a ladder because I need to see that look again.
“Really? You could?”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging my shoulders like making a fifty-pound piece of furniture involving metal rods and wheels is as easy as putting together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “I could.”
It earns me her biggest smile yet. I’m not normally a smiler, but I answer it with one of my own. Because when Bridget smiles at me–with her eyes, her cheeks, her teeth, her entire being–for some inexplicable reason, I’m inclined to smile back.
“That would be so cool!”
She drops a book into my hands, and I notice pen marks on the inside of her fingers and–isthatwhere her Bowie tattoo is hidden? On her pointer finger, the lightning bolt running from just below the nail to her second knuckle?
This woman is an anomaly.
“Women fighter pilots during World War II. How does that sound?” she asks.
“Like an astute choice.”
“Wow, good word. Maybe when I grow up like you my vocabulary will expand, too.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a smartass?”
She laughs, the sound echoing around us. “No, but you can start if you’d like.”
“What were you listening to when I came in? I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
“Oh! My favorite comedian. Farley Jones. Shit. Wait. No, she got married, so I think it’s Farley Harrigan now. She’s a genius. There’s this diarrhea joke she tells and–never mind. I’d butcher it.”
“Never thought we’d be talking about diarrhea when I walked in here. I haven’t heard of her. I’ll make sure to check her out.”
“You should. I love women who are unapologetically themselves, you know? The women who don’t let society tell them what they can and can’t be. It’s refreshing.”
“The world needs more people like that, who aren’t afraid to tell others to shut up and live life how they want,” I agree.
“You’re a fan of loud women then?”
“Of course I am. I’m trying to raise Mac to think that way, too.”
“So if she wanted to be a Formula One driver, you’d be cool with it?”
“Are you kidding? That would be awesome. Doctor. Teacher. Stay-at-Home Mom. Boxer. I don’t give a crap. I want her to speak her mind, yell loudly about the things that make her happy, and not let anyone push her around.”
“That is… astute parenting right there.” Bridget says it jokingly, using my word back to me, but I hear the sincerity behind the compliment. I see her face soften away from humor to a degree more appreciative. Like she’sproudof me in a way. And, fuck, if that doesn’t make me feel good. “Are you here for comedian and book recommendations, or is something else going on?”
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s about the holiday competition. I know I originally said I wasn’t interested. One of my employees entered us and things have changed. So, I uh, came over to let you know we’ll be working together.”
“I wondered how we were paired up after you werethrilledwith the announcement. This is so exciting!” Bridget squeals and claps her hands together.
“There’s one condition, though,” I say. “I’m not reenacting any scenes from ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas.’ No turtle doves. No French hens. It’s going to be an avian-free collaboration. And no Santa hats, either. Okay?”
