Page 37 of Booked for the Holidays
“Smartass,” I mumble.
“This is going to be so much fun.” Still positioned between my legs, Bridget bats my hand away. She takes the laces in her fingers, finishing the job I’m taking too long to accomplish. A couple of quick loops later, she gives the side of my foot a pat.
Tonight she’s wearing tight, black, flared pants paired with a green top that barely covers her stomach. The shade almost matches her eyes, dancing with mischief. She looks pretty. The light behind her, tendrils of brown framing her face, falling free from her ponytail. The loose pieces don’t seem to bother her, and she bats them away.
I remember the feel of those locks tickling my nose the other night when I hugged her. When I held her close. When I didn’t really want to let her go, but I did anyway. If I hadn’t I might have kept her there forever.
She’s infiltrated my mind in a way no one has in years. Physically, I’m attracted to her. That’s obvious. How could I not be? She’s a beautiful woman, bright and kind. A nice smile, a figure with curves. But, more scary than the physical attraction, is how I want to get to know her. Ineverwant to get to know people and yet, I want to learn things about her.
All the goddamn things.
Every guy in the building stared at her when she strolled inside. I can’t blame them. She’s like a supernova, an explosion of color and light. A beauty you can’t look away from. It holds you captive and you’rethankful, eager to enjoy every second you get to be in her presence.
The woman has too much power.
“Have you skated before?” I ask, searching for a topic–any topic–to break myself free from her spell.
“I took skating lessons for a couple of years,” she says. “Then I switched to rowing. It’s where I met my friend Lucy.”
I nod and push off the bench, wobbling as I stand. That explains the muscles in her legs. The strength in her back as she strains for the top level of the bookshelf in her store, just out reach. The slight curve of her biceps. “Can I talk to you about something?’
Her chin rises and her head drops back. I want to dance my fingers across her cheek and rest my palm there. “Sure.”
In the days since the book club incident, I’ve felt like a complete asshat. Guilt follows me around, refusing to leave me alone. It’s my fault the situation happened in the first place. I’d stayed up late the night before helping Mac finish a science project. I worked on the solar system diorama until five a.m. The paint on Neptune was still wet when she left for the bus.
Work was busy as hell, complete with long lines, dozens of returns, questions about hammer durability and bathroom tile. When I collapsed into my desk chair to finish the paperwork I had put off, I was near my breaking point. Hungry, exhausted, and out of sorts.
The laughter coming through the walls didn’t bother me. It was the frequent consistency that did me in. It didn’t stop and I could hear every word the women were saying, like I was there in the room with them. Loud, shrill voices, the ache forming across my temples intensified with every giggle.
I walked out the door, ready to politely ask them to keep it down, and ran into Mayor Whatshisface on the sidewalk. He made it a big deal, wanting to swoop in and save the day like Prince Charming. He made me out to be the bad guy, and I knew from the second I opened my mouth and those hurtful words came out, Bridget was pissed. It’s a wonder she didn’t reach up and slap me straight across my face.
It would’ve been well deserved.
Sarcastically calling her smart and telling her to stop flirting with a guy I can tell she doesn’t like was juvenile. I hate that I made her upset. The change in her demeanor was remarkable. My heart hurt seeing her anything but happy. There was a flash of pain. A hint of suffering. An ember kindling in the ashes of an inferno.
I can’t stop thinking about it.
I meant my apology to her. The part about getting on my knees slipped out unintentionally, a private thought that found its way out in the open. I would have gladly kneeled, the bite of the wood floor against my skin worth it for her forgiveness.
I’ve considered sending her a message and checking in. I’ve typed and deleted the text a dozen times, too chicken to hit send.
What the hell would I even say?
Hey, sorry I’m such a toolbag.
I’ve never felt so awful about my choice of words before.
Do you know how pretty you are when you get fired up about something?
Abso-fucking-lutely not.
“I’m sorry again for the other night. Storming into your store like a tyrant was uncalled for. It won’t happen again.”
The edges of her lips tip up, etchings of a smile forming. There’s a twinkle in her eye, a flicker of a secret behind the gold-flecked green. “I know it won’t.”
My brows wrinkle in confusion. “You do?”
“Yeah.” Bridget steps closer, and I notice a million things at once.
