Page 38 of Booked for the Holidays
The mellow look on her face as she speaks, no resentment to be found. The urge I have to brush the pieces of hair falling into her face away. The smile growing wider and wider. My thumb itches to trace the shape of her mouth, moving over her lips and down the length of her throat. Her skate kicks mine and she reaches out to grip my arm, steadying herself and searing my skin in the process.
“You’re a good guy, Theo,” she continues. Her tone is reverent. Tender. It makes me feel like I’m the only guy in the room. The only guy in the whole damn world. And fuck it makes me want to be thebestguy in the world. For her. “Even if you don’t see it. Even if others don’t see it. I do. And it’s a lovely, wonderful thing. Have some fun tonight, okay? You deserve it.”
With a wave, Bridget turns, heading toward the entrance of the rink. She gives Felicity a high-five and leans over the wall, waiting her turn to jump onto the ice. She looks back over her shoulder a final time, gaze meeting mine. I think the remaining oxygen leaves my body when she grins. A single dimple pops out. Her smile is bright. It’s wide.
It’s for me.
FIFTEEN
THEO
“Getting better, man!”Lucas calls out as he speeds by. Shards of ice kicked up from his skates hit my shins and settle into the cuff of my jeans.
I’ve spent the last hour stumbling around the rink and I’ve completed two whole laps. I think I’m close to dying. My legs are on fire, calf and quad muscles screaming. My forehead is damp with sweat. My lip is close to bleeding from how hard my teeth are sinking into it.
Needing a minute—or thirty—I stumble off the rink. I collapse onto a bench, grateful to be on solid ground, and wipe a hand over my brow.
“Water?”
A bottle beaded with condensation is thrust my way.
“Didn’t think you’d ever be the one to offer me a reprieve,” I say. I give Chandler a weary look.
She shrugs and sits next to me. “Consider it a one-time thing.”
Her elbows drop to her thighs and she stares out at the circle of people. Some are laughing loudly. Others are wearing Christmas sweaters even though we’re still in November. Some grip the edge of the rink like their life depends on it. A few—Bridget, I notice—are doing spins in the middle of the ice, looking like damn Olympians.
“See something you like?” Chandler asks, following my gaze.
Yes.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is this whole thing miserable for you, too?”
“If I have to hear the chicken dance one more time, I’m out of here.”
I snort a sound of agreement. “I think your departure would be justified. The chicken dance is downright horrific.”
“Why don’t you like being here? I mean, I know you’re grumpy and all that shit, but there’s gotta be another reason.”
My lips roll together, pondering her question. “Too many people.”
“Is it because of the accident?”
I crack my neck. Scratch my forearm. “It certainly hasn’t helped.”
“Bridget doesn’t know,” Chandler says. It’s not accusatory, but matter-of-fact.
“I figured she didn’t. ’m surprised you haven’t told her.”
Chandler looks aghast. “Why would I? It’s not my stuff to share.”
“It’s public knowledge. There was a damn newspaper article.”
She sighs. “As someone who’s been through shit I don’t want others to know, I’m not going to be the one to tell her. You will. When you’re ready.”
“That’s incredibly kind of you to say.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”
