Page 45 of Booked for the Holidays
“You could date my dad. I said the same thing to him about you.”
“Okay, matchmaker. I see what’s going on here. Theo and I are… we’re different kinds of people. Night and day. Hot and cold. Summer and winter. I’m pretty sure I annoy him.”
“Anna annoyed Kristoff in the beginning ofFrozen.”
“The next Disney movie featuring your father, scowls and all, will really sell tickets,” I laugh. “He needs someone who can ground him, I think. Reserved. Relaxed. I’m not really any of those things.”
“Or maybe,” Mac counters, smug and mighty, “he needs someone who’snotlike him. Look where it’s gotten him. He’s old and alone, spending his Sunday afternoons waiting for me to finish a manicure. I bet the night gets lonely sometimes, wishing for some sunshine. Different isn’t always bad.”
“That’s true, but–”
“I think,” she continues, “he’s waiting for someone who can put up with him long enough to throw a glass of water in his face.”
“Wow. Is that all it takes to pass your matchmaking test?”
“You haven’t done that, have you?”
“No, but I’ve been scarily close.”
“See,” she says. “You called him out the first time I met you. No one else, well, maybe besides Uncle Lucas and Uncle Baxter, could ever do that and live to tell the tale.”
“I think that’s enough meddling for one night, kid. Maybe you can try again tomorrow. Do you want to help me take a couple photos for the store’s social media page? I’m trying to show some behind-the-scenes content from the contest. I bet they’d love to see the final product of our dreadful decorating endeavor.”
We head back to the tree, posing for photo after photo. My thumb clicks away, filling my storage with pictures of me and Mac. She jumps on my back and flings her arms out. I stick out my tongue and she throws up a peace sign. We lie on the ground and take a shot from above, faces bathed in white lights as we make pretend snow angels.
When a pair of work boots bracket my hips, I jump.
“Holy crap,” I say. I look up to find Theo standing above me, steaming pizza boxes in his hand and a smirk on his face.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Dad!” Mac springs up and gives him a hug. “Look at the tree we decorated.”
“It looks great. Can you take these to the counter, sweetheart? We’ll be over in a minute.” Theo passes the boxes to Mac, who marches away with purpose.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey. Did she behave? No rebelling? Any secret tattoos I should know about? Is she part of the Bowie clan now, too?”
“She was a perfect angel. We finished her homework. Decorated. Took some photos. It’s how I ended up on the floor. Guess I need to get up now, huh?”
“You could stay down there if you want.”
“View isn’t too bad.” I smile at him.
He tilts his head to the side, studying me, and I get a smile in return. “Not bad from up here, either. Do you want some help?”
“That’d be great.”
He crouches down and extends a hand my way. Our palms connect, thumbs locking against each other. He doesn’t yank me up, not right away. He stares at the bob of my throat, the dip of my shirt.
His fingers run over the back of my palm. Down to my wrist, up to my fingertips, charting unexplored territories. My eyelashes flutter closed, the faint touch almost enough to undo me. I savor the smell of blueberries, of pine and paint clinging to his clothes. I inhale, reveling in the familiarity.
Another hand finds my left arm. His palm makes its way back to the spot he’s been before. The spot that missed his presence, calloused, warm. Gentle, yet firm.
I smile again. It still feels as nice as the first time.
“Going to lift you now, okay?” he asks. Gruff, full of steel. Notching its way down my vertebrae.
