Page 47 of Booked for the Holidays
Bridget: Really sweetens the deal, huh?
Theo: Stop with the puns.
Theo: They’re really melting your delivery.
Bridget: Oh my god. Was that a joke? Do you have a concussion? Are you sick?
Theo: Send me your address. You close early on Saturdays, right?
Bridget: Yeah. We close at 4:30.
Theo: I’ll pick you up at six.
Bridget: Can’t wait! I’m going to sprinkle in some Christmas cheer!
Theo: If I knew how to put my phone on Do Not Disturb, I would. The puns are getting worse.
Theo: Good bye, Bridget.
Bridget: Bye, Theo! I cone hardly wait.
Bridget: Okay that one was stupid. Please don’t block me. I really need your car. It’s bigger than mine.
Bridget: Bye!
“No ice cream jokes allowed,”Theo warns me through the passenger side window of his black truck. I pull the door handle and find it locked. He slants a serious stare my way, and I can tell he’s not kidding. “No entry until you agree.”
“Okay, you Grinch. I swear I won’t make any more ice cream jokes.” The door unlocks and I jump inside. “Thank you.”
“Hey, Boylston. How was your Saturday? Busy day at work?”
I wiggle my butt back, finding a comfortable position. The seat heater is on the lowest setting, the cloth fabric warm against the back of my bare thighs. The windows are rolled down and the wind kicks up my hair as Theo shifts the car to drive, setting off down the road. I exhale a sigh, feeling weightless and content. There’s something refreshing about being outside and chasing the last remaining light of day. My arm out the window, fingers gliding through the wind. In front of us, the sun begins to set, dipping below the horizon line and casting the world in orange and yellow.
“It was good. We’re closed on Sundays, so Saturday afternoons can be mayhem. It’s a good mayhem, though. It makes the time go by fast. I baked. I did a fun read along with some kids. I blinked, and the afternoon was over.”
“What book did you read?” he asks, flipping on his blinker. He leans forward, checking the side mirror as he merges lanes.
He’s ditched his usual flannel tonight, opting for a plain white tee. The thin piece of cotton stretches over his chest, hugging his bare biceps. Strong, defined muscles peep out under the hem of his sleeves, veins running along the length of his arms down to his palms. His beautiful body art is on display, a kaleidoscope of color catching in the sunset, etchings glowing bright.
I want to trace the outline of the markings, learning all the shapes they make and the hidden stories and meanings behind each one. Which is his favorite? Were any done impulsively, inked one night in a drunken stupor?
“Where The Wild Things Are,” I answer. “It’s my favorite.”
“I haven’t heard of that one.”
I shift my body to face him, pulling my leg onto the seat. My left shoulder leans against the headrest. I like looking at him from the side; he’s got a nice profile. Chiseled jaw. A slight raise of his lips. Eyes darting to me then back to the road.
“It’s a classic. Did you ever read to Mac when she was growing up? Do you have a favorite story?”
Theo is pensive for a moment, eyes turning a wistful shade of brown as he slips into a memory. He rubs the back of his neck with his right hand before resting his arm on the center console. His fingers drum the leather gear shift, tapping to the beat of the tune on the radio, notes crooning softly through the car.
“I don’t have a favorite story. I read to her some when she was younger, but singing was the more regular occurrence. She loved it,” he says.
“Please tell me you serenaded her with classic rock. Is there a video of a young Mac singing along to the Sex Pistols somewhere?”
He chuckles. “I’d make up all these stupid songs. If there was a tree, I’d start singing about leaves and branches. If there was a yellow car, I’d try to find a word to rhyme with taxi. She was too young to understand what I was saying, but she would grin at me whenever I started a tune. This toothless, bright smile. Guess I wasn’t too terrible.”
“It sounds like you missed your calling to be a musician.”
