Page 49 of Booked for the Holidays
I’d thought he would drag his feet after the first few minutes, conveying boredom or annoyance I was taking too long. I’d prepared myself for eye rolls and huffs of irritation. None came. He stood thoughtfully in front of each selection, nodding his head in approval or shaking his head if he thought it should be a pass. We debated options, him passionately declaring the tree in his hand was a hint more green than the one I was holding and would look better in the store.
Halfway through the evening, I scared him by popping out from behind an arrangement of plastic Santas. The bombardment of four letter words I was awarded definitely would have gotten us in trouble if anyone had been around to hear. I wish I had captured the terror on his face on my phone.
Later, we stopped for a beverage to keep our spirits up. He retaliated by purposely handing me a cup of black coffee instead of hot chocolate. When I spit the beverage out in disgust, he keeled over, clutching his sides and howling with a loud burst of laughter. I couldn’t bring myself to be mad. The sound was so pure, so genuine, so carefree my own laugh was uncontainable. It had been rich, overflowing with glee and delight, the most boisterous I’d ever heard him.
So now, as he stomps back onto the lot and finds me attempting to hide for the second time, he mumbles under his breath about how he knows what I’m doing. He tells me I suck at being sneaky and tosses me over his shoulder like a light sack of feathers, not an adult woman weighing 150 pounds as he walks us back to his truck.
It’s hot as hell. The grip on the back of my thighs is tight, possessive, and hard enough to leave a mark. His fingers toy with the hem of my shorts, playing with the strands of frayed denim that have come loose. As he walks us back to his truck, his touch dances across my bare skin methodically, lazily. My laughter dies in my throat when I realize I want him to inch higher. To keep skating up, up, up, under my shorts to the underwear he’sso closeto slipping inside. I want–Ineed–him to pull the zipper down with his teeth, eyes on me as he finds out how turned on I am.
In his arms, I watch the corded muscles of his back stretch and strain. I see the faintest traces of gray beginning to pepper his brunette hair. I can rest my hand in the valley of his shoulder blades, daringly rubbing once, the material of his shirt soft against my palm. The ragged exhale he expels is magnified in the stillness of the empty tent, and he holds his breath when my fingers drift up to the nape of his neck, using the tufts of his hair to steady myself.
Far too soon he’s setting me back on the ground. I chance a glance at him, finding his cheeks painted a bright candy cane red. He turns away from me so quickly, I think I might have done something wrong. As he walks around the front of his car, I catch him adjusting the front of his jeans. He flexes his hand and gazes at the sky, muttering under his breath.
I think he might have liked having me in his arms.
I liked it, too.
“How do you feel about food?” asks Theo.
“I’m generally a fan. I’m so hungry, I could eat anything. I can still taste that coffee, too, and I want to gag.”
“Don’t play the game if you can’t accept the consequences, Boylston.” We’re moving slowly off the lot as we head for the exit, precious cargo bumping and sliding unsteadily in the trunk. “Pick what we’re having.”
“Burgers.”
“Burgers it is.”
He’s grinning as we drive to dinner. I reach over and turn the volume up on the radio, a Queen song blaring through the car. His seat is positioned far too close to the steering wheel to accommodate the trees, but he remains unbothered, belting out the lyrics along with me. A water bottle gets tossed my way after I complain, again, about the coffee residue. His eyes roll, but they lack any actual irritation.
This is the moment–the horrifyingly, spectacular,incrediblemoment–I realize I have a crush on Theo Gardner.
NINETEEN
THEO
We commandeera secluded picnic table off to the side of the burger shack. I sit on the bench, plastic creaking under my weight. Bridget takes the space to my right rather than across from me, thigh pressing into mine. I don’t bother arguing, because I like her there. I take a bite of my burger, staring at the woods in front of us. A breeze, light and chilled, billows through the trees above, a scatter of leaves fluttering to the asphalt.
With only two weeks until Thanksgiving, the month of November is flying by faster than I’d like. I realize the competition has been a distraction, a reprieve allowing me to focus on other parts of life besides the usual conflicting feelings that dredge up during the holiday season.
This year is different. The only things raising my damn blood pressure lately are the bruises and welts on my ass from the night of ice skating, faded purple and yellow marks still covering my skin.
Well, and when Bridget was slung over my shoulder an hour ago. I gothardwhen she wiggled and laughed, ass practically in my face as she grinded against me. Her skin was smooth under my palm. I could feel her heart thumping against my shoulder. She parted her thighs, barely a millimeter, and I had to set her down before I did something stupid, like tug her behind a tree and kiss her senseless.
Or sink to my knees and go down on her.
“So,” Bridget says. “I have a question.”
She’s considerate in her dialogue, I’ve noticed, never diving straight to the point. It's always a twisty, roundabout way of talking to make sure the person is comfortable with proceeding.
“Ask away.”
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“You’ve been around me long enough to know I wouldn’t answer otherwise.”
“Seriously, I won’t be offended.”
My hand twitches, quelling the urge to reach over and clamp down on her bouncing thigh. I pick up a greasy fry instead. “Any day now would be great.”
