Page 56 of Booked for the Holidays
He waves to the group. Even Chandler offers him an incline of her head and a small smile. As he and Mac turn to leave, his hand brushes against mine, thumb rubbing over the ridge of my knuckles.
It’s the faintest of touches, the lightest of grazes, but I feel it the rest of the night.
TWENTY-TWO
THEO
My head is killing me.
A pulsing sensation radiates across my temples, extending to the nape of my neck and down my spine. It’s unceasing, the pain continuing to plague me late into the afternoon. It’s not a hangover or a headache I’m nursing after a wild night out, reliving my younger years. It’s more of a general discomfort, my exhaustion level waning–more drastically than usual–after stretching myself thin the last couple of days.
Decorating for the contest is in full effect, and so is socializing and group events. After work yesterday, I spent two hours helping Bridget arrange the five remaining Christmas trees she purchased in their stands. I dragged the firs across the floor, patiently waiting as she shook her head and asked me to move them six inches to the right. Then to the left. Then forward, closer to the door. Back and forth we went, sweat rolling down my cheek, her apologizing profusely, me grunting in return. It was a cycle that went on and on until she threw her hands in the air exasperatedly and yelled “fuck it!” Through a huff of annoyance, she said to put them anywhere.
I could tell she was frustrated. Frazzled and mentally drained after fielding nonstop questions about plans from my excited employees with a polite look on her face. I was close to walking out and leaving the placement as it was, but I saw her keep sneaking glances at the trees, a long there. Like she didn’twantit to be perfect, but anything else wasn’t good enough. When she stepped into the storage room to grab a fresh sleeve of paper cups, I moved the army of firs back to their original location; the setup where she smiled the brightest, tired eyes fading away to elation. Watching her push through the swinging door and light up, surprised jubilation on her face, was well worth the extra twenty minutes of work. She was sohappy, and I was proud to be the one who delivered that happiness to her, a present with a bow on top.
I’m paying for the effort today, thankful for the lack of customers filing into the store. No foot-traffic is horrible for sales, but fantastic for my battered state. It’s been pouring all afternoon, inclement weather forecasted to last late into the evening. I let my employees clock out early, holding down the shop alone for the remaining work hours. They aren’t needed. No one is daring to brave this monsoon. I can barely see through the front windows, heavy drops of water pelting the glass. The avenue outside is empty, a ghost town. A car hasn’t driven past in the last thirty-five minutes and the clothing store across the street closed up early, everyone heading home.
With the world painted in shades of gray and dreary blue, a flash of color catches my eye. It contrasts the monotone palette, barely discernible through sheets of rain.
I turn, expecting to hear a roar of thunder, the rumble shaking the earth.
No sound comes.
I step toward the window and blink, making sure I’m not losing my mind.
It’s not a lightning strike I saw.
It’s Bridget, standing on a tall, rickety ladder that stretches far too high in the air. In one hand is a strand of Christmas lights and a staple gun. The other arm is reaching out, attempting to plug in an extension cord to an outlet that’s severely out of her range.
What thehellis she thinking?
She’s going to fall off that contraption in seven seconds or end up electrocuted. Neither scenario sounds particularly entertaining. I look away, trying to find a task to busy myself with. Something to distract my mind, because what she does isn’t my business. If she wants to stand on a metal object in the middle of an electrical force field, more power to her. I don’t care.
Except I can’t stop watching her. Worry, sheer fucking panic, pumps through me.
“Dammit.”
I can’t let her stay out there. Every two seconds I’m craning my neck, checking to see if she’s finally started to use the common sense I know she has. My heart is racing, like I’ve been sprinting for miles. After a particularly loud roll of thunder, I give up. I can’t take it anymore. I hustle to the door, using my shoulder to push it open. A strong gust of wind greets me, nearly knocking me backward. Down the sidewalk, my boots stomp in large puddles, drenching my feet through the leather.
“What are you doing?” I bark out when I get to the ladder. I’m close to yelling so she can hear me over the din of water hitting the pavement. The sound of wind whipping through the branches of towering oak trees, their limbs swaying dangerously, threatening to fall.
“Hey, Theo!” Bridget says. Amidst the dark clouds and the fury raging around her, she’s a ray of sunshine. The only source of light in this desolate world. Her hair sticks to her face like cooked noodles. The dress she’s wearing clings to her body, accentuating the curve of her ass. The jut of her hips. The swell of her breasts. “I figured I’d get this hung while the shop is slow. What better time than–”
“Get off the ladder.”
She blinks, trickles of rain drops falling from her eyelashes. “Pardon?” she challenges, pushing back.
“I said, get off the ladder.” More forceful this time, through gritted teeth, my heart thumping harder than before.
“I’m fine.”
My fingers tighten into fists. A deep breath, trying to settle the storm brewing inside me. “Every time I look out the window, I see you. I’m checking to make sure you haven’t slipped or crashed to the ground. Not happening on my watch. If you’re so hell-bent on hanging those lights, you can do it after I leave for the day. Preferably not in the middle of a fucking thunderstorm. Get off the goddamn ladder now, Bridget. You’re scaring the ever-loving fuck out of me.” I swallow and add an additional word to lessen the blow. “Please.”
My voice snags on the ask, cracking. A tremor nearly racks my body as another bolt of light flashes through the sky. I’m four seconds away from either dropping to my knees and begging her to climb down or ascending the rungs myself, hauling her over my shoulder, and guiding her to safety.
The fiery, fighting flicker in her eyes dims. Her lips form an “O” shape and her face softens. She nods. “Okay. Yeah. I’m sorry. Could you help me?”
I grunt in agreement. The ladder must extend twelve feet in the air, and while she’s not at the top, she’s close. Too fucking close for comfort. I shift my position to either side of the frame, holding the metal steady. Her foot moves down the first rung, the start of the treacherous descent. I don’t think I’m breathing.
