Page 62 of Booked for the Holidays
“Beats the hell out of shoveling snow.”
“Yeah, maybe. But I think it would be fun to have a white Christmas. Like, to wake up in the morning to a fresh blanket of snow. To go skiing and drink hot chocolate around a fireplace.”
She makes a good point. The contest is amplifying the holiday cheer this year, but wearing flip-flops on Christmas Eve just feels wrong, sometimes. Mac hasn’t seen snow, and it’s been years since I’ve been skiing. I’d like to take her one day.
The dryer buzzes from the laundry room and I frown, checking the time. Has forty-five minutes already passed? It feels like we just got here.
“I guess I should…” Bridget juts her chin toward the bathroom.
“Yeah. I’ll grab your clothes and drive us back. No more getting drenched today.”
“Thank you, Theo. I’m sorry I scared you.”
“I’m sorry for being an ass.”
“I forgive you.” She smiles softly, putting the empty bowl in the sink.
“Come on, Boylston. Back to work.”
TWENTY-FOUR
BRIDGET
“Hi!I’m so sorry I’m late.” I apologize to my four friends who are already at a booth inside the restaurant. I slide into the last empty spot next to Polly, ducking my head to avoid hitting the light fixture above the table.
“Where were you?” Skylar asks. “I passed the shop to see if you wanted a ride, but the lights were off. Did you close early?”
“Oh. Yeah. I was… um, at Theo’s house?”
It comes out rushed, words bleeding together and barely making sense. The girls blink at me, confused.
“Theo Gardner?” Chandler clarifies, having the comedic decency to act like we know another Theo.
“Yup. That’s the one.” My voice is pinched, an octave too high. A touch too strained, like I’ve done something wrong. Fumbling for the water glass in front of me, I take a long sip, grateful for the liquid to help cool me off.
“Like, hanging out?” asks Polly.
“I mean, I guess? In a way?”
“We’re going to need the full story,” says Lucy. The other three nod aggressively in agreement.
“It started with a ladder.”
I launch into the tale, mindfully leaving out key details like how he called me princess, the endearment causing my heart to flutter like a butterfly. The way I shamelessly rolled into his hips, reveling in the firmness of his body and the ache the light graze satisfied. I don’t share that when Theo’s voice caught on the wordplease, pure terror behind those amber eyes, I thought my soul cracked in two. I omit his use of “good girl,”and how I nearly combusted, years of pent-up desperation clawing to the surface. I don’t tell the them there was a part of me that had hoped Theo would pull back the shower curtain, searching my face for an invitation to climb inside and join me.
I would have let him.
He was forceful in his demand for me to get down the ladder, yes. But he was patient and considerate while I descended, encouraging me along and never making me feel rushed or alarmed. In a time of crisis, I’ve never had a man ask how he can help or what he can do.
Theo did.
Every other word out of his mouth was a question, inquiring how I was feeling. If I needed anything. How he could help make the process easier and that he wasproudof me.
His hands were warm and soft on my body, coaxing me closer and closer to him. I accepted the closeness, trying to prolong the time I was in his embrace. Near his chest. In his bubble, my space becoming his.
Nothing about the encounter felt weird.
It felt right.
