Page 84 of Booked for the Holidays
“Yeah. I forgot about it. We planned it a month ago after I ran my shopping cart into hers. I thought she wouldn’t text but she did and I—”
“And you said yes,” she finishes for me.
“I did.”
When I finally went to bed sometime in the early hours this morning, I barely slept. I tossed and turned, debating on what I should do. Should I cancel? Does Bridget deserve to know? We’re not technicallytogether, even if we’ve exchanged a handful of moments I can’t get out of my head.
I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t stop finding ways to touch her. Subtle grazes, accidental brushes of my hips against hers, intentionally slipping my arm around her shoulders. I can’t stop fantasizing about how I’d kiss her for the first time. I don’t know if this… this desire to be with her is because it’sher, Bridget Boylston, or because she’s the first woman I’ve let get somewhat close to me in years.
So I agreed to the date like a goddamn moron and I’m kicking myself for agreeing. Because seeing the… thehurtpainted on Bridget’s face makes me want to stand this other woman up and drag Bridget home with me.
But I need to be sure. I can’t upend my life for a maybe, no matter how right I think I might be.
“Wow. Uh. What time should I be there?” She turns her attention to the counter, furiously scrubbing a spot on the laminate I can’t see.
“Whenever. Mac’s fine by herself for a little while, so just after 6 is fine. You can bring Ziggy, too.”
“Cool.”
“Are you okay?”
It’s a stupid question, the answer very evident on her face. Bridget raises her gaze, eyes hazy and unfocused. Her lips form a straight line and she shrugs, draping the dirty cloth over her shoulder. “I’m fine.”
She doesn’tsoundfine, but before I can question her further, she turns and barges through the swinging door, leaving me alone.
“You’re an idiot,” Chandler announces. It’s a good thing looks can’t kill, because this woman would have murdered me seven seconds ago.
“Pardon?”
“I said: you’re an idiot. I should probably throw a fucking in there, too. Yeah. Let me amend my previous statement. You’re a fucking idiot.”
“Yes,” Greta agrees. She nods vigorously to punctuate her point. “You truly are.”
“Men,” Chandler grumbles. “They never get it, do they? We have to spell everything out, yetwe’rethe problem.”
“Maybe if someone told me what the hell is going on,” I grit out. My voice raises and I take a deep breath. “Did I upset her?”
“No one is going to tell you anything. You can figure it out yourself.” Greta’s scolding is an insult to injury.
I glance at Chandler and she shakes her head. “Nope. You’re on your own.”
I curse under my breath, using every colorful expletive in the book. I peel myself off the stool and stalk toward the door. “Fine. Thanks for nothing.”
“Maybe instead of searching for something,” Greta calls over her shoulder, “you should open your eyes and see what’s in front of you. What’sbeenin front of you for a long damn time.”
THIRTY-THREE
BRIDGET
“Let me get this straight,”Mac says as we drag an artificial tree across the living room floor. Ziggy dodges the skinny cardboard box, jumping onto the couch and safely out of the way. “My dad is out on a date with someone and you’re stuck here watching me?”
“I’m not stuck doing anything,” I answer. “I’m here because I want to be here. I’m helping him out.”
“Oh my god,” she groans. “Dad is such an idiot.”
“How in the world is he an idiot?”
“He should be out withyou.”
