Page 10 of Booked for the Holidays
Her gaze breaks from the food to stare at me. It’s obvious she was just glancing at me before, and now I have her complete, undivided attention.Shit, it’s kind of overwhelming in a good way.
A counter normally separates us, but this close I’m able to notice features I haven’t seen before. Eyes leaning closer to green now that I’m looking at them more carefully. Irises flecked with specks of gold. A freckle just below her left eyebrow. Sharp cheekbones. A parted mouth inhaling tiny breaths of air. Another cluster of freckles on the bridge of her nose, spilling across her face like splatter paint on a canvas, a million stars in the night sky.
I kind of want to trace them with my fingers, discovering what I could write. A poem? My name?
Dark brown hair cascades down her back, and jagged, uneven, windswept bangs cover her forehead. She’s tall, close to five foot ten, which isn’t far from my height of six foot three. Slim upper body. A trim waist. Hips jutting out in a pear shape figure that gives way to long legs under a plaid skirt.
She’s really fucking pretty.
I knew she was good looking, but I never paused to stare at her from head to toe, appreciating the stops along the way. I’m so close to asking what the hell I can do to fix her day. How can I help? What else does she need?
“Don’t you want them? You’re probably hungry, too.”
“I’m fine.”
“Let’s share them,” Bridget decides.
“I don’t–”
“Take the damn food, Theo.”
I realize I no longer have a choice in the matter.
I also realize my name on her lips sounds nice,really, really nice,even with impatience behind it.
That’s distracting, and not good at all.
Her hand knocks into mine, a nudge of knuckles as she transfers over my portion of the snack. The tips of her fingers tickle my outstretched palm, gliding over the callouses. Bridget doesn’t bat an eye at the rough, raised patches of skin.
“Thanks.”
“Do you want to sit together?” she asks. “Hopefully people won’t chastise our choice of curse words.”
I huff out something that could maybe, if I tried hard enough, be considered a laugh. “Yeah. We can sit together.”
Bridget takes a seat on the ground and gestures to the spot next to her. I crouch down and join her on the patch of grass, stretching out my legs and exhaling a sigh.
“This is Ziggy.” Her hand runs along the fur of the mutt who’s made his home near my hips.
“Ziggy? As in–”
“Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars?” She dips her chin and smiles. “Yeah.”
I blink, thrown off by this new uncovering. She doesn’t strike me as a fan of glam rock, and I add it to the small list of things I know about her. The small list of things I think Ilikeabout her.
“You’re a fan of Bowie?”
“He’s my favorite musician. I have his lightning bolt tattooed on my finger.”
“Huh. I have the same bolt on my shoulder.”
Her face brightens at the tiny piece of personal information I’ve shared, and I think I won her approval through an unintended test. “Really? Look at us. Tattoo twins. You learn something new every day. How many do you have in total, Collector?”
I stop another smile from forming. When I wander in the store on Wednesday mornings–when she’s the one opening and the only day I don’t order online–I always look forward to hearing what nickname she comes up with. It’s like a language designed only for us.
Collector is her best one yet, a uniquely personal attribution to my physical appearance and not a generic bundle of words to check a box.
I hope she keeps using it.
