Page 8 of Booked for the Holidays
“No.” I acknowledge her for the first time, interaction no longer avoidable as we stop at the next crosswalk. “I’m not.”
“I’m curious what it could be about. And irritated, too. There are so many things I’d rather be doing tonight. I’m sure–”
I don’t give her the opportunity to sharewhatshe’s sure about, because my hand reaches out and grabs her arm, abruptly ending the conversation. I yank her toward the sidewalk, out of the path of a car running a red light. Another step closer, and she would have been hit by the speeding vehicle.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” I seethe. My grip on her bicep is tight and bruising, fingers curling around her muscle to keep her safely upright and not in a heap on the brick road. I scan her from head to toe, heart racing as I check for any signs of injury. A sigh escapes when I find her unharmed, and my shoulders sag in relief.
“I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Clearly,” I scoff. “You could have been hurt. Who gives a fuck about the meeting? Open your eyes, Bridget, so you don’t die before you get there.”
The mocking tone and condescending words register in my head. They’re far too harsh for someone like her to hear. I’m shocked there’s no retaliation against my aggressive reprimand. Instead, her eyes move to my fingers, possessively wrapped around her arm.
“Ow”hasn’t been said yet, and she hasn’t asked me to let her go, either. It’s a request she should’ve demanded several seconds ago. Except she hasn’t, so we stand here, motionless, my hand cemented to her bicep while traces of vanilla and caramel waft from her hair to my nose.
She’s warm under my touch, like the sand on the beach in the middle of July. Her skin is soft,so fucking soft. And it feels like goddamn heaven.
“Thank you.”
Her words, grateful and hushed, settle the deep rumble in my chest. The tension abates, and I breathe out again, steadier than before.
“Sorry.” My fingers peel back and release her from their protective hold, a reddish hue left in their place.
“You didn’t hurt me.”
My molars grind together. Her approval isn’t needed, yet here I am, eager for it anyway. “Good to know.”
“I’m glad we share similar sentiments about our required attendance,” Bridget continues. “If I have to hear anything about street lamps or shrubbery, I’m starting a riot.”
My lips purse, the ghost of a rare grin forming at the thought. There’s not a mean bone in her body. She once spent thirty-five minutes ushering a bee out of her shop rather than killing it because it was “beneficial to the environment.” This is the same woman who, when a customer yelled at her for giving them a chocolate chip cookie instead of a scone, she comped the pastry with a smile.
Her inciting a riot would be hysterical.
Central Park, the expansive green space situated in the middle of downtown Park Cove and the location of our meeting, comes into view. I halt at the sight. It’s crawling with people. Lawn chairs are set up. Blankets are laid out. Charcuterie boards are spread across picnic tables. Groups have formed. The volume of chatter increases my crabbiness to a new level.
Ihatelarge groups of people. There’s always the fear someone’s going to approach me, asking questions I don’t want to give the answers to. A jackass who wants to dive deep into my personal life when I want to tell them to fuck off. The more people around, the greater the chance someone brings up memories I do my best to forget.
“Hey. Are you all right?”
A gentle hand taps my elbow, pulling my focus away from the buzzing crowd.
Bridget’s watching me. Her eyebrows are pinched and her smile has faltered. Her hair, almost copper in the light of the setting sun, shields a portion of her face before she brushes the pieces away, looking concerned.
“Fine,” I say, the word coming out more like a raspy affirmation than an assured declaration. “I’m fine.”
I haven’t convinced her because her attention stays on me for a second, two, three too long before darting away for good. Her hand disappears from my arm as she surveys the scene in front of us.
Suddenly, I miss her steadying touch.
I brush off the thought and follow her eyes, noticing the stage at the edge of the landscaped square is set up with a microphone. A hoard of people stand on the elevated platform, milling about with hushed voices.
“Holy cow,” Bridget exclaims. “This isn’t what I was expecting.”
“What were you expecting?”
“Six people and a rowdy argument about menial topics. Some wild gesturing and a cane used as a pointing device. Oh, and the line ‘back in my day’ used at least eleven times.”
“A menial topic like the size of mannequins in the windows of the clothing stores?” I supply. “I heard about that one.”
