Booked for the Holidays (Park Cove Series Book 1)

by Chelsea Curto

Books have always been my happy place. As the one true joy and a constant fixture in my life, they’ve loved me back unconditionally and unwaveringly over the years.

there aren't many things in life better than a coffee and a good book on a cloudy afternoon.

Theo Gardner is breathtaking when he smiles.

That’s what makes literature so wonderfully beautiful and poetic. There’s quite literally something for everyone. What one person considers a two-star read with little purpose and merit might be someone’s most prized possession.

Her eyes–not quite green, not quite brown, a color stuck somewhere in the middle–are creased around the edges, laugh lines indicating years of pure euphoria. Her smile stretches from corner to corner.

I want butterflies, leaps of faith. The fairy tale and happily ever after. Some epic love story, the movie kind of romance that sweeps you off your feet with a crashing wave. I’ve never come close to those sensations, but I know they exist. They have to, right?

I think my location and time of death might be here and now.

I miss his touch already.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to getting on my knees for you, Boylston, if that’s where you want me. But it wouldn’t just be to ask for forgiveness.”

When he touches me, whether accidentally or on purpose, he leaves behind an invisible mark, a reminder he’s been there.

her laughter–louder than the music, brighter than the Christmas lights–eases the pain of all the aches.

Everything is magnified, senses and emotions heightened when he’s near.

It’s only him and me. Gazes locked. Heartbeats synchronized. Pulse racing. Not another soul in the world.

All I can think about is his mouth meeting mine. His hands fisting my hair, dark brown waves tangled within the grasp of beautifully inked skin.

The man is a complete mess. But… His smile.

My head lolls to his shoulder, nestling in the crook of his neck and finding the spot where I feel like I belong.

“Hey, Collector,” I answer, smiling back. “Why do you call him that?” Mac asks, looking up from her phone in the backseat. “Have you seen his arms? They’re like an art gallery.”

People say my name every day, but hearing him utter the word is my favorite thing in the whole world.

Love doesn’t care who the person is. It doesn’t care how long you’ve known them. It doesn’t care if they treat you like a queen or barely know your name. When it wants to find a way, it will. There’s no playbook, unfortunately, telling us what’s right or wrong. No cheat code or answer sheet to figuring this shit out. It’s something you feel inside of you. Love is a blessing, but it’s also a goddamn curse.”

Yeah. I’m head over heels for this man.

Her hazel eyes blink hesitantly, and my thumb reaches out to rub the scrupulous bend of her eyebrows away.

mason literally does this for me and my eyes are hazel

“Do you like it?” “Like it? You built me a damn bookshelf ladder,” she squeals. “Of course I like it.” “Good. I’m glad. It also comes with a joke. Want to hear it?” Bridget spins in my arms, looking up at me. Her eyes are watery and her brows are pinched, confused. “A joke?” “Knock knock.” She huffs but decides to play along. “Who’s there?” “I love you, Bridget Boylston.”