Chapter Eighteen
Iwake up smiling, literally. I can feel the way my mouth curves toward my ears.
Boone had tucked me in, prayed over me, and kissed my forehead good night before leaving for the couch for the night.
I’d stayed awake for what felt like hours, a thrill zipping through my veins more frenzied than the rush from espresso.
It was as if Boone’s lips had been made of something stronger than any coffee I’d tasted.
I need to test that theory, though.
The sound of a fire is crackling outside the bedroom door, and it sounds like Boone is in the kitchen, his footsteps gently shuffling along the floorboards. I swing my legs over the bed, standing up to go join him.
I lean on the doorframe when I get to the kitchen, watching him. He’s making omelets and is hyperfocused on the task. He’s already wearing his standard flannel and jeans, since I assume he’s been out to the chicken coop to retrieve fresh eggs for the breakfast he’s preparing.
“Merry Christmas,” I finally say, announcing my presence, biting on my bottom lip, trying to calm its desire to be on Boone’s.
He looks up from the frying pan with a dimpled grin. “I was hoping to surprise you with breakfast in bed. Did I wake you?”
I shake my head, making my way over to him. “No.”
He flips the omelet and then turns to face me, putting his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. “Merry Christmas, Kate. Want me to make you a coffee?”
“I was thinking maybe something a little different.” Then I lean in and kiss him, feeling my pulse quicken and my heart jump-start for the day as he kisses me back. I pull away. “Theory tested.”
“Theory tested?” he questions, his eyebrows arching.
“That kissing you is more energizing than coffee,” I answer with a soft smile.
“That is a high compliment coming from you.” Boone laughs. “But I’m going to assume you still want that latte.”
“You assume correctly,” I reply as Boone turns back to the omelet, sliding it onto a plate before handing it to me.
“What do you think?” He looks at me, hopeful.
“I think the student has become the master,” I answer.
“Another high compliment,” Boone replies smugly, pleased with himself. He walks over to the espresso machine and starts grinding the beans for my latte. “Gingerbread?”
“Yes, please,” I answer happily. “So, what are the Christmas plans today?”
“Actually, I have a Christmas present for you, but we kind of have to make it first,” Boone says as he moves in a steady rhythm, creating the delicious coffee creations that I’m going to miss when I return to New York.
“Make it?” I question, taking a bite of the omelet, feeling it soak into my tongue.
“You’ll see.” The kitchen erupts in a loud sound as he steams the homemade gingerbread creamer before I watch him carefully pour the liquid over the espresso shots in a swirling motion.
Thirty minutes later, Boone bundles me up in his winter gear, telling me it’s a surprise, but I have my suspicions when he leads me toward a shed behind the cabin, which I’m guessing is his studio for creating his mugs.
“We’re making coffee mugs, aren’t we?” I question before we get there, pulling on his hand to stop.
“But Boone, I don’t even own a coffee machine!
I know, that seems impossible coming from someone that is made more of coffee than water, but it’s true.
I’m one of those impossible people that spends seven dollars every day (okay, more like seventeen dollars every day) on coffee.
And I know, I’ve done the math. It’s five hundred dollars a month, which seems insane when you really think about what five hundred dollars can buy, but I prefer living to not, and living equates to five hundred dollars of coffee a month for me. ”
Boone’s lips do that slow crawl into a smile that makes my stomach flop. “Kate, I’m not asking you to defend your spending habits, and use the mugs for tea if you don’t use them for coffee.”
I scrunch my nose in disgust. “What makes you think I’m even remotely a tea person? Tea is for people who are floating through life, hoping someone else empowered by a stronger beverage makes things happen for them.”
“Okay, no tea. Water?” Boone suggests.
“Water mugs? Did you not hear the part where I’m made more of coffee than water?” I question.
Boone steps toward me, dropping my hand to cup my face with his glove. “You know. I really like that you talk so much.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” I ask, pressing my lips together.
“No, I’m not. I like that you don’t pretend like there’s not something on your mind…You just say it,” Boone explains. “What’s on your mind right now?”
“It’s kind of quiet, actually,” I tease.
Boone grins. “Oh, is it?”
“No.” I laugh. “I’m thinking that I need to order a coffee machine off so I can use the coffee mugs that you’re going to make me, and I kind of hope I get to choose the color, but I also want to know what you want me to have, and that your lips are awfully close to mine, and that you smell like onion from our omelets, and yet I like it even though most people would think it’s a repulsive scent in most cases but not really when you want to kiss the person who smells like it, and that I kind of wish last night was every night, that somehow time just stopped with us right here, and what could I do to make that happen, but also is that really what we want, to stay in one moment when we could have a million moments, or if we’re even meant to have many more moments, and is this going to be too hard, and are you sure you really like hearing all my thoughts, because now I’m thinking that this could all be a really bad idea because I’m leaving tomorrow and I don’t know how to make this work, and now I’m having a hard time breathing because I can feel you moving closer millimeter by millimeter, and… ”
Then I can’t say anything more because Boone’s kissing me, and well, feelings have swallowed up my words.
Boone pulls away, and I wish he were taking my lips with him. “How about we live this moment before we worry about any more?”
I nod my head, slightly dazed.
Boone grabs my hand and leads me to his studio, opening the door and letting me step inside first. It’s small but organized.
Shelves line an entire wall with beautiful mugs in all colors, some even with engraved designs.
There’s a pottery wheel, a large metal kiln, a sink, and a workbench.
The shed is full, but it’s cozy and smells of earthy clay.
“This is amazing, Boone,” I say as I walk along the wall of mugs, my finger tracing different handles and rims. I stop when I discover a mug with a chicken stamped into its side. “Is this Goose?”
Boone laughs. “Goose and I aren’t that close, you know.”
I point to the gash above my eye that’s been healing up nicely, thanks to Boone’s herbal concoctions. “Really?”
“You just caught her on a bad day,” Boone defends. “That, and she doesn’t really see a lot of other people.”
I roll my eyes. “You believe what you want to. I think she hates me, and when she finds out you stole her chicken coop lights for me, her hatred might turn to vengeance. With that being said, I do not want a chicken on my mug.”
Boone grins. “Noted.”
As I continue to look around his studio, Boone prepares the wheel.
“Do you ship a lot of mugs?” I question.
“Enough,” Boone replies.
“What’s enough?” I ask.
“Some months a hundred, some months more,” he answers. “Now, are you ready?”
I look over at him, and he’s prepared two small stools, one closer to the pottery wheel and the other one directly behind it. I shrug my shoulders. “I’m always up for a challenge.”
I sit down on the stool closest to the wheel, slightly intimidated by what’s in front of me, if I’m completely honest. I took ceramics in college one semester, and when I say ‘I took ceramics’, I mean I went to two classes until I transferred out of it.
Art wasn’t new to me. I’d painted the typical apple in a bowl and had done some abstract art, which was so abstract to me that I didn’t know what I was doing, but my art teacher informed me I was a genius.
I’m still not sure what she saw in me; however, I was thankful for the passing grade.
But ceramics. There was a different rhythm to it, and I had two left feet or, I guess, two left hands.
Boone had already moistened the wheel, and it was spinning, a lump of clay flattened to the wheel to secure it. And that’s about the extent of my knowledge of a potter’s wheel and how to get started.
I feel Boone sitting behind me, the firm warmth of his chest against my back.
“I might mess this all up,” I mumble.
Boone laughs, and I can feel his breath on my neck, sending a flickering breeze of goosebumps down my spine. “Messes happen, Kate. I still make them occasionally, but I promise I’m here to make sure we make something beautiful together.”
I lean back against him. “Are we still talking about mugs?”
I can feel his smile without seeing it in the way his chest softens. Then his mouth finds my jawline, making me sigh before he murmurs, “I could talk about other beautiful things.”
“But then I won’t have a mug to drink the coffee I’m going to make myself when I order that coffee machine off ,” I insist. “And if I don’t have a mug that we made together when I drink my coffee, how will I remember you?”
“I’m pretty sure the part where I saved your life will help jog your memory of me,” Boone says as he smiles against the side of my head.
“Well, I guess there’s that,” I tease.
“But let’s make this mug. Okay,” he says gently as he grabs my hands with his, leading them toward the clay. “When clay isn’t centered, it wobbles. Sometimes you must recenter repeatedly until you get it. Kind of like life.”
I smile at his hands over mine.
The clay feels cold and smooth beneath my hands.
His hands move expertly, guiding mine as we push the clay into what appears to be a cone at first. His thumbs push into mine, pushing into the clay.
I’m mesmerized by the movement, by the feel of watching the clay turn into something different, something new.
Boone adds water as we need it, making sure the clay remains moldable.
His breath has been steady against my neck as he concentrates on moving my hands as the clay turns from a cone to a cup.
“This would be easier if you were just doing it yourself, wouldn’t it?” I ask quietly.
“Easier? Yes. But then I wouldn’t get to have my arms wrapped around you, sharing this moment,” he answers without any hesitation. “I like my arms around you.”
I swallow down my honesty in this moment, trying to breathe in what’s happening right now and not what will happen later. Me leaving Boone and not knowing if it’s going to mean for a little while or forever.