“That wasn’t yours, you know,” he remarks as he runs his hand through his beard.
I shrug my shoulders as I take another sip before I say, “I did know, but you didn’t exactly stop me.”
He steps closer, which I didn’t think was possible. Our bodies are millimeters from brushing up against each other, the coffee mug strangled between us.
“So, do you like the Christmas tree?” His voice is a throaty whisper, making my knees plead with me to quiver, but I won’t let them.
And I shouldn’t have taken his coffee. It was a bold, stupid move, but I wanted to see how he’d react, and unfortunately, he took the challenge and made me regret it with his lips hovering too close to mine.
I take a step back from Boone. “Of course, I like the Christmas tree. No sane person would say they didn’t like the tree that you went out and chopped down in the middle of the night with your axe like some muscular version of the Grinch when his heart grew three sizes attempting to restore Christmas.”
“But are you a sane person?” Boone teases, which causes playful irritation to twitch up my spine, eliciting a response of softlypunching his bicep.
“I may be crazy in some ways, but I’m sane in the right ones,” I clarify.
“Fair enough,” Boone replies before snatching the coffee out of my hands and taking his own sip.
We’re now not just sharing Christmas, air, and clothes;we’re sharing coffee, and that seems like one of the most intimate things I’ve done with a man in years, causing me to realize that Boone isn’t the only one melting. With all the melting between us, it’s only a matter of time until the winter wonderland we are stuck in becomes summer.
“I think I need some air,” I say. “We’ve been stuck inside for too long. Got any ideas?”
His lips pull up in a smile. “I’ve got a couple.”
Chapter Fifteen
The sun glitters on the untouched snow. I’m not sure I’ve seen untouched snow in New York City. It’s always pushed and shoved to the sides to make way for the hustle and bustle. No time to just let it be, to enjoy it, to realize how intricately designed it really is. I used to love snow. Now, too often, I just see it as an inconvenience.
We’ve hiked a bit to a clearing, where the trees surround us, but we can still see the smoke curling from the chimney back at the cabin.
Boone scoops up a handful of snow. “Look.”
I lean over slightly.
“Closer,” he requests.
So, I get closer, my face hovering inches above his hand, trying to dissect the small pile of flakes. “See how different each snowflake is? Not imperfect because of their differences but made more perfect because of them. I think about that a lot when I’m throwing clay on the wheel. I don’t have to create the same thing twice. There’s a beauty in that. How God just makes things differently, yet they belong together.”
I sigh to myself. I should’ve known Boone was going to find ways to continue talking about us. This man doesn’t seem like one that gives up easily. We at least have that in common.
“We don’t belong together, Boone. We’re just different,” I reply.
“I didn’t say anything about us.” He grins. “Still thinking about us, huh?”
I shake my head. “No.”
Then suddenly, the snow is in my face. From Boone’s glove.
“You didn’t!?” I scream, taking my own glove to wipe the snow from my exposed skin.
“What about now?” He laughs. “Do you still want to kiss me, Kate?”
More than anything that’s what I want to do, but my coffee intake sobered me up from making any decisions based on feelings instead of facts.
“Unfair advantages for a snowball fight, Boone. I can’t exactly run away in your boots that are made for the feet of giants,” I argue. “Plus, how old are we? This seems a bit childish.”
His chin lowers, along with his tone. “Well, I’m forty-one, and I’ve yet to think a snowball fight is solely reserved for children. Are you going to let something as trivial as a number keep you from having fun?”
I haven’t asked his age yet, so I am a bit surprised. He doesn’t look like he is forty-one. He doesn’t seem older than I am, and yet, what really is age? Boone’s right…it’s a number, a number that we define our existence by. A number that tells us how many years we’ve lived but also a number in which we assume how many years wehave left. A number that sometimes keeps us from believing there’s nothing left for us because the world continually informs us that our number isn’t small enough. It’s one place where the world believes less is more.
