“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 whenI 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 Amazon 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 hardtime 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?”
