“Oh, of course, duh. It’s Katherine. Katherine Everett. But you can call me Kate, or Katie, or Katydilla, or really anything but Katherine. My mother calls me Katherine, and it just sounds like I’m being reprimanded every time I hear it.”
His left eyebrow arches. “Katydilla?”
“Oh, well, I was eight and became obsessed with armadillos. I don’t know why. I just really loved the way they had built-on armor. I really wanted that. I was kind of rough and tumble and constantly getting hurt. My dad started calling me Katydilla, and it stuck. Kind of defined me all my life, if I’m honest. I’ve always acted like I’ve had built-on armor and can do anything.”
There I go again. Revealing more than I should. My blatant honesty is something that often keeps people an arm’s length away. People don’t like honest. Not really. They prefer words that make them feel better about themselves in just the good ways, not the bad ones.
He nods his head. “I think I’ll call you Kate, if that’s okay.”
“And can I get the name of my barista?” I question.
“Boone,” he replies. “That’s it. Just Boone.”
“Boone,” I repeat. Predictable. I was expecting Jack or Hank or Chuck. But Boone fits right in there. “Well, thanks for the coffee, and thanks for saving my life.”
Chapter Four
There’s a steaming latte in my hands, and I’m fairly confident that Boone has ruined coffee for me. There isn’t a coffee shop, no matter how elevated and bougie it is, that makes a better latte than Boone. And I’d know. One year I’d decided to try every coffee shop within a ten-mile radius of my apartment. I didn’t exactly succeed in trying all of them. There are thousands. I’m not the only New Yorker who exists off espresso.
“So, what’s with the cat? You don’t exactly strike me as a cat guy,” I say before taking another glorious gulp of my gingerbread latte as I look down at the scraggly black feline snuggled up on Boone’s feet.
“Dog,” Boone answers simply.
I nod my head. “Yes, I think you’re better suited as a dog man.”
“No, the cat’s name is Dog,” Boone clarifies.
“What?” I cradle my coffee with my legs, freeing my hands so I can pull the knitted blanket more securely around me.
“The cat’s name is Dog,” he repeats.
“Why?” I question, tilting my head to the side as my eyesscrunch together.
Boone shrugs his shoulders. “It’s comical when I call for Dog and a cat appears.”
I feel my eyebrows raise in both surprise and concern. Concern because I’m beginning to wonder just how lonely this man is out here in the woods all by himself. Or is he lonely? I suspect he is. Nothing around the cabin looks as if a feminine touch has infected it.
In fact, not only is it lacking feminine touch but any signs of Christmas. There isn’t a tree, a stocking hung by the fire, or even a Christmas card to be seen.
“So, what’s up with the Scrooge vibe going on in here?” I ask, skating away from the subject of a cat named Dog.
I catch what seems to be a flicker of a memory dancing in Boone’s blue eyes before he replies. “I’ve got gingerbread creamer. And last I checked, Scrooge didn’t keep a full log burning. He only kept enough burning to warm himself. I’m warming you, aren’t I?”
“Fair points,” I admit. “But where’s the tree? The lights? TheOh Holy Nightspirit?”
“Maybe it’s wherever you were headed for Christmas?” Boone shoots back, and I can’t tell if his tone is grumpy or just deflective. In his defense, I did kind of force my way into his lack of holiday cheer. Choices were made, and with choices came consequences, which he was now partaking in whether he wanted to or not.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, there’s a tree and lights for sure, but definitely noOh Holy Nightspirit.”
“Not concerned withgetting back?” he questions, taking a sip of his own latte.
“Besides the part where I almost died, having a legitimate reason for not making it home for Christmas seems like the best gift I could receive this year,” I answer honestly. “The only thing I’ll miss is seeing my brother and his family, but I’ll make plans to see them soon.”
“Youdidalmost die, you know,” Boone states as if my mind hasn’t been replaying every single thing I did wrong leading up to the near-deadly disaster. I am an expert level overthinker, constantly assessing every word or move I make or don’t make, so I don’t make the same mistake twice.
I laugh nervously. “I guess I would have proved my mother wrong by showing her that the grim reaper didn’t think I was a bother at all.”
Boone’s left eyebrow raises. “You really don’t like your mom, do you?”
