Page 31 of Caffeinated in Amesbury
"Life is the strangest author," I quipped, lips twitching in amusement. "Full of plot twists."
"True," he chuckled, "and just when you think you've got the plot figured out, it throws in a chapter you never saw coming." His hand moved unconsciously toward mine, hovering just above the tabletop, a magnetic pull urging our fingers to entwine.
My hand shifted ever so slightly, brushing against his in a feathery caress that sent a ripple of warmth up her arm. It was a simple touch, but it spoke volumes, echoing the laughter that now danced in my eyes.
"Like finding a kindred spirit in your coffee shop?" I teased, gaze still firmly anchored to his, sailing the uncharted waters of our connection.
"Exactly like that," he confirmed, allowing his fingers to finally meet mine in a gentle clasp. Our hands fit together as comfortably as old friends, and as naturally as the pages of a well-worn book falling open to a favorite passage.
"Who needs New York when you have moments like these?"
"New York doesn't stand a chance," Thomas agreed, the words tumbling out before he could corral them.
"Bold words, Thomas," I purred, tone light, yet laden with an undercurrent of sincerity. "But I'm starting to believe you might just be right."
The candle flickered between us, casting a dance of shadows upon our faces as if the very air pulsed with the rhythm of our quickening heartbeats.
"Can you feel it?" I breathed, voice a soft caress against the charged silence. "This... electricity?"
"Like a storm's about to break," Thomas replied, his gaze never wavering from my intense blue eyes that held storms of my own—beautiful, captivating.
"More like Christmas lights being strung up," I teased, "a little tangled, but bright and full of promise."
Thomas couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. "And what does our string of lights look like?" he asked, his voice playful yet laden with meaning.
"Colorful and a bit chaotic," I mused, my thumb tracing the back of his hand now. "But somehow, they all fit together perfectly."
In my chest, hope bloomed like the poinsettias adorning the shop's windowsills. I leaned forward, drawn to him as though I were gravity itself, his hand tentatively covering mine.
"Thomas, I want to be more than just Christmas magic that fades come January." My gaze locked with his, unwavering and fierce.
"Me too," he confessed, the raw honesty in his voice stripping away any pretense.
"Then let's start writing our first chapter together." My words were an invitation, a dare, a pact sealed with the warmth of shared dreams.
As we sat there, hands entwined, the world outside continued its festive bustle. Snowflakes began to fall, each one a silent witness to the budding romance that defied the odds.
I sat hunched over the laptop, my fingers a rhythmic percussion on the keys as I delved into the literary world of her favorites. The screen's glow bathed my face in an otherworldly light, casting long shadows across the pile of notepads that surrounded me like the remnants of a paper battlefield.
"Brontë, Austen, Gaiman... her taste is all over the place," I muttered to myself, scribbling down titles and authors with an intensity that made the pen tip squeak in protest. "And she mentioned something about first editions."
It was nearly midnight when I pushed back from the table, eyes weary from the hours spent dissecting Felicity's bookish heart. I imagined her nestled in an overstuffed chair, her auburn hair cascading over the pages as those piercing blue eyes devoured the words. That vision spurred me forward.
"Tomorrow, I find the books," I promised to the empty room, standing with a stretch that popped my spine in a series of satisfying snaps.
Morning rays filtered through the bookshop windows, illuminating dust motes that danced like tiny sprites. I stepped into the store in Missoula, the bell above the door announcing my quest with a cheerful jingle.
"Good morning, looking for anything special?" the clerk asked, peering at me over round spectacles.
"Very special," I replied, voice carrying the gravitas of a man on a mission. "I need favorite books for a favorite person. But not just any copies—"
"First editions, rare prints, got it," the clerk interjected with a knowing nod, having heard such requests before.
"Exactly," I affirmed, feeling a kinship with this guardian of literary treasures.
O moved through the aisles with purpose, occasionally pulling a volume off the shelf, inspecting it, then placing it back with a sigh. Each book felt like a missed connection, close but not quite right for Felicity.
Come on, Thomas, think like Felicity.
