Page 28 of Caffeinated in Amesbury
"Hit them with your best pitch," Thomas said with a supportive nod, watching as I selected the first number.
"Hello, Janice? It's Felicity Harper. I've got a story for you that's better than the usual bake sale or Christmas tree lighting." I paced before the counter, reflection bouncing back from the polished espresso machine. My voice was confident, authoritative, but laced with a contagious excitement. "Think literary luminaries, holiday cheer, and the best latte art this side of the Mississippi—all wrapped up in one event."
Thomas watched, impressed, as I continued the calls, each pitch delivered with such genuine enthusiasm that it was impossible not to be swept up in the tide of my words. I laughed at just the right moments, charm as palpable as the warmth emanating from the lights above.
"Absolutely, we'll have a special menu. 'A Christmas Carol' cappuccino, anyone?" I winked at Thomas, who shook his head with an amused grin.
As I wrapped up my final call, promising exclusive interviews and photo ops, I turned to Thomas, a triumphant sparkle in my eyes. "Prepare for a full house."
He raised an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. "You think they'll come?"
"Like moths to a flame," I assured him, confidence unshakeable. "Or should I say, bookworms to a flame?"
"Let's just hope we don't get any actual worms," he retorted dryly, earning a laugh from me.
"Trust me," I said, my gaze taking in the festive scene we'd created together, "this is going to be the talk of the state."
And in my heart, amidst the flutter of nerves and the hum of anticipation, I believed it. We were doing more than saving a coffee shop; we were stitching together the fabric of a community, one page-turning event at a time.
"Thomas," O called out, balancing a stack of mismatched chairs with one hand, "I'm thinking we turn the reading nook into a stage. Give it a spotlight effect with those new string lights."
From behind a fortress of books, Thomas emerged, his green eyes reflecting the twinkling fairy lights. He hefted a box labeled 'Mystery and Suspense' onto the counter. "Spotlight, huh? Will that not blind our illustrious guests?"
"Only metaphorically, with the brilliance of literature," I quipped, placing the chairs around a low table. I imagined the authors sitting there, their words weaving magic through the air, their voices the loom upon which stories were told.
"Ah, see, that's why you handle the pitches. You've got a way with words that rivals Dickens." Thomas’ voice was laced with a lightness that only surfaced when he was knee-deep in books—or bantering with her.
"Flattery will get you everywhere," I replied, flashing him a grin before diving back into logistics. "We need to think about flow—how people will move from one event to the next without causing a literary traffic jam."
"Right..." Thomas scratched his head, looking thoughtful. "What if we stagger the events, give each one its own time slot? Like 'Poe at the Patio', followed by 'Brontë by the Barista Bar'?"
I chuckled as I admired his alliterative prowess. "Clever, but let's not forget the little ones. We should have a 'Seuss Station' set up with bean bags and hot cocoa."
"Kid's corner. Got it." His voice held a note of approval, a shared vision coming to life on the worn wooden floors of their sanctuary.
Hours slipped past like pages from a well-thumbed novel, the evening giving way to night as they arranged and rearranged. My fingers brushed against the spines of countless adventures as I meticulously sorted books into thematic displays. Thomas was right beside me, his hands just as adept at crafting visual narratives as we were at pulling the perfect espresso shot.
"Look at this," I said suddenly, holding up a whimsical poster featuring a cartoon reindeer reading a book. "It says, 'Get your antlers into a good book.' Is that not the most adorable thing you've seen?"
"Adorable, yes, but does it beat 'Deck the Halls with Bound Folios'?" Thomas countered, unfurling another poster with a playful smirk.
"Touché," I conceded, laughter bubbling up in my chest. It was easy here, amidst the paperbacks and hardcovers, to feel the weight of the city and the crush of expectations lift from my shoulders.
As we constructed the schedule, I felt the familiar thrill of anticipation. This was more than just a series of events; it was a lifeline for Caffeinated Bliss, a beacon for kindred spirits seeking refuge from the holiday hustle.
"Thomas," I began, tone suddenly serious, "are we doing enough?”
He stopped mid-scribble on the whiteboard calendar, turning to face me. In his gaze, I saw not just the reflection of my own fears, but the steadfast resolve that had first drawn me to him.
"Listen, Felicity," he said with quiet intensity, "we're giving them something priceless—a community, a place to belong. And I can't think of anyone better to lead this charge than you."
My heart swelled, the warmth in his words wrapping around me like a cashmere blanket. "Thank you, Thomas. With you here, I believe we can truly make this happen."
"Then let's keep going," he replied, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Because if there's one thing I've learned since you blew back into town like a winter storm, it's that you're unstoppable when you set your mind to something."
And with that, we plunged back into the work, the night growing late around them, the promise of a Christmas filled with stories and connections stretching out like the endless possibilities contained within the pages of a book yet to be opened.
14
