Page 33 of Caffeinated in Amesbury
"Too much?" I questioned the air, second-guessing the abundance of candles. Shaking off the doubt, I rearranged the seating, pulling a pair of plush armchairs just a tad closer to each other—the proximity suggesting intimacy without presumption.
"Subtlety, Thomas. You're aiming for cozy, not a séance." My inner critic always found its voice at times like these.
But then I pictured Felicity, her laughter echoing in my mind, and it bolstered my resolve. I draped a soft, knitted throw over the back of one chair, a small, tangible comfort against the December chill.
"Perfect," I said, nodding approvingly at the tableau. It was an embodiment of all he felt—warmth, comfort, and an invitation for something deeper. I could already see Felicity curled up in one of the chairs, her blue eyes alight with the fire's reflection, and my heart skipped a beat.
"Tonight," I promised the empty café, "tonight will be a chapter worth remembering."
With everything set, I retreated to a corner with a view of the entrance, a book in hand to calm my nerves. Each passing minute stretched, laden with anticipation and the hope that tonight, under the tender watch of candlelight, our stories would weave together, binding us in a tale of unexpected love.
16
Thomas
The wind outside had begun to sing with the sort of gusto that only December could command, carrying with it a symphony of jingling bells and the distant laughter of carolers.
"Thomas," she called out, her voice a melodic note in the quiet space, "you better have that peppermint mocha ready or—"
Her words trailed off as she took in the sight.
"Wow," Felicity breathed, blue eyes sweeping across the intimate setup and landing on me, who stood with an unreadable expression and a radiant smile.
"Evening, Felicity," I said, my voice holding a tremor like the flutter of excited pages. "I hope you don't mind."
"Mind?" She chuckled, shaking her head as tendrils of auburn hair escaped her loose bun. "It's... unexpected. And beautiful." Felicity's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than necessary, betraying her cool exterior with a warmth reserved for dog-eared pages in a favorite novel.
"Come, please sit," I gestured towards the chairs with a hand that only slightly betrayed my nerves.
Felicity approached, the soft sound of her steps mingling with the crackle of the fireplace. I watched her every move, noting how her shoulders relaxed as she neared the glow of the hearth. I reached beneath the counter, my fingers brushing the velvet-lined box that held more than just literature—it cradled my very intentions.
"This is for you," I said, the weight of the box seemingly nothing compared to the weight of my anticipation.
"Thomas…" Her voice held a note of surprise as she accepted the gift. "You didn't have to—"
"Open it," I insisted gently, my green eyes urging her on.
As Felicity lifted the lid, the room seemed to hold its breath, the flames pausing in their dance. My heart knocked against my ribs, echoing the ticking of the wall clock—each second stretching into infinity as she peered inside.
Her fingers traced the spines of the books, a gesture so delicate and reverent it was as though she was greeting old friends. A small laugh, surprised and delighted, escaped her lips, light and airy, yet somehow it filled the entire room.
"Thomas, these are—" Felicity started, but words seemed insufficient. She looked up at me, the blue of her eyes deepening, reflecting the flickering candles, reflecting everything unsaid.
"Every story has its own magic," I found myself whispering, the truth of my feelings making my voice grow stronger. "Just like every moment I've spent with you."
Felicity's mouth opened slightly, her breath catching in a way that told me more than words ever could. The laughter that had danced in her voice now danced in her eyes, and it was clear that this night, this chapter in our unfolding tale, was penned in the ink of something profound and rare.
Felicity's gaze lingered on each title, her pulse quickening as she realized these weren't just any books; they were the whispers of her soul bound in paper and ink. The velvet-lined box felt like a treasure chest, and the volumes within it jewels far more precious than rubies or sapphires.
"Is this what I think it is?" Her voice was a mix of awe and incredulity as she cradled a first edition of 'The Secret Garden,' its cover an emerald canvas with golden filigree.
Felicity chuckled, a sound that bubbled up from deep within her—a symphony of joy and surprise. She flipped through the pages, stopping to admire a hand-drawn map nestled between the chapters, her fingertips gliding over the aged parchment.
"Every lost character deserves their map, right?" My words danced with humor, but she sensed the careful thought I had put into every detail.
She picked up another—an annotated copy of 'Pride and Prejudice,' the margins filled with scribbles and musings from scholars and romantics alike. Her heart did a somersault, the kind usually reserved for the climax of grand love stories. "Annotations? Thomas, you've outdone libraries."
"Perhaps," I replied with a wry smile. "But none of them have seen you debate Mr. Darcy's pride versus Elizabeth's prejudice at two in the morning."
