Page 5 of Caffeinated in Amesbury
“Looks like he’d rather be lost in Austen than here,” Felicity quipped, her intrigue blossoming into amusement at the thought of this coffee-slinging Darcy amidst the holiday cheer.
“Or maybe Tolstoy,” Blair teased, following my gaze. “He’s got that ‘I’ve walked straight out of a Russian epic’ vibe, doesn’t he?”
“More like Heathcliff took up latte art,” I countered, eyes sparkling with mirth.
As if sensing my stare, Thomas glanced up, meeting my gaze. A flicker of recognition—or was it curiosity?—danced across his expression before he offered a small nod, an almost imperceptible upturn at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it promised more than civility.
“Go on.” Blair nudged her shoulder. “Talk to him. You two can start a book club or exchange brooding tips. I’ve never met someone so enthralled in literature besides you until I came back here and caught up with him.”
“Ha-ha,” I shot back, taking a breath to steady myself. “I don’t brood. I contemplatively mull.”
“Of course, my mistake,” Blair said, eyes twinkling.
With a subtle steeling of nerves, I approached the counter where Thomas had taken position, the low hum of conversation wrapping around us. My curiosity piqued further as he began to work; there was a grace in his movements, every action precise yet fluid, like he was composing a symphony rather than preparing drinks.
“Hey!” I started, voice threading through the festive ambiance with an ease that surprised me. “I’m back for the holidays!”
“Cole told me. It’s nice to have you back.,” Thomas began, his mysterious aura now tinged with a glimmer of humor, “you carry the Big Apple rush with you. It’s... noticeable.”
“Is that so?” I challenged, lips curving into a playful grin. “And what else have you noticed?”
“Enough to be intrigued. You look like a totally different person than last year. No six-inch heels today, huh?” Thomas replied, fixing me with a look that suggested he saw beyond the facade New York had polished onto me.
“Learned my lesson last year,” I said, leaning in slightly closer, heart thrumming with an excitement I hadn’t felt in ages.
“Here’s another latte on the house.”
I cradled the warm cup between my hands, the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon rising like a festive spirit. I watched Thomas as he turned to pull another espresso shot, his movements sure and practiced. The café buzzed around us with the gentle hum of pre-holiday chatter, but I found myself ensconced in an almost private bubble at the counter.
“Tell me, Thomas,” I started, voice carrying over the sound of the coffee grinder, “is there a book that’s captured your imagination lately? I’m always on the lookout for recommendations, especially from fellow aficionados.”
Thomas looked up, a lopsided smile playing on his lips. “Well, I recently revisited ‘A Christmas Carol.’ There’s something about Dickens’s way with words that sets the perfect tone for December.”
“Ah, going for the classics, I see,” I teased, a twinkle dancing in my blue eyes. “I would have pegged you for more of a Brontë or Austen man, given the air of mystery you’ve got wrapped around you.”
“Guilty of loving Brontë, too, but there’s no mystery in appreciating good literature.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the counter. “How about you, Miss New York? Do skyscrapers ever leave room for paperbacks, or is it all digital now?”
“Touché,” I laughed, tucking a loose strand of auburn hair behind my ear. “But for your information, I am a staunch defender of the physical book. There’s just something about turning an actual page that a screen can’t replicate.”
“Ah, a purist then. I should have known,” Thomas nodded, his green eyes gleaming with amusement. “And here I was thinking you’d champion the latest e-reader as the pinnacle of modern convenience.”
“Never,” I declared with mock solemnity, my hand placed over my heart. “I’ll take the weight of a hardcover over the cold touch of technology any day.”
“Hardcovers,” Thomas mused, pretending to ponder deeply. “They do make excellent makeshift shields during sibling squabbles—not that I would know from personal experience with Cole or anything.”
“Practical and literary-minded,” I quipped, “a rare blend. But let’s not arm the enemy. Heaven knows what Cole would do with a Tolstoy tome.”
“Probably prop open a door or attempt some ill-advised kettlebell exercise,” Thomas chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Or start a philosophical debate about the meaning of life,” I added, recalling the wise old woman who frequented the café.
Our laughter mingled and dissipated into the warmth of Caffeinated Bliss, two kindred spirits finding common ground amidst the heady aroma of coffee and the spirit of the season. I sipped my eggnog latte, the creamy sweetness grounding me further into the moment. I surveyed the rustic charm of the café, gaze returning to Thomas with a sense of contentment I hadn’t realized I was missing.
In the gentle glow of twinkling fairy lights, I felt a flicker of something—a playful connection, a shared joy in the simple pleasures of conversation and literature—that made me wonder what other surprises Amesbury had in store.
4
Thomas
