Page 3 of A Not So Merry Kiss-mas
“Good morning,” his deep voice rumbles, sending unwanted shivers down my spine. “I thought you could use this.”
He’s pushing a mug of steaming coffee toward me like it’s no big deal. But to me it is. I’m the one who takes care of people, making sure they’re comfortable. Not the other way around. Unable to move, I stare at his gesture of thoughtfulness, suspicion coursing through me. Why is it so hard to accept a simple gift of kindness from others? Instead, I just stare at the cup, my hands glued to my flannel pants.
“It has nutmeg and clove.”
My gaze snaps to his. “How did you—”
He nods toward Mrs. Fletcher’s door. “Mrs. F told me how you like it.”
My eyes dip to the cup he’s holding and saliva fills my mouth. The desire to grab the coffee from him almost overpowers my need to prove there isn’t anything he could give me that I would want. It smells incredible; I bet the warmth would ease the ache that’s constricting my chest.
“I’m good, thank you,” I murmur, fingers now gripping my pajama pants, restraining myself from swiping the cup from his hand. “You can give it to Mrs. Fletcher. I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”
“I dropped her cup off already.” Michael’s face takes on a hint of boyishness as his voice softens. “Crossing the hallway and then making my way back seemed like the most effective route to travel.”
I blink.
“You know, because you’re next to me and she’s across from me.”
All I can do is stare at him, the ache intensifying. My gaze roams from his apartment, our neighbors' apartment across the hall, and then back to where he’s standing. I blink again, my internal struggle increasing.
Sensing my hesitation, he clears his throat and shoves a stack of envelopes at me. “I also grabbed your mail for you.”
My eyes narrow, and I cross my arms over my chest.
“I’m just trying to make up for waking you.” My brow quirks as he lifts his full hands up in surrender. “Honestly. You’d help relieve some of my guilt if you took my peace offerings.”
A huff escapes me as I stand there, staring at him, refusing to give in, regardless of the pure heaven wafting in my direction that’s determined to break my will. Just then, “Livin’ on a Prayer” ends, swallowing us in a thick, awkward silence.
Michael’s expression shifts as he stares at me, and I watch as the corner of his mouth dips. My training urges me to make sure he’s taken care of, and something inside of me caves.“Fine,”I hear myself mutter.
He beams, handing me the pile of mail and the mug. He flashes a smile so bright that I’m afraid I might go blind. “Just leave the cup outside when you’re done, and I’ll grab it later.”
He turns and walks back toward his apartment, whistling, off-key, to the new song springing through the walls.
I continue to watch him until the door closes. I blink, then blink again, before I shake my head and make my way into my apartment closing the door behind me.
The music quiets, and I take a sip of the coffee, a moan escaping me. My gaze falls to the mail I’m holding and lands on the first envelope.
Melanie Briggs is written in beautiful calligraphy with black ink that looks like it’s straight from the inkwell. There’s a red stamp on the bottom that says ‘Operation Mistletoe Match’.
“What the—?” I mumble, then glance around my living room, searching for any hidden cameras that could be recording me when I catch a scent of gingerbread. Lifting the envelope to my nose, I inhale. “This can’t be real. Wait. There’s clove in the coffee. That explains everything.”
A hesitant laugh escapes me as I take another sip of the coffee that indeed tastes like heaven and place the mail on my table, determined to ignore the strange envelope that I’m positive is someone’s idea of a cute joke.
Chapter Two
Mike
Ican feel Melanie’s gaze on me as I walk back to my apartment. My stomach dips, and a nervous whistle escapes my lips.
Once I’m back in the privacy of my home, I lean against the closed door releasing the breath I’d been holding.
Mrs. F suggested the loud music, and Melanie’s reaction is exactly what was expected, giving me the opening I want. But I feel like a manipulative jerk for going through with it. I hope taking Mrs. F’s advice is smart and helpful, rather than pushing the beautiful woman next door further away.
I’ve been doing my best to be mindful of the time of day I let the music blast ever since she first let me know that she tends to keep late work nights, not to mention it’s loudest for her due to our proximity. But I honestly have no idea what hours my neighbor keeps. Her schedule seems as unpredictable as mine to the outside observer.
The next song starts blaring through my stereo, and I run to lower the volume. A small grin slides across my face as my heart jumps at the memory of Melanie smoothing her errant hair down. She’s adorable when she’s all disheveled.
