Page 55 of Christmas Coffee

Nova

We went from an afternoon of laughter to hot kisses that made my toes curl, but Celyn freaked out. When the door didn’t open, something akin to pity rushed through me. He’s afraid of me, of what he feels around me. When he can’t run, when there’s nowhere to go but turn and face me, the attraction doesn’t die. If anything it increases. He wants me so much that it scares him.

I remain where I am, about two feet away, back by the window. “Then don’t hurt me, Celyn.”

He remains in place with his face toward the door, head dipped, coat clutched in his hand and dragging on the floor. He doesn’t look up when he replies, “This won’t work out. It can’t be, okay? Please believe me.” There’s something in his voice, the way he says it, that’s haunting. He believes it to be true, he knows a reason why we won’t last so he won’t start anything.

I believe him. I don’t know why but I can feel it coursing through the room—fear and regret so thick it’s palpable. I pull the beanbag out of the window and lean over to slide the glass open. My intention had been to slip out of the window and go around to open the door for him. The knob must have iced over, but when I remove the chair it’s clear that it’s not just the knob that has an issue with freezing. The pane of glass is marbled with a thick sheet of ice and a thick mound of snow. I pull on the window, but it won’t budge.

When I give up, I glance at Celyn and lean back against the counter, before hoisting myself up. I slide my hips over the cold surface and ask, “Why’d you kiss me, then?” I think I already know but still, I need to hear it.

Celyn lifts his head from the door, and turns toward me. “I didn’t want you to freeze tonight, and I know you’re attracted to me, so I thought I could keep you with me.”

“You were going to keep me here?” I don’t refute how I feel about him. He knew this whole time and didn’t feel the same way. But the kiss just now confuses me. He wanted me. I know he did, so why pull away? He’s not telling me something.

Celyn looks me in the eye. “No, I was going to take you home before the weather got too bad to drive. I thought we’d leave after the snow started.” He glances at the window. “I misjudged the ice.”

I concentrate on my fingers, avoiding his gaze, “And so that would have been, what? Pity sex so I wouldn’t sleep in my car?”

“No,” his voice comes out in a rush.

“Then what was it?” Celyn steps away from the door and drops his coat. He strides toward me and is there, next to me, within reach, but he keeps a space between us when he nears the counter. I say sharply, “Because it feels like pity.”

“It’s not.”

I turn to look at him. “Prove it.”

“How?” His softness fades and is replaced by an emotion that’s so conflicted it can’t be identified. “Nova, I would if I could. It’s not anything like that. I don’t pity you. If anything it’s the opposite. I admire you.” He watches me closely, but his words feel like a fist to the gut.

My eyes remain fixed on the floor. “That’s flattering.”

“Nova, come on, you have to see it.” He tries to catch my eye but I don’t look at him.

Horror is creeping up inside of me, strangling me from within. My entire face is burning. I’d go out the window if it wasn’t frozen shut. Mortification slithers up my spine but I remain still despite the urge to shake it off and run.

“I don’t see it,” I confess bleakly. “I see that you were horrified you kissed me. I see that you wanted to put as much distance between us as possible. I see you too ashamed to meet my gaze. I see pity and nothing more.”

“It’s not that—it’s not any of those things. I’ll prove it. I can show you.”

“You said yourself, you can’t. You can’t prove what it was and no matter what you say, there’s no way I’ll believe you now. Anything that comes out of our mouth will be an attempt to make me feel better. It’s fine, Celyn. I get it.” I’m staring at my hands with tears rolling down my cheeks.

A moment of silence passes and he asks me, “Can I prove it to you? Will you let me?”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, wondering what he’s getting at, when his hands—warm and firm—slip across my cheeks, his thumbs wiping away my tears as his fingers cradle my neck, moving me so that I’m looking up at him. He steps in front of me, and comes closer. His sapphire eyes are lost in mine, when he repeats, “Let me show you.”

I manage a small nod. Celyn’s dark lashes cover his eyes as he fixates on my mouth. He inches closer, stepping into the space between my legs, pushing my knees apart as he comes closer. His hands remain on my cheeks, holding me in place as he dips his head and presses his mouth to mine. I suck in a jagged breath at the light touch, and it’s everything I can do to keep my hands on the counter and not touch him. I start to think this is a pity kiss, that he can’t possibly feel anything for me, but when his lips linger doubt fills my mind. His arms are laced with tension as he cradles my face in his palms and presses his lips to mine, softly, carefully—like he’s worshiping me—like he expects me to turn to vapor in his hands.

Celyn’s lips move to my cheek and trace a line back to my ear where he presses small hot kisses as his thumbs stroke my cheek. He trails his lips across my jaw, tracing the lines of my face with affection, and when he presses one last kiss to my other temple, he pulls back—his eyes meeting mine.

His chest swells as he confesses, “I’ve tried to deny it, to not let myself feel anything for you, but it’s too late. I fell for you.”

I look into his eyes, searching for the lie, but not finding it. There’s still apprehension there, but he truly cares for me. I sit slightly above him because I’m seated on the counter. When I pull him to me, I press his cheek to my chest, holding him close to my heart and kiss the top of his head. Celyn holds me for a moment and we stay like that, neither of us talking, his head cradled against me.

When I pull away, I smile down at him. “I believe you.”

He looks up at me with that beautiful face, with worry lines pinching his brow. “Nova, I need to tell you something.”

I grab the sleeve of my red sweater and pull it off, tossing it onto the opposite counter. My top is basically a variation of a peasant blouse that dips low in front. It’s held in place by a fat, belt-like vest of a thing, and a string holding the neckline in place. A little bow sits low on my chest. I take one of the strings and tug, loosening the fabric. It parts, revealing the curve of my breasts covered by a white satin bra.