Page 39 of Christmas Coffee

I’m stunned. Something flutters in my stomach and I look away, cutting my eyes nervously to the side. I’m still quitting. This doesn’t change anything. But I’m civil. I nod. “Apology accepted, but we still need to talk.”

“We do. Please, put the coat on and warm up. I’ll buy a bigger heater tomorrow. It’ll help the hut hold a more consistent temperature, even with the window opening.” He holds out his wool coat toward me.

I cave and take it, mainly because my teeth are close to chattering.

Celyn grabs one of the folding stools, pulls it out for me, and holds out his hand gesturing for me to take a seat. “Sit for a second. I want to tell you something.”

I feel like shaking my head and saying no, but I do as he asks. When I’m settled on the seat, he says, “I’ve been going over the books. We’re coming up on the midpoint in the holiday season and we’re really close to hitting goal. There are certain times during the day that we have lulls and I have ideas about that—and I’d love to hear yours—but before we do anything about that, I wanted to make you an offer.”

I narrow my eyes and try to look neutral instead of suspicious. “What do you mean?”

“I was thinking about what you said on the first day, about the people working here being able to take ownership of the place, and while I’m damn glad I didn’t flat out give a percentage of the sales, I came up with a better idea.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” I look at my knees and pull his coat tighter around me, getting lost in the perfect scent of it. He smells like snow and pine needles, and something sexy coated in darkness.

“Profits. They’re all yours. You get to allocate how they’re spent and what we do with them. You can make them Christmas bonuses or anything you want. I think you’ll come up with something good, well, better than me anyway.”

“Really?” I can’t believe he said that. Our goals haven’t been insane and most days we are well into the black. On the sheets I see, anyway.

“Yes.” Celyn says, softly.

I nod slowly, and stare at the floor. When I talk, I have the words right there, my resignation speech. When I’m about to open my mouth to say it, Celyn continues, “There’s only one problem right now—I’m short staffed. We can afford to replace the night crew, but I don’t really have time to train anyone new, so that would leave me or you working that shift. I mean, if you want it, that shift is yours. I didn’t want to assume anything, Nova. Some people like having extra money around the holidays. But I know those would be horribly long days.”

“You’ve been doing it for a few weeks now.”

He nods, looks at his hands, and then back up into my face. I don’t meet his gaze. “Yes, but it’s not fun.”

I shrug. “Work is work, fun is fun. Work isn’t supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to give you a paycheck and a sense of satisfaction.”

He catches my eye and asks softly, “Do you have a sense of satisfaction?”

“I didn’t,” I confess, “But maybe I could.”

“What do I need to do?” His words hang in the air and when I glance up, our gazes meet. I can see the apology in his eyes, the one that’s already fallen from his lips. I have trouble letting things go sometimes. But the way he asks me, as if he really wants to know catches my full attention.

“Can I make a suggestion?”

Celyn nods quickly and takes a step back, tucking his hands into the crooks of his elbows. “Please, do.” He moves nervously and pulls out a hand, tucking it under his chin.

“You could charge an extra dollar a drink if you had some syrups. If you don’t want to make it complicated and want a higher mark-up, well, taste this and tell me what you think.” I hand him my coffee cup. If I hadn’t kissed him once, I wouldn’t have done it. Since COVID, most people don’t thoughtlessly drink after each other anymore.

Celyn glances at it and takes it, drinking without hesitation. He licks the cream mustache off his mouth and makes a happy sound. “My God, that’s good. What is that?”

“I make it when I’m having a bad day, it’s mostly chocolate and a few spices. There are a few different variations. It’s nothing major. But if you give it a cute name, you could get another few bucks for it.”

I expect him to say something about the drink. His voice is soft, his expression remorseful. “I want you to name it.”

I smirk. “THE MOURNFUL MOOSE has a sublime ring to it, but let’s face it—normal people don’t know who the Romantics were, never mind what sublime means—so how about KISS MOOSE KISSES. It’ll remind people of chocolate mousse, which is an accurate way to describe the flavor. Add a pun and it’s cute.” Celyn doesn’t say anything, and I start thinking he doesn’t like the idea until I look up.

My gaze snags on his and my heart shudders. The way he’s looking at me makes the pit of my stomach squirm. It’s as if he didn’t see me until this moment. I laugh nervously, “What’s that look, Keller?” I use the wrong name to throw him off, to break the look he’s giving me, but it doesn’t stop. It’s admiration and shock, mingled with pleasant surprise.

“Nothing, it’s just that you’re an unusual person. You just referenced 18th century art, 20th century marketing, science, and you can cook.”

I smirk. “Making good coffee is not cooking.”

He mirrors my grin and leans in close, saying in a hushed whisper while looking over his shoulder like someone might hear, “I can’t boil water.”

I don’t believe him. I feel the grin on my face broaden. “You made the coffee mix. It’s good, Celyn.”