I’m about to kiss him, literally, when he gets up and goes behind the counter. I don’t know if he knows I’m about to kiss him, and is afraid or doesn’t want to kiss me back, or if he’s just that clueless.
I sit back, licking my denied lips, and watch as he grabs himself a cup of coffee and the last of the gingerbread scones. He brings back a container of whip cream and a white plate and two forks and says, as he sits, “It’s no good without whip cream.”
I smile and sit back, watching as he slips my scone from my bag and dabs just the right amount of whip cream on top. Then he squirts a plop in his coffee. “You?” he asks and I shrug, taking the lid off my decaf peppermint mocha.
When he’s done we raise our glasses and toast. “Happy New Year,” I say, but he demurs, tapping my cup anyway with a wry little smile. “Not convinced yet?” I ask, taking a sip. He’s right; it’s better with the whip cream.
Cooler, too.
It’s not quite champagne. Then again, the night is still young. We sit, quietly, alternating between staring at each other and avoiding each other’s eyes. A sense of hopefulness wells in me as I kind of squirm with anticipation.
We eat a little scone, drink a little coffee and, after a moment or two, I notice a familiar sound above. “Is that…?” I listen, more closely, and hear a kind of jazzy Christmas carol.
“Winter Wonderland,” he says, smirking, cheeks coloring.
“But this sounds just like the music back in the elevator…” My voice trails off before adding, “This is the music from back in the elevator. You sneak. You had me thinking you were some kind of musical genius or something.”
He shakes his head, hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I confess, they’ve been playing the same music in here since before Thanksgiving. Your building must subscribe to the same channel because it’s basically the same soundtrack I’ve been listening to for weeks.”
I nod, listening more closely. “So how come it sounds so much better in here?” I ask.
He smirks. “Because… we’re not in an elevator?”
I laugh and finish my scone and look at my watch and blurt, “Holy shit!”
“What?” he asks, leaning forward.
I get up, my chair sliding out behind me. “Up, up,” I say, waving at him. He gets up.
“What? What is it?”
“It’s nearly twelve,” I say, grabbing his hand. It’s warm, and not as soft as I thought it might be.
“Holy shit!” he agrees, letting me follow him behind the counter. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere,” I insist, looking past the counter to the door. “I just… what if someone walks by the window while we’re kissing?”
“We’re kissing?” he asks, puckering up.
I push him away, gently and say, more quietly, “At midnight, right? Isn’t that what you do?”
His eyes meet mine and he smirks. “It’s been awhile but, yeah, I think that’s about right…”
And so we stand, two minutes out, behind an empty counter, elevator music playing overhead, when I realize I’m still holding his hand. He makes no move to slip from my grip, and I’m in no hurry to release him.
“What do we do until then?” he whispers, because I guess it feels like a whisper-y moment.
“Whatever we want, I guess.”
He squeezes my hand, just a smidge. Smiling, he asks, “What if we want to kiss?”
I smirk and lean closer, the smell of peppermint and gingerbread and anticipation in the air. “It’s probably midnight somewhere,” I whisper before our lips meet and the New Year – our new year – begins…
* * * * *
About the Author
Rusty Fischer is the author of A Town Called Snowflake, from Musa Publishing. Visit him at Seasons of Snowflake, https://www.seasonsofsnowflake.com, where you can read many of his FREE stories and collections, all about the fictional town of Snowflake, South Carolina. Happy Holidays, whatever time of year it may be!!
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