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When I return to the kitchen, Blake is dressed in a similar outfit.
His eyes find mine. "Are you hungry?"
"I'll grab something at Starbucks."
"You want to go to Starbucks?"
I nod.
"Why?"
He stares at me like I'm crazy. Most New Yorkers take pride in their hatred of Starbucks, only stopping at the chain coffee shop if it’s particularly convenient. And I certainly don't make a point of visiting chains when there are so many independent shops to choose from.
But, dammit, we're getting into the holiday spirit and that's going to start with a sugary espresso drink.
For a moment, I reconsider my plan. Blake drinks his coffee black. He'll order a black coffee, hate it, and start the day off grumpy. But he does like chocolate. And when it's mixed with mint, it's so sublimely seasonal.
At the very least, he can taste it on my lips.
"For the holiday drinks," I say.
He looks at me even more curiously.
"I know you like chocolate syrup." I fold my arms over my chest. "Don't pretend otherwise."
"Is that a request?"
My cheeks flush. "Maybe later."
He moves closer. His hands go to my wrists and he unwraps my arms then places them around him. I squeeze tightly, breathing in the smell of his soap.
He runs his fingers through my hair. "Today, you're in charge."
A thrill passes through me. I need to bring my A-game. I nod and press my lips into his. "Are you hungry?"
"I ate."
"Then get your coat so we can go." I find my boots and step into them. "We'll walk to the lot. We can take a cab home."
He raises an eyebrow like he's not sure about my plan, but he doesn't object. It's true, cabs don't always look kindly on strapping Christmas trees to the roof. But I'm not about to shove an evergreen into Blake's limo.
Outside, the wind is cold and the air is heavy. Those clouds mean snow. If not today then tomorrow. My breath hitches. Real snow would be amazing. A white Christmas is like something out of a dream.
It's only a few blocks to the closest Starbucks. Blake squeezes my hand, no protests, no demands, no sign he's anything but okay. He looks around the chain coffee house with amusement.
I order a peppermint mocha, no whipped cream for him, and a gingerbread latte and an egg sandwich for me. He tries to pay, but I beat him on the draw. No way is Blake paying for any of this holiday stuff. That's all on me. I've barely touched the two hundred thousand dollars Meryl left me. My scholarship covers tuition, books, and a meal plan.
We take a seat at a tiny table in the corner. Blake looks so tall in the little chair, but he still fits in.
"Was there anything you ever liked about Christmas?" I ask.
He drags his fingertips over my palm. "When we were very young, Meryl sent me and Fiona to stay with our grandmother."
"You liked her?"
Blake shakes his head.
I really can't catch a break with this holiday thing. "What did you like about the trips to your grandmother's house?"
He nearly smiles. "The chocolate."
Right on cue, one of the baristas calls out our drink orders. At the counter, my sandwich is up. It takes two trips to get everything back to the table, but I insist on doing it myself.
There's affection in Blake's eyes. He holds the cup under his nose, smelling it the way most people smell wine. He takes a small sip and his face screws in surprise.
"This is all sugar," he says.
"Of course. That's the point of the holiday drinks. Massive amounts of sugar to temporarily boost your mood and energy. Then caffeine to keep it boosted." I practically inhale my sandwich. It's not the best thing I've ever tasted, but I'm damn hungry.
"You've thought about this."
I sip my gingerbread-flavored drink. It is awfully sweet, so sweet and so artificially flavored that I can barely taste the coffee.
He takes another sip. There's no surprise on his face this time. There's also no sign he's enjoying his beverage.
His eyes find mine. "You're sweet, Kat—"
"But you hate it?"
He nods. "Coffee is meant to be bitter."
“Like you?”
“Of course.” He half-smiles as he offers me his drink.
I take the cup and take a tiny sip. Despite its obscene level of sugar, it's delicious. Comforting, creamy, warm. A wonderful mix of cocoa and mint. Much better than the gingerbread.
"I'll keep this one." I toss the other drink in the trash on our way out the door.
The cold air is in sharp contrast to the warm drink in my hands. I pull my coat a little tighter.
I squeeze Blake's hand, running my thumb over his first two fingers. "What did you like about the chocolate at your grandma's?"
"We never had candy at home. Meryl was strict about eating well."
"Really?"
He nods. "Vegetables with dinner. Fruit for dessert."
"But she…" I struggle to come up with an explanation that isn't but your late mother was a lush. A very sweet lush, but a lush who died of liver disease nonetheless.
"Was an alcoholic. You can say it." He stops at a red light. "She said it openly."
I look both ways. No cars. We're still deep in the upper East side. I jaywalk across the street. Blake follows me.
"Okay. Yes," I say. "She was an alcoholic. She loved all sensory delights. I can't imagine her depriving you of candy."
"She wanted better for me and Fiona. She was happy when she met you."
"She saw right through me," I say.
"That’s why she liked you." His gaze goes to the ground. "She had to drink. It was the only way she knew how to survive."
I bite my lip. All things considered, an aversion to Christmas and a habit of working sixty hours a week—down from a hundred—are pretty functional coping mechanisms. Better than turning to booze or running off to a loveless marriage.
But I don’t care.
Blake isn’t running away on my watch.
I'm afraid to ask my next question, but I do it anyway. "Why did you go to your grandma's house for Christmas?"
His expression steels. He pulls his hand away from mine and shoves it into his pocket. For three blocks he says nothing.
When he does speak, his voice is unsteady. "My father was the worst during the holidays."
There's this tightness in my chest. I'm terrified to ask him to explain. I can't do it here. Not yet.
Instead, I lock my arm with his and stay as close as I can. We only talk when we stop in a local cafe and order him a black coffee.
He's stuck in a bad memory, but I'm not about to let him stay there. I check the maps application on my phone. Perfect. There's a Duane Reade five blocks and one avenue over. It's a little out of the way, but it's worth the extra walk.
"Follow me." I lead us out of the cafe and away from the park.
Blake looks at me curiously, though not as curiously as when I suggested Starbucks. Still, he follows without protest, even as I walk into the drug store.
I go straight to the candy aisle. "I'm sure your grandmother had some kind of fancy chocolate, but there must be something close here."
He scans the shelf. His eyes fall on a pale yellow box of inexpensive truffles. He picks them up, examining them carefully. "Meryl's mother was poor. She couldn't afford to spend money on candy."
He leans down to pick up another bag of chocolates—a holiday blend with peppermint flavor and candy cane pieces. Without a word, he hands it to me. His eyes meet mine. They're filled with confidence like he knows I'm desperate for the holiday themed chocolate.
"Thank you," I say. "That looks great."
His lips curl into the tiniest smile.
"Do you want anything else?" I ask.
He shakes his head and takes a long sip of his coffee as if to say I only want this. Then he presses his lips against my cheek as if to add me to the list of things he wants.
I buy
the chocolate at the register. The cashier thanks us with a Merry Christmas. Blake cringes but stays silent. He follows me outside where I tear off the chocolate's plastic then pull open the lid.
I offer him the candy. "Did you have a favorite?"
He picks a picks a chocolate-covered truffle, bites it in half, chews, and swallows. "Not quite as sweet as your drink." He offers me the remaining half.
I take it and pop it into my mouth, much less graceful than he was. It's not as good as the dark chocolate in his kitchen, but it's not half bad. "Thank you."
"Do you plan on eating the entire box?" he asks.
"You had good memories of chocolate. You're eating another chocolate."
His lips curl into a half smile. He nods and does as he's told. This time, he picks something filled with caramel. Of course, Blake manages to avoid getting a single bit of caramel on his face.
He points to the box. "And one more for you."
"I'm going to collapse of a sugar overdose."
"I'll make sure you use the energy."
My cheeks flush. I scan the candies and pick one at random. A raspberry cream. It tastes artificial. A year ago, I'd be enamored with the flavor. Blake has ruined me for normal food.
"Thinking about anything?" I ask.
