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promise.
Charlotte cradled the tepid, watery excuse for coffee in her hands, revelling in the gentle warmth more than the barely-there aroma of the so-called caffeine.
“You could do a better job at hiding your disgust at my choice of coffee,” came the rumble of Joel’s voice behind her, the early morning light catching on the worn edges of his tool bag, followed by the clatter of its contents on the table.
“I don’t even know if you can legally call this coffee—eggs in the microwave,” she said, nodding to the dated appliance.
Joel punched several buttons and the microwave hummed grudgingly to life, “Sarah make these?”
“No, she’s still asleep, finally catching a break after last night’s late study session.”
Joel nodded, running a hand through his unruly hair, “I don’t think I can grin through more shells in my eggs.”
Charlotte laughed as she rose from the table, “Want some of this brownish water that’s supposed to pass as coffee to take with you?” she asked as she poured out the remainder of her cup.
Joel patted his pockets for his wallet, “Yeah, I’ll take whatever is going to keep me awake at this point,” he muttered, his gaze flicking between scattered mail and spare change as he searched the countertop.
Charlotte slid his wallet across the counter from where it’d been on top of the toaster oven, where Joel had left it the night before. He nodded a silent thanks as he pocketed it and then proceeded to pull his heated eggs from the microwave.
Charlotte placed a weathered travel mug next to Joel, a questionable dent in its side, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Big plans for today?” Joel asked around a mouthful of eggs as he leant against the chipped laminate counter, giving a reminder of another project that was waiting for him, he took a tentative sip of the coffee before wincing slightly.
“Ha,” Charlotte said, pointing a knowing finger at him, “Told you. And yes, we’ve got plans, remember? You, me, and Sarah getting a Christmas tree, remember? Tonight?”
Joel raised a brow as he shovelled more eggs into his mouth, “I thought we agreed last year we were done with the real tree thing. They’re a headache. Gettin’ needles everywhere, draggin’ it through the house.”
Charlotte shrugged as she pulled at a loose, green thread on her cardigan, “You can take that argument up with Sarah. She’s the one who insists on the real deal. Says a fake tree is, and this is a direct quote, ‘lame.’”
Joel sighed heavily, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s stubborn as hell,” he stabbed the last of his eggs, making a dull scrape against the plate, “Wonder where she gets that from,” he wondered absently as he dropped his plate in the sink.
Charlotte raised both eyebrows at him, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of her lips, “I don’t think you’ll have to look far, Miller.”
Joel chuckled, shaking his head, “Alright, fine. Real tree it is. But you gotta make sure she doesn’t pick one bigger than the damn living room like last year. Nearly broke a damn window trying to get it in.”
Charlotte crossed her arms over her chest, “Only if you’re home before dark to help pick it out.”
Joel glanced at his scratched watch, already feeling the pressure of the unscheduled day ahead, “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
Ever the lawyer, Charlotte gave him a pointed look, “Shouldn’t or won’t? Because I’ve heard shouldn’t before, and that tree’s not going to strap itself to the truck.”
Joel rolled his eyes but held up a hand in mock surrender, “I’ll be home, alright? You got my honest-to-goodness word, darlin’.”
Charlotte tilted her head, unconvinced, “You promise? Don’t make me call Tommy or your crew to track you down.”
He looked down at her, a small smile softening at the corners of his mouth. “You don’t trust me?”
“I trust you to have good intentions. Follow-through? That’s another story,” she said, leaning her hip against the counter.
He smirked, his free hand reaching out to tug lightly at a silky curl of her hair. “I’ll be home. Promise.” She eyed him warily, “Charlotte,” Joel started, his voice carrying a familiar mix of exasperation and affection.
Before he could argue further, Sarah’s voice carried faintly from upstairs, muffled by the hallway walls, “Dad! Don’t forget my soccer stuff in the truck!”
Joel groaned as they moved through to the living room to the front door, but stopping when Charlotte grabbed his arm. She looked up at him with a glimmer of something he couldn’t quite place—part skepticism, part amusement.
“Promise,” she said again, this time softer, “Before dark.”
He opened his mouth to reply but stopped, his eyes catching on something above her head. A crooked grin spread across his face.
“What?” Charlotte asked, her brows furrowed. She followed his gaze, perplexed.
Joel tipped his head up slightly, “Mistletoe,” he said simply, his voice low with quiet delight.
Charlotte blinked and looked up, noticing the small bundle of mistletoe tied with a fraying red ribbon dangling above them. Her eyes narrowed, “Where the hell did that come from?”
Joel laughed, a low, warm sound, “I’ve got a hunch it might’ve been Sarah.”
Charlotte shook her head, smiling, “That girl, she’s been pulling out Christmas decorations since Thanksgiving.”
Joel’s gaze softened as it lingered on her. He reached up, brushing a soft, dark strand of hair from her face. “Well,” he drawled, his voice low, “seems like a waste if we don’t use it.”
Charlotte laughed, but the sound was cut short as Joel leaned in, his lips brushing against hers. The kiss started soft, tentative, and sweet, but quickly deepened as they both leaned into it. His hand found its way to the small of her back, pulling her closer, the scent of pine and old coffee mingling in the air, and her fingers curling into the flannel of his shirt.
The last month had been a series of cancelled dinner plans, chaste kisses on the driveway as they left in separate cars—passing ships in their own home, where silence often replaced conversation. Barely finding time for each other between work, Sarah’s busy schedule, and the chaos that was the holidays. That moment, that stolen sliver of intimacy, was a precious commodity.
But all too soon, Charlotte pulled back, her cheeks flushed, her breathing heavy as Joel rested his forehead against hers, “You’re going to be late, Miller.”
Joel smirked, his thumb grazing her jawline, his tired eyes shining with quiet satisfaction, “Worth it.”
After another lingering moment, Charlotte sighed, reluctantly stepping back. “Okay, go. Before I start locking the doors to keep you home.”
“Just another three weeks,” Joel replied, his eyes softening at the promise of two uninterrupted weeks of construction site shutdowns and office closures that would allow them to finally catch their breath.
She gave him a bright smile, but it did little to hide the tiredness in her own eyes, “Can’t come soon enough.”
Joel patted his pockets again, frowning, his time looking for the car keys. Charlotte shook her head as she hooked the set of keys from the sideboard beside her around her finger. Joel was a man of many things, could MacGyver a repair of almost anything, organize a crew of two or thirty with ease—but the man’s ability to keep track of small items eluded him almost daily, declaring the objects had wills of their own.
“Thank you,” he said as he took the keys and quickly kissed her forehead, lingering a fraction longer than usual, “What would I do without you?” he grinned.
She rolled her eyes, “Surely forget your head,” she watched him slip on his jacket, “please don’t forget that promise.”
Joel held out his pinkie with a small, boyish grin, the same gesture he’d been using with Sarah since she was tiny, “Pinkie promise, Counsellor.”
Charlotte groaned, but her lips twitched into a reluctant smile, “Really, Joel? A pinkie promise?”
“It’s legally binding, come on Charlie, you should know that. Pfft, and you call yourself a lawyer, always questioning ironclad agreements.”
With a soft laugh, Charlotte hooked her pinkie around his as she rolled her eyes, “Fine, but if you’re late, you’re strapping the tree to the truck by yourself while Sarah and I watch, enjoying the show.”
Joel grinned as he grabbed his tool bag and stepped onto the creaking porch, “I’ll be there, and I’ll even call in dinner on the way home,” he called back, absently juggling the few stray pieces of mail he’d gathered, tucked under his arm. Without breaking stride, he patted his jacket pockets again—only to discover the keys clenched tightly in his other hand.