Before I could decide whether to strangle her or thank her, Drew returned with our drinks before sliding into the booth beside me.
I blinked. “What are you doing?”
“Taking a break,” he said casually, resting one arm along the back of the booth. “Callum’s technically my boss, but since he’sbusy being domestic, I’m calling this a management-approved dinner.”
Callum laughed. “Fair enough.”
Lydia beamed. “Look at us! One big cozy family dinner.”
“Definecozy,” I said weakly.
Drew chuckled beside me, the sound low and warm. “You’re really bad at pretending you don’t like this, you know.”
“Like what?”
“Being here,” he said simply.
My breath hitched. “You don’t know what I like.”
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Don’t I?”
For a second, everything else faded—the chatter, the music, even Lydia and Callum’s laughter across the table.
It was just him. The heat of his arm behind me, the smell of cedar and spice clinging to his flannel, the faint hint of a smile that made my heart trip over itself.
I turned back to my glass before I could say something stupid. “Drink your drink, Benedict.”
He chuckled, leaning closer just enough for his voice to brush against my ear. “Yes, ma’am.”
And just like that, I forgot what wine even was.
Lydia, of course, noticed. She elbowed Callum and whispered loudly enough for half the bar to hear, “This is better than TV.”
But I caught the smile on Callum’s face as he exchanged a look with Drew. And as his shoulder brushed mine while hereached for his glass, I realized Lydia had gotten exactly what she wanted.
I was staying.
At least for another night.
Chapter Eighteen
Drew
It was supposed to be a simple gesture.
Coffee. A peace offering. Maybe a truce. Definitelynotan excuse to see her before she left town.
That’s what I told myself as I walked up the narrow staircase to her apartment above The Rusty Stag, my hand carefully balancing the paper cup filled with peppermint mocha Riley had made for me. She’d even drawn a tiny candy cane on the lid and winked when she handed it over.
“For the city girl,” she’d said. “Looks like she’s the type to need closure and sugar.”
I’d laughed. But now, halfway up the stairs, my pulse was hammering like I’d just sprinted through a snowstorm.
The morning air was crisp, the kind of cold that bit at your nose but left the world sparkling. The festival cleanup had already started with vendors packing up, the faint smell of pine and cinnamon still drifting from the square.
But my brain wasn’t on the town. It was on Melanie.
She was supposed to leave tonight. Back to Seattle. Back to her real life.
