But I laughed, because Riley would’ve rolled her eyes at the drama.
I wiped my hands, picked up the phone, and let whatever came next arrive on its own terms.
Chapter Nineteen
Melanie
The moment the door clicked shut behind Drew, I just… stood there. Bare legs, plaid nightshirt, peppermint steam curling into the December air like a tiny, festive middle finger to common sense.
It was, objectively, a simple gesture. A cup of coffee. People do it every day without spiraling into a full-body crisis. People accept beverages without mentally undressing the person delivering them. Normal people, anyway.
I am apparently not normal people.
Because the second his knuckles brushed mine, my treacherous brain staged a hostile takeover. Rip-off-flannel, back-to-bed, do-not-pass-go levels of takeover. I could practically see it, felt it.
His laugh against my throat, those hands at my hips, the nightshirt a casualty of war on the living room floor, all flooding my mind in a way that shouldn’t be this early in the morning.
And because God loves balance, another image flooded my mind.
Drew handed me the coffee like it was a hot potato, and he was fleeing a crime scene. The careful smile. This is totally platonic energy. The way he backed down the stairs like one wrong move would detonate us.
Which fine. Accurate.
Because I made a vow. A good one. A smart, adult vow. The kind women in control of their lives make.
I was going to stay away from him as much as possible.
And at minimum, I was not going to sleep with him.
Two goals. Seemed doable.
Current status report:
Stay away from him: failed so spectacularly that it deserved a commemorative plaque.
Not sleep with him: ongoing, but my resolve was akin to a raccoon rummaging through a trash can at midnight.
I shuffled to the kitchen and set the cup on the counter like it might explode. The peppermint hit my nose, and I hated how much it smelled like kindness. Like thoughtfulness. Like him knowing I’d be wrecked this morning and bringing me sugar and caffeine in a paper cup with a doodled candy cane on top.
“Absolutely not,” I told the cup. “You will not be used as evidence.”
I grabbed a pen from the junk drawer and a sticky note from the small stack Lydia left when she transformed this apartment into a Christmas cottage, and wrote:
Do not sleep with Drew in all caps. I stuck it to the front of the cabinet.
And because I know myself, I added:
Even if he smiles like that and
Even if he plays our song on the jukebox and, for good measure,
Even if he brings more coffee.
The sticky note looked ridiculous. Childish. Necessary.
I took another sip of the mocha. It was perfect. Of course it was.
“Okay,” I muttered, squaring my shoulders. “Avoidance. Packing. Movement. We’re a woman with a plan.”
