“You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re clammy.”
“I’m not clam—” I stopped, because the floor tilted slightly in protest. I sat before he could gloat.
He poured me a glass of water and slid it across. “There. Hydration. Revolutionary concept.”
“Feels insulting,” I muttered, but drank it.
“You want my advice?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good. Here it is anyway. Seattle’s not Mars. Cars exist. Roads exist.”
I blinked. “Not chasing her.”
“Didn’t say chase. Said go.”
“I can’t go.”
“Why not?”
“The bar.” I gestured around the room like it was a valid excuse instead of a half-empty Wednesday.
He looked at the five customers, the elderly couple sharing a pretzel, a tourist nursing spiked cocoa like penance, and Riley’s empty stool near the door. “Yeah, real madhouse.”
“It’ll get busy.”
“Sure, champ.” His grin was infuriating. “You ever notice that the more you like someone, the more you sound like an excuse factory?”
“Point?”
“Point is, you’re scared.”
“I’m responsible.”
“Since when?”
I rolled my eyes.
“You’re terrified,” he continued. “And Lydia’s betting me a dozen cookies that you’ll admit it before closing.”
Right on cue, Lydia waddled in from the back, balancing two steaming mugs like some benevolent, pregnant elf.
“Uncle Brood,” she said cheerfully. “You look like your favorite reindeer got run over.”
“That’s dark, even for you,” I said.
“Drink this.” She slid a mug my way. “It’s ginger tea. It won’t kill you.”
“Tea doesn’t belong in a bar,” I muttered, taking a sip anyway.
“It does when your emotional liver needs a detox.” She perched beside Callum, hands on her belly like she was queen of the intervention. “So, you heard from Melanie?”
I sighed. “She texted.”
