“I’ll give you that,” I said, half a smile tugging at my mouth. “You are more effective in person.”
“Effective,” he repeated. “That’s romantic.”
“I’m a woman of precision.”
“Precision is sexy,” he said, his voice dropping just a touch.
I rolled my eyes, even as my pulse tripped. “You can’t flirt your way out of this conversation.”
“Can’t I?”
“No,” I said firmly. “You’re deflecting.”
“Deflecting,” he echoed. “Fancy word for scared.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he said, but his tone wasn’t rough. Just knowing. “You’ve been scared since the minute you said yes. Maybe before that.”
I opened my mouth, and closed it. Because he wasn’t off.
“Drew,” I said finally, “this is hard.”
“I know.”
“And it’s messy.”
“Always.”
“And I don’t know how to do it without feeling like I’m halfway between two lives.”
He was quiet for a second. “You are.”
I looked at the snow globe again, the little bridge over the frozen river. My throat ached. “Then maybe I’m the problem.”
“Or maybe you just haven’t picked which side of the bridge you want to stand on yet.”
“That’s poetic for a bartender.”
“I’ve been reading,” he said, deadpan. “Riley said it would help.”
That made me laugh in spite of myself as the line went quiet again.
It wasn’t awkward, but it was fragile. We were circling the part where honesty meets self-defense, and I wasn’t sure which of us would blink first.
I stared down at my half-empty wine glass and said quietly, “You didn’t overstep.”
“Sure feels like I did.”
“You didn’t.”
“Then why do you sound like you’re already walking away?”
“I’m not.”
“Then what is this, Mel?”
I opened my mouth, ready to explain, ready to untangle it, when the doorbell rang.
