Lately, I’d started imagining something different.
A kitchen light in the morning. A second mug on the counter. The sound of someone laughing from the other room.
And every time, it was her.
Melanie.
Even when she wasn’t here, she was everywhere. In the smell of coffee. In the echo of a sarcastic joke I wanted to tell her. In the way my chest ached when the day ended and I realized I still hadn’t stopped thinking about her.
I turned off the lights one by one until only the bar’s Christmas tree glowed in the corner, and the lights flickered above the boxes of booze I was counting.
“Blue Christmas,” I said under my breath, shaking my head. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Instead, I just stood there, staring at it, feeling stupidly hopeful again.
Because as much as I told myself it was over, as much as I promised I wouldn’t wait, some part of me still imagined the door opening, her voice cutting through the quiet, saying something sarcastic like,You’re really bad at phone calls, you know that?
But the door stayed closed.
The only sound was Elvis, singing low and sad.
You’ll be doin’ all right, with your Christmas of white…
The wind outside was howling like it had a grudge, and I was halfway through tallying inventory when the front door blew open hard enough to rattle the windows. A gust tore through The Rusty Stag, whipping papers off the counter and sending a handful of cocktail napkins sailing like snowflakes across the floor.
I muttered a curse and went to shut it, but before I could reach the door, a familiar voice drifted through the cold.
“Miss me?”
I damn near tripped over a barstool.
There she was with hair tousled from the wind, cheeks pink from the cold, and that half-cocked grin that always made me forget how to breathe.
Melanie.
She was standing in my doorway like some kind of Christmas fever dream.
For a second, I just stared. I was half convinced the lack of sleep and too many Elvis songs had finally broken me.
“Melanie?”
“In the flesh,” she said, stepping inside and kicking the door shut behind her. A fresh swirl of snowflakes came with her, melting on the floorboards. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Close enough.” My voice came out rougher than I meant it to. “I—what the hell? How’d you get in here? I know I locked that door.”
She lifted a small silver key and dangled it between her fingers, the metal glinting in the low light. “Lydia gave me hers.”
I blinked. “Of course she did.”
She grinned wider, unapologetic. “She said if I changed my mind, I’d know where to find you.”
“That woman’s gonna be the death of me,” I muttered, but I couldn’t stop smiling.
Melanie glanced around the bar like she was reacquainting herself with it, her gaze lingering on the twinkle lights still strung above the shelves. The air between us crackled—warm, charged, dangerous. I took a step closer, still half in disbelief.
“You said your car was dead,” I said. “How’d you get up here?”
She brushed snow from her hair, giving me a sly look that made my heart trip. “Money talks.”
