Couldn’t have been worse timing. Couldn’t have been a worse person.
All I could think was: keep it clean.
No flirting.
Keep itfriendlyand move her along. Janey had always been a casual thing for me—a few easy months, followed by “good seeing you” before we drifted.
No grand speeches. No promises to ruin. Certainly nothing like what I’d started building with Melanie.
Janey swept her gaze over the bar, taking in the tree in the corner, the garland looped over the backbar mirror, the chalkboard sign Lydia bullied me into drawing that said MERRY & MASHED. When her eyes found mine, she smiled like we were the punchline to a private joke.
“Drew Benedict,” she said, voice carrying just enough to feel deliberate. “Still allergic to days off?”
The Stag was in its morning mood of half breakfast, half hair-of-the-dog. Bing crooned lazily from the jukebox. Steam curled from mugs. A couple of linemen thawed at the corner table, boots leaking small snow puddles onto the mat. Behind me, the grill hissed, Callum flipping bacon like he was fanning a flame.
“Hey, Janey,” I said, aiming for neutral. “What can I get you?”
She shed the coat, folded it over her arm, and took the center stool at the bar—hers, once upon a non-story.
“Start me with a mimosa,” she said, bright. “I’ve got a rental to prep and convincing myself it’s brunch will help. And breakfast sandwich—brioche if you’ve got it. Hashbrowns, obviously. Your famous ones. I’ve had dreams.”
“Dream bigger,” I said, already reaching for the flute. “Orange or cranberry?”
“Cranberry. Festive.”
Festive. I poured the bubbles, topped with tart red. Slid it across. “Food’ll be out in a few.”
Janey lifted the glass, took a careful sip, and made a small appreciative sound she’d made for wine tastings, gallery openings, sunsets—polished, practiced.
“You decorated,” she said, eyes tracking the twinkle lights we’d strung over the bottles. “That used to be like pulling teeth.”
“Lydia directed,” I said. “I just stood there and handed her the command hooks.”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “And you didn’t grumble?”
“Not where she could hear.”
She laughed—soft, cultured. It used to go down smooth. Today, it sounded like the start of trouble.
“So,” she said, elbow on wood, chin in palm, the pose that saysI have all day to make you remember me.“How’ve you been?”
“Fine,” I said. “Busy.”
“Busy suits you.” Her gaze flicked to my rolled sleeves. “Forearms still criminal.”
I didn’t take the bait. “How’s Seattle?”
“Over-caffeinated.” She eyed the room again. “But I’m here. Tenants moved out. I figured I’d winterize, repaint, put the place back on the holiday market.” She smiled over the rim of her glass. “Maybe see some old friends.”
Right. And maybe set some old landmines.
Behind me, Callum slid the order bell with the subtlety of a cymbal crash. “Benedict.”
I turned. He tilted the spatula toward the window that looked into the kitchen, eyes narrowed just enough to deliver a message: careful. He knew Janey; he knew the wake she left and the stories that followed.
I plated her brioche sandwich, stacked high with eggs, cheese, crispy bacon, and those hash browns that have their own fan club.
I set the plate in front of her. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
