And if a man can be grateful for a sentence that still sounds like a chance, that was me, standing behind a bar that suddenly felt like a very small raft in a very cold river.
Chapter Thirty-One
Melanie
The human body is a marvel. It can walk into a bar made of warm wood and cinnamon air, see a blonde woman’s mouth brush the corner of a man’s jaw, and perform three feats simultaneously: stop breathing, keep standing, and smile politely.
Mine did all three. I wanted to send it a fruit basket.
“Hi, Drew,” I said, and the words felt like glass marbles rolling around in my mouth—bright, cold, slippery.
Lydia, bless her violently festive heart, took one look at Janey and made the face of a woman preparing to throw herself on a grenade.
Drew lifted his hands, palms out, as if he could stop momentum with sincerity. “It’s not what—”
“I know,” I said lightly, cutting him off now that Janey had left.
“No mistletoe, right? We have bylaws.” I held up the stack of tags and jingled the ribbon. “Here. Lydia’s genius idea: names on one side, silent auction bids on the other. The bells are purely for intimidation.”
Lydia swallowed a sigh. “That’s right. We’re weaponizing cheer.”
I handed the tags across the bar to Callum, safe hands and neutral ground, and set my tote down carefully, as if the floor might crack under anything heavier than diplomacy.
Drew watched me like a man trying to read a menu after the words had rearranged themselves into a threat.
“Melanie,” he tried again, voice low. “She came in for breakfast. It was a hello.”
“And a goodbye,” I said, crisp as cellophane. “We all saw it. Very… festive.”
“I told her I was with someone.”
“How are the famous hashbrowns? I heard they convert the faithless.”
Callum, sweet, doomed peacekeeper, cleared his throat. “Uh, crunchy.”
“Marvelous,” I said. “We’ll take two plates to go.” I turned to Lydia, who was staring at me like I’d just told her I’d given up sugar and friendship. “Right? We have bows to tie and a town to bedazzle. Can’t stand in The Rusty Stag all morning.”
“Mel,” Drew said, softer now.
I looked at him.
He was just… Drew. Flannel rolled to his forearms. That stubborn mouth that had learned to be soft. The eyes that hadwatched me sleep like it was a privilege. He looked guilty and confused and like a man trying very hard not to swear at fate.
I was so mad at him I could have screamed, which was ridiculous because I was mostly mad at myself.
Of course, there was a woman. Of course, there were several. He was a bartender with tattoos and one-liners that came pre-salted; women like me fell onto those lines the way snow falls on pine—predictably, beautifully, stupidly. Why wouldn’t there be a blonde from the archives, coming back to town with a rental property and a memory?
This was the part where I reminded myself of my vows: I, MelanieSauser, will not cry in public. I will not stage a scene in my best friend’s fiancé’s bar. I will not explain to a man why watching another woman lean in like that made every promise in my chest detonate.
Instead, I arranged my sarcasm like very sharp, very pretty cutlery and set the table.
“So,” I said, congenial as a talk-show host. “Holiday rush going well? Lots of…traffic?”
Lydia shot me a look. The one that says,I love you.
Drew flinched almost imperceptibly.
“It was nothing,” he said. “I told her I’m seeing someone.”
