“Congratulations,” I said. “Have you told her who yet or are we keeping that part a fun surprise?”
“Mel—”
“Because I’m very pro-clarity,” I went on, bright. “For instance: I am now pro-staying-with-Lydia, because when I say I’ll sleep at a place, I enjoy knowing who else’s lips might be air-kissing the perimeter.”
The bar went so quiet you could hear Bing Crosby reconsidering his life choices.
Drew’s jaw hardened.
“You think I’d do that to you?” he asked, incredulous.
I blinked. “I think you have an enthusiastic alumni network.”
Callum muttered something that sounded like
“I’m going to check the… walk-in,” and vanished.
Drew took a breath, set his hands on the bar, and leaned forward just enough that only I could hear.
“I didn’t flirt,” he said. “I didn’t invite it. She hugged goodbye. That’s it.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, tossing my hair back like a flag. “And Paris is just a little town with a tower.”
“Mel.”
The way he said my name, frustration braided into something tender, almost unhooked me.
Almost.
I could feel the heat behind my eyes and the humiliating wobble in my throat and the heavy truth lumbering toward me. I liked him enough to be this unfunny in public.
So I did what I do best when a feeling gets too big. I made it small and wore it like armor.
“We’re fine,” I said brightly, scooping the tote back up. “Honestly. This is all very Hallmark. Woman from past, woman from now, man in flannel—if the tree falls on someone, we’ll hit bingo.”
Lydia breathed through her nose like she was counting down from ten in three languages.
“Mel,” she said gently. “Maybe—”
“We have wreaths to deliver,” I reminded her, sugary. “And I promised to help cut ribbon without bleeding on the merchandise.”
Drew shook his head once, a tiny, incredulous movement, like a man watching someone put a life jacket on wrong by choice.
“Let me talk to you,” he said. “Not as an apology. As a fact.”
“Fact,” I repeated. “Like how gravity works? Or how women sneak kisses in bars?”
“That wasn’t…”
“Not a kiss, I know,” I said. “It just looked like one from the moral high ground of the front door.”
He stared at me for a heartbeat.
“You’re scared,” he said quietly.
I laughed. It sounded like something delicate breaking. “Of what? Hashbrowns?”
“Of staying.” He didn’t blink. “Of letting something be good.”
