“And you,” I said, “are confident you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t,” he said simply. “But I can be sorry it hurt.”
That was unfair.
That was exactly the kind of sentence that could make a sane woman do unsane things, like forgive without evidence or throw herself into a hug she didn’t trust yet.
I put my hand on the stack of wreath tags like it was a podium.
“For Callum and Lydia’s sake,” I said, steady as I could make it, “let’s keep this amicable. I’ll help with the market, I’ll help with the pancake breakfast, and I’ll stay out of your way.”
His mouth opened. Closed.
“Stay with me,” he said finally, hushed. “Don’t run.”
“Staying with you would involve staying,” I said lightly. “I’m switching to beginner mode. One sleepover at a time was clearly advanced. I don’t have the heart or the patience to see too many of your goodbye hugs with women.”
Lydia pressed her mittens to her cheeks, as if she needed insulation from the emotional weather.
“Okay,” she said faintly, “so we’re all going to hydrate and use our inside voices—”
“Inside voices,” I agreed. “So inside you can barely hear them.”
Drew scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, like he was physically restraining himself from saying something that would either fix me or ruin us.
“I didn’t lie to you,” he said. “I didn’t hide her. I didn’t touch her.” He exhaled. “If you can’t believe me, say that. But don’t dress it up as a joke and pretend it doesn’t matter.”
I hated him a little for being right. I hated myself a lot for knowing it.
“Believe is a big word,” I said. “I’m more of a ‘collect data, draft a memo’ kind of girl.”
“Funny,” he said. “I thought you were the show up anyway kind.”
The words hit me square in the sternum.
Because I had. I’d shown up in a snowstorm, stupid and brave and reckless. I’d let myself want, and he’d met me in the wanting, and it had been so good my bones had felt new.
And now a tidy blonde with a rental property had turned me back into a punchline I’d written for myself. That wasn’t on Janey. That was on me.
“Hashbrowns,” Callum announced too brightly from the kitchen pass, as if he could feed the moment into submission. He slid two takeout boxes onto the bar.
“Extra crispy,” he added pointedly, “because we love you.”
I swallowed.
“Thanks,” I said, because manners are the last defense of the doomed.
Lydia threaded her arm through mine.
“We’re going,” she told the room in her Chief Elf voice. “We’ll see you at the square in an hour. Or we’ll see you in two hours if anyone needs to cool down by walking around the river and talking to themselves. Both are valid.”
“Copy,” Callum said.
Drew didn’t move.
“Melanie.” Soft again. Damn him.
I turned, because I’m not a monster. His expression had shifted—not the defensive set of a man pleading a case, but the tired truth of someone offering his last good thing. “If you needto be mad,” he said, “be mad at me. I can take it. But don’t be mad at yourself for letting it be good.”
