I hadn’t meant to stay behind with Drew.
Really. I’d planned to finish my cocoa, make a few polite comments about the weather, and retreat to the apartment Lydia no longer lived in and rented out to tourists.
But somehow, I was still here with my elbows on the bar, cheeks warm from the heater blasting, and heart doing that ridiculous skip every time he moved.
“You gonna stare at your empty mug all night, or you want a refill?” Drew’s voice pulled me back. He was leaning on the other side of the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows again, tattoos peeking out beneath the flannel. The man had no right to look that good while standing next to a string of blinking reindeer lights.
“I’m fine,” I said, swirling what was left in my mug. “You spike this?”
He smirked. “You think I’d let you drinkunspikedcocoa? What kind of host do you take me for?”
“The kind who knows me too well,” I said. “I like this candy cane.”
He grinned. “Festive innovation.”
“You didn’t invent them.”
“No, but they look pretty great with your spiked beverage and we’re the first bar to use them in Reckless River.”
“You’re the only bar in Reckless River.”
“You just like to argue.” I rolled my eyes, but the smile tugging at my lips betrayed me.
The Rusty Stag looked different tonight—warmer, softer. Someone, probably Lydia, had draped garland along the beams, and a small tree sat in the corner, half-decorated, with a few lonely ornaments clinging for dear life.
The fireplace crackled, sending shadows dancing across the worn wood floor.
“You guys got the fireplace working?” I asked, hoping to move the conversation to something technical.
“Lydia had the chimney rebuilt.”
“That was nice of her.”
“She’s a great landlord.”
“It’s been her dream.” I nodded and took in how cozy and comforting this little place had become.
It was the kind of cozy that crept under your defenses.
“You know,” I said, nodding toward the tree, “for all that outdoor decorating, the inside looks like you gave up halfway through. The tree is even naked.”
He glanced over. “I did give up halfway through.”
“Tragic.” I took another sip, then added, “You need help.”
He arched a brow. “You volunteering?”
“Maybe,” I said, tilting my head. “If I get to supervise.”
“Supervise?”
“Yeah. You do the ladder work. I critique.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Same Melanie, different holiday.”
“Efficient delegation is a skill. I do it with third graders all the time.”
“You’re saying I’m like a third grader?” He moved around the bar, grabbing a box of ornaments from the corner.
