The wine was chilled to that exact spot where it tastes like good decisions. I nodded.
“Approved. She’s going to love you.”
He made a noncommittal sound and went back to the bag, lifting out the rolls, still warm, wrapped in a tea towel patterned with holly, and the tin that rattled in a disconcerting way.
“I asked Riley what’s in there,” he said, setting it gently on the counter like it might detonate. “She said, and I quote, the holidays.”
“Terrifying,” I said. “We’ll save it for dessert and a small, controlled explosion.”
He took in the room then, properly, like he hadn’t the moment he stepped in because kissing and teasing had done their usual hijacking. His gaze moved over the tree, the mantle,the ridiculous ceramic post office with teensy wreaths on its teensy doors.
“This place,” he said, soft. “Mel…you made it look like…you.”
“Yeah? A little messy? Confused?”
“Joyful.” He reached to fix a strand of garland that had slid askew over the window frame, touched it lightly, like people might notice if the world weren’t perfect and he could help. “It’s warm. And a little bossy. And you keep finding places to tuck beauty.”
“Bossy,” I said, pretending to be offended, and he grinned.
“Only in ways that keep people fed and safe.” He turned back to me, leaned his hip against the counter, and for a second the tiny kitchen felt like an orbit that made more sense than any city map. “Is she still on schedule?”
I checked my phone, which had acquired a tasteful film of powdered sugar at some point. “She texted from the turnoff. Which means any minute now we will be three.”
“Do we have a plan?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Smile. Pour wine. Be charming. If she asks about grandchildren, pretend the generator kicked off and we lost the call.”
“Got it,” he said solemnly. “Deflect with infrastructure.”
I laughed, because he looked amused, fond, and a little scared in a way that made me braver. He dug in the bottom of the bag and produced a bundle wrapped in brown paper and twine. My name was on a tag in his blocky printing.
“What’s this?” I asked, heart doing new gymnastics.
“Your official Reckless River starter kit,” he said. “Open.”
Inside, I found a pair of wool mittens, hand-knit, thick, cranberry red, and a small carved ornament, sanded smooth and stained the color of coffee with a little river stone showing the town’s outline painted onto it, and a tiny star where The Rusty Stag sat on Main.
I swallowed. “Drew.”
He shrugged, suddenly shy, like a six-foot-two man could disappear between a kettle and a cutting board. “I figured your tree needed a local. And your hands needed to stay attached to your wrists. Frostbite isn’t helpful for anyone.”
I slid the mittens on because it felt like a ritual and held my hands up. “I’m a pioneer woman.”
He smiled like he’d been waiting to see them on me. I crossed to the tree and found a spot, low and central, and hung the ornament there. The lights caught the gloss on the wood and the star winked like it knew more than it told.
The doorbell chimed again, louder this time, a fanfare. Reflex sent my hands to smooth my hair, my sweater, my life. Drew picked up the bottle and two glasses as if the man had been born doing triage for first impressions.
“Ready?” he murmured.
“No,” I said. “Yes. Absolutely not. Open the door.”
I did.
My mom stood there wrapped in a wool coat the color of pewter, a red scarf thrown over one shoulder like a cape, and snow in her hair.
She looked like she usually did: exactly like a woman who had raised me and would, if pressed, organize a coup with a goodspreadsheet and two pots of tea. Her smile hit me full force, the kind that makes you twelve and brave and ridiculous all at once.
“Hi, Baby,” she said, eyes skimming me top to toe as if she could see the decisions I’d made since August hanging off me like jewelry. “Look at you. You look happy.” She sniffed the air. “And smell like cinnamon.”
