I laughed, tears threatening but deciding not to be dramatic. “I burned a batch and then overcorrected with the next.”
“That’s my girl,” she said, stepping in so I could hug her the right way.
When we broke apart, she clocked Drew in that laser way moms do. He, to his eternal credit, didn’t flinch. He just held out the already-poured glass like a peace offering and a welcome and maybe a small lifeline.
“Hi, Ms.Sauser,” he said, voice smooth and a little playful, which meant he’d guessed correctly about the temperature of the room. “I’m Drew. Merry Christmas.”
“Call me Sally. Merry Christmas,” she said, with the kind of seriousness that saysI’m glad we all lived to see this one,then took the glass in the way of a woman who had decided she liked him five seconds ago and would allow him to continue existing.
She sipped, eyes flicked around the room, took in the tree, the mantle, the man, and then turned to me with her verdict already in hand.
“I understand,” she said, simply, quietly, like we were alone in a loud world. “Why you left the city.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Drew
Christmas Day
The lights from the tree were low and golden, the house finally quiet. Callum and Lydia had gone upstairs in their house, Sally had passed out under an afghan on the couch, and it was just me and Melanie on the floor, backs against the sofa, a mess of wrapping paper and cookie crumbs around us. It had been a great Christmas at my brother’s, but I could tell Mel and I didn’t want it to end.
The fire had burned down to a soft glow, and she traced a finger along the ink on my forearm, the small compass and a letter followed by a set of numbers.
“You never told me what these mean,” she said softly. “I figured maybe they were coordinates. Or a secret code for world domination.”
“Close,” I said, voice rough from laughter and something else. “They’re coordinates, kind of. Emotional geography.”
She tilted her head, waiting.
“They’re numbers from the old jukebox at The Rusty Stag,” I said. “The song selection. The one that got stuck on repeat that night.”
Her brows lifted, realization dawning. “Thatnight?”
I nodded, smiling. “B769. Sinatra, ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin.’ It kept looping, remember? You were mad at it. I was mad at it. And then you kissed me anyway.”
Melanie’s eyes softened. “That song’s been following us ever since.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “It felt right to mark it. Every compass points somewhere, right? That one points to you. To the moment I stopped pretending you weren’t it for me.”
For a second, neither of us spoke. The fire cracked softly, the air smelled like cinnamon and pine, and she leaned closer until her forehead brushed mine.
“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered.
“Probably,” I said. “But it’s permanent.”
She smiled against my mouth as she kissed me—slow, sure, and just long enough for the song to start again in my head, looping like it always did.
She drew back first, her lips still close enough that her breath brushed mine. “You got a permanent reminder of me,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching. “That’s dangerous, Benedict. What if I’d been a holiday fling?”
I tipped my head toward the tree, where the lights blinked like they were in on the joke. “Then I’d have one hell of a Christmas ghost story.”
She laughed, that soft, breathy sound that always hits low in my chest. “Guess you’re stuck with me now.”
“Guess I am.” I slid a thumb along her cheekbone. “Worst fate imaginable.”
Her eyes rolled, but her smile stayed. The fire cracked, Sally snored gently on the couch, and the whole house seemed to breathe with us, warm and sleepy. Outside, snow feathered against the windowpanes, turning the glass to gold.
Melanie leaned into my shoulder, her voice drowsy. “You really never told anyone about the tattoo?”
