She froze.
I stayed still, close enough to feel her breathing. “You okay?”
Her voice was low, cautious. “You do realize this is why I stopped coming around.”
“Because I accidentally touch your hip?”
“Because you never doanythingaccidentally.”
I grinned at that—couldn’t help it. “You give me too much credit.”
“And not enough distance,” she shot back, but her voice had softened, betraying her.
I leaned against the counter beside her, the space between us now thin as a breath. “You could’ve stayed away for good.”
She stared at the lights flickering on the tree instead of me. “Lydia invited me to the festival this weekend and again for the holidays.”
“You could’ve said no.”
“I could’ve,” she said, almost to herself. “But then you’d think I was avoiding you.”
I smiled. “So you’re admitting it.”
“I’m admitting nothing.”
“Sure, sweetheart.”
Her head snapped toward me. “Don’t call me that.”
I lifted my hands in mock surrender. “Touchy.”
“I just—” She blew out a breath, like she was trying to deflate the tension between us. “You drive me crazy.”
“That’s mutual.”
“Then maybe we should keep our distance.”
I looked around the bar at the warm firelight, misted windows, snow still falling outside, and then back at her.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s not happening.”
Before she could fire back, the front door rattled in the wind, and a few flakes of snow blew in through the gap at the top.
She glanced over. “You should fix that before the floor gets wet.”
“Already did last week,” I said, moving past her toward the window. “But it’s Reckless River. Weather likes to break things on principle.”
She followed, standing beside me as I pulled a curtain closed on the side window. The glass was cold under my palm.
Her shoulder brushed mine, and this time she didn’t move away.
Outside, the streetlamps glowed faintly through the falling snow. Everything was muffled and soft like the whole world was taking a breath.
“You know,” she said quietly, “this place gets under your skin.”
“The bar?”
“The town. The lights. The quiet. It’s infuriating.”
