She turned away, but I caught it—that tiny smile she tried to hide. And I knew right then that no matter how many walls she built, I’d keep finding the cracks.
Because the truth was, the ship hadn’t completely sunk.
It was circling the harbor, waiting for one wrong move to come crashing back to shore.
Chapter Five
Melanie
By the time The Rusty Stag filled up for the night, the snow had gone from picturesque to full-on blizzard. The kind of storm that made everyone in town abandon their plans and pile into the bar for warmth, food, and something spiked enough to make the weather look romantic.
I sat at the far end of the bar, watching locals walk in with red cheeks and puffy jackets, stomping snow off their boots like they owned the place. Lydia was chatting up some woman from the bakery, Drew was behind the bar pouring drinks and flashing smiles, and I was silently wondering why my hot cocoa had somehow turned into mulled wine.
Small-town hospitality, I guessed.
“Busy tonight,” I said, mostly to myself.
Drew glanced up from pouring a pint, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth.
“Storm nights always are. Nothing to do but drink and gossip.” His eyes nearly twinkled if I didn’t know better.
“Charming,” I muttered, taking a sip.
“Reckless River’s motto.”
“Is that what they put on the welcome sign?”
“Should be.”
He slid the pint across to a bearded guy at the counter and wiped his hands on a towel. “You good over there?”
“Perfect,” I said. “Just embracing the festive chaos.”
“You don’t sound festive.”
“That’s because I have taste.”
He chuckled under his breath, and I told myself it wasn’t my favorite sound. But it kind of was with that low, easy rumble that somehow made this old wood-paneled place feel warmer. It didn’t help that theTake me to the Riverfish on the wall kept staring at me.
Lydia appeared beside me with two empty glasses and a grin. “You have glitter in your hair.”
“What?”
She laughed, brushing at my shoulder. “From the tinsel.”
I frowned. “Tinsel?”
Before I could look, Drew’s voice cut in, soft and amused. “Hold still.”
He reached across the bar, closer than necessary, definitely closer than legal bar etiquette, and his fingers slid through a strand of my hair. Static sparked against my skin. He caught theoffending piece of silver tinsel and held it up, sparkling between his fingers.
“There,” he said, voice low enough to hum through me. “Got it, babe.”
I forgot how to inhale for a second. My knees went weak. Which, for the record, was ridiculous. I was not some swoony holiday heroine starring in some movie and undone by a man and a piece of Christmas décor.
Except apparently, I was.
My skin buzzed where his fingers had grazed my neck. I needed to move. To think. To stopfeeling.
