“Too late,” he said, chuckling as he handed a drink to one of the locals. “Seems like it’s stuck in your head anyway.”
I grabbed my glass, took a long sip of mulled wine, and muttered into it, “So is the urge to strangle you.”
From behind the bar, his laugh rolled through the room, and that low, rich, and infuriatingly warm tone made me want to melt. And even though I wanted to scowl, I caught myself smiling instead.
The night wore on, the snow kept falling, and I told myself the flutter in my chest was just the tinsel’s fault.
But I wasn’t fooling anyone.
Somewhere between the second snowstorm warning and the third round of drinks, The Rusty Stag had turned into a warm, humming snow globe of laughter and flannel.
Locals packed the tables, their cheeks pink from the cold, and tourists with their perfect puffer jackets and wide-eyed holiday awe squeezed into the last few stools. Christmas lights blinked lazily over the bar, reflecting off the glass bottles lined up behind Drew, who was moving like he’d been born behind that counter—laughing, pouring, listening.
I told myself I was just people-watching.
But then he rolled up his sleeves again to cool off.
The act of the fabric sliding against his forearms might as well have been a thunderclap.
My brain short-circuited.
It wasn’t my fault.
Those forearms wereillegal. Strong, tan, lightly dusted with hair, the veins visible beneath the skin as he twisted open a bottle.
And then there were the tattoos.
I’d memorized most of them before, though I’d never admit that out loud…the raven that wrapped around his wrist, the faint script near his elbow I’d once traced with my fingertips. But as he reached for a glass, I caught a glimpse of something new, something I didn’t recognize.
Black ink peeked out from under the cuff.
Curiosity flared, sharp and inconvenient.
I leaned forward, pretending to check my phone while my eyes zeroed in on the edge of that tattoo. It looked like… letters? No, numbers. Maybe a date inside a compass?
And then he caught me staring.
He didn’t say a word. Just grinned. That slow, devastating grin that saidgotcha.
My entire face went nuclear.
I spun on my heel so fast I nearly tripped over a barstool and made a beeline for the back booth where Lydia sat, surrounded by papers and markers and a roll of glittery tape like she was running Santa’s administrative office.
She didn’t even look up as I slid into the seat across from her. “You were staring, weren’t you?”
“No,” I said too quickly.
“You were totally staring.”
“I wasnot.”
She hummed, uncapping a red marker. “I can practically feel the fluster from here.”
“I’m not flustered,” I said, snatching a stray napkin and folding it in half. “I was just—”
“Admiring the decor?”
“Yes.”
