“People think wrong all the time.”
I laughed, low. “You’re a piece of work.”
“And you’re late on your pancake orders,” she said, trying to sound businesslike, but her tone betrayed her.
“Callum’s got it handled.”
“Then maybe you should help him.”
“Maybe I’d rather stay right here.”
She glanced around the bar. “In the middle of the breakfast rush? That’s your plan?”
“Plan?” I said. “Nah. Just instinct.”
Her breath caught just slightly at the word.
I noticed it.
She knew I noticed it.
Before I could say anything else, a customer called my name from down the counter, and the moment broke.
Melanie straightened, smoothing her coat. “Don’t let me keep you from your loyal fans.”
“You mean my customers?”
“Same thing,” she said, though there was a flash of something almost jealous behind the sarcasm.
“Don’t go far,” I said, picking up a tray.
“I wasn’t planning to,” she replied, but her voice came out softer than either of us expected.
As I walked down the bar, I caught Callum grinning from the griddle. He flipped a pancake into the air, caught it neatly, and said under his breath, “Smooth, little brother. Really smooth.”
I ignored him, setting plates in front of a pair of locals who were arguing over syrup flavors. When I looked back, Melanie was perched on one of the stools, unzipping her coat, the mocha cup propped between her chest and chin so she could keep sipping magically. I couldn’t even fathom the engineering feat that took. I also didn’t know why she didn’t just set it on the counter.
She was talking to someone at the next stool, smiling politely, but her eyes flicked toward me more than once.
Yeah.
She was still mad.
Still flustered.
Still mine to annoy.
I went back to the register, but every part of me was buzzing, restless. Watching her laugh, the sound soft under the clatter of dishes, I realized that calling a truce last night had been a mistake. A big one. Because peace was never what we did best.
We were friction—sparks on contact. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to feel that spark catch again.
So, when I finally circled back with her pancake plate, gingerbread man, extra butter, because I remembered how she liked it, I made sure to brush her hand as I set it down.
She froze and looked up.
And in that heartbeat, with snow still falling beyond the window and the smell of cinnamon thick in the air, every stupid thing I wanted to say rushed through my head at once.
Instead, I just smiled. “For the record, your barista down the lane might make a better mocha, but I bet she can’t make pancakes shaped like heartbreak.”
