She blinked. “Excuse me?”
I pointed to the plate. “Look closer. He’s missing a heart. His chest has a hole.”
Her mouth twitched. “You’re ridiculous, and so is your brother.”
“And yet,” I said, leaning in just close enough to smell the coffee on her breath, “you’re still here.”
She looked down at the plate, shaking her head, but when she looked up again, her eyes were warm, bright, defiant.
And that right there was the problem. Because I wanted to dump her plate in the sink, pull her close, and kiss the fight right out of her.
But Lydia would kill me. And this town didn’t need another breakfast scandal.
So instead, I grinned. “Truce still on?”
She hesitated. “For now.”
“Good,” I said, turning away before I did something stupid. “But fair warning, sweetheart—every truce ends eventually.”
Her laugh followed me, low and dangerous and soft.
“Don’t call me that.”
And for the first time all morning, I didn’t feel tired at all.
Chapter Seven
Melanie
By the time the crowd thinned out, The Rusty Stag smelled like sugar, butter, and sin.
People were laughing, kids were licking syrup off their fingers, and the Christmas music had looped back toRockin’ Around the Christmas Treefor the fourth time, which I was convinced was some kind of psychological warfare. Lydia had gone to hand out ballots for the chili cookoff, and I’d made the mistake of staying behind to help at the bar.
And by help, I meant eating my second gingerbread man pancake.
Or, well, thinking about it. Because the second I looked up and saw Drew, the idea of food became secondary to whatever… this was.
He was working the griddle like a man born to flip things. His arms were busy flexing, flannel sleeves shoved up, tattooscatching the light as he poured batter into another perfect gingerbread shape.
Argh. Even his hair was a little messy, and I swear the morning sun filtering through the window was conspiring with him to make a little shadow along his jawline.
I told myself to look away.
I didn’t.
“Going for seconds?” Lydia’s voice chirped at my elbow, making me jump.
I pretended to study my empty plate. “Just… quality control.”
“Sure,” she said, clearly amused. “For the pancakes or the cook?”
I shot her a look. “Don’t you have a contest to host or something?”
“Not for another five minutes.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “You’ve got syrup on your mind and it’s not maple.”
“Lydia.”
“Mel.”
