I stared at him for a long second, then rubbed a hand over my face. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he said easily. “So? Which one of you won me a dinner?”
I sighed, pushing back from my stool and standing. The bar creaked as I leaned on it. “Melanie.”
Callum paused mid-sip. “Melanie figured it out first?”
“Yep.”
He laughed one of those deep, knowing laughs that instantly got on my nerves. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”
“Glad my humiliation amuses you.”
“It’s not humiliation,” he said, still grinning. “It’s… predictable.”
I gave him a look. “Predictable?”
“Sure,” he said, leaning back against the shelves of bottles. “She’s got that sharp city brain. Always noticing details. You’ve got—”
“Careful.”
“That slow-burn charm,” he finished, smirking. “You see what’s right in front of you, but you don’t overthink it.”
“I think plenty,” I muttered, picking up my mug again.
“Do you?”
I glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged innocently, but his eyes were too sharp for it to be casual.
“You’ve been crabby all morning. So either the coffee’s bad, which it’s not, or you’ve got something else rattling around in that head of yours.”
“I’m fine.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, you say that every time you’re not.”
I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I watched the snow through the window. The flakes had started up again, lazy spirals against the glass, softening the edges of everything outside.
The truth was, I hadn’t slept much. I’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling, replaying the look on Melanie’s face when I’d left her apartment—the mix of guilt, surprise, and something that might’ve been fear.
We’d finally crossed that line we’d been toeing for months, and for about five minutes, it had felt like the whole world made sense. Then reality had walked in and rearranged the furniture.
Different lives. Different towns. Different everything.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about her, even now.
“Earth to Drew,” Callum said, snapping his fingers in front of me.
“What?”
He grinned. “There it is. The classic Benedict glaze.”
I frowned. “The what?”
“You know,” he said, waving his mug. “That faraway look you get when you’re trying to pretend you’re not thinking about a woman.”
“I’m not—”
