The night was supposed to be easy.
Callum left to run an errand for Lydia, and I had the bar under control, mostly. It was one of those steady Reckless River nights where the whole town was buzzing from the festival—snow falling thick outside, heaters flickering along the sidewalk, the scent of roasted nuts and cocoa sneaking in each time the door opened.
The Rusty Stag glowed warm and golden, laughter spilling between tables. It was comfortable. Predictable.
Until she showed up.
Nother-her,not Melanie. Not yet.
No, first came the blonde.
The same one who’d been here the other night—icy blue eyes, a laugh like mistletoe and trouble, and just enough flirtation to make the regulars lean closer when she talked. I remembered her because Melanie had noticed her too.
And judging by the way that night had ended, with Melanie storming out and me wanting to kick myself, I really didn’t need this woman back in my bar.
But there she was, perched on a stool near the middle, stirring her martini and smiling like she knew things she shouldn’t.
“Evening,” she said as I walked by. “The usual?”
I kept my voice neutral. “You were here once, not a regular yet.”
She laughed softly. “I could be.”
“Uh-huh.” I started pulling a draft for another table. “You here for the festival?”
“Came for the festival,” she said, tilting her head, “stayed for the company.”
“Good for you,” I said, setting the beer down for someone else.
She smiled wider. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”
“Depends who’s listening.”
She raised her glass in a mock toast. “Mysterious. I like that.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and turned to grab a towel. My job was to pour drinks, not imagine things that weren’t there or the sharp edge of irritation that always followed when certain people saw me talking to someone else.
I was halfway through restocking the garnishes when the door opened.
The blonde leaned forward just slightly, chin in hand, and smiled in that slow, deliberate way some people do when they like trouble.
I grabbed a rag and busied myself with the counter, pretending not to notice the sparks… and not the good kind.
The bell chimed, the wind carried in a swirl of snow, and there she was.
Melanie.
And Lydia, right beside her, all smiles and scarves and the kind of glow that came from pregnancy and pure mischief.
The bar was warm, but suddenly I was freezing.
Melanie stomped snow off her boots, muttering under her breath about the weather. The lamplight caught her hair, a few stray strands escaping her hat, and even from behind the bar, I could see the pink in her cheeks and the way her lashes were still dusted with flakes.
Lydia’s eyes landed on me first. “Hey, Drew!” she called cheerfully, as if nothing about this was awkward.
Melanie froze mid-step. Her eyes flicked toward the bar and the blonde.
Her expression changed faster than I could sayoh no.
