“For what?” I asked, glaring.
He shrugged. “For the weather. For the mood. For driving you crazy.”
“Mission accomplished,” I muttered, but I could feel my mouth tugging at a smile.
He winked and returned to the bar, humming along under his breath.
Lydia gave me a knowing look. “You two are disgusting.”
“We’re notanything,” I said quickly.
She sipped her cider. “Sure, and I don’t own seventeen Christmas sweaters.”
Callum chuckled. “Seventeen?”
“Eighteen, actually,” she corrected primly.
I shook my head. “You’re both hopeless.”
“And you’re in denial,” she shot back, eyes dancing.
Before I could argue, Drew appeared at our table with a notepad in hand and that infuriatingly calm expression that said he wascompletely awareof the effect he had on me.
“Chef’s special tonight,” he said, “is roasted chicken with cranberry glaze and rosemary potatoes. Comes with stuffing or winter greens. Very festive, very small-town, very delicious.”
Lydia clapped her hands. “Sold!”
“I’ll take the same,” Callum said.
Drew turned to me. “And you?”
I hesitated. “What’s the least festive thing on the menu?”
He leaned down slightly, resting a hand on the edge of the booth. “You.”
I stared. “Excuse me?”
He grinned. “Kidding. Sort of. But the fried chicken is good. You’ll like it.”
Lydia smirked so hard I couldfeelit.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll take the chicken. And maybe a glass of wine.”
He straightened, still grinning. “Good choice.”
When he walked away, Lydia sighed dramatically. “He really is unfairly good at that.”
“At what?” I asked, pretending not to know.
“Existing,” she said simply. “And flirting. And making it impossible for you to pretend you don’t notice him.”
I groaned. “Can we not dissect my emotional turmoil while I’m sober?”
“Too late,” she said, taking another sip.
Callum chuckled, reaching for her hand under the table. “You’re relentless.”
“Thank you,” she said sweetly.
