The gesture surprised me.
The warmth from his body seeped through the thin fabric of my sweater, stealing my breath for a fraction of a second. His touch was neither intrusive nor hesitant. It felt natural.
I turned my head and looked at him.
He was already looking at me.
His gaze was more intense than usual, and the noise of the fireworks and laughter drowned out. The bright explosions in the sky reflected faintly in his eyes, and there was something thoughtful in his expression.
My heart gave a small, traitorous flutter.
“Happy New Year,” he said softly.
His voice wrapped around the words, and the way he said them felt more personal than the hundreds of identical greetings echoing across the terrace, as if the new year had suddenly become something shared rather than something passing.
A mix of comfort and unease bloomed inside me like two seasons colliding at once.
A part of me wanted to lean into the pull of that moment.
Another part of me reminded me very firmly that this was precisely what I had sworn to avoid.
So why did it feel so hard to pull away?
Over the following weeks,I kept myself busy with the restaurant. One of my new ideas was posting flyers around Cowichan Bay and neighbouring towns, inviting local artists to perform. To my surprise, the response was incredible. Singers and musicians began reaching out, excited about the opportunity, and soon every weekend someone performed in a cozy corner of the restaurant, their music filling the space while customers enjoyed their meals.
One afternoon at the end of January, Jack and I were sitting in the office reviewing paperwork when he casually looked up from his notes.
“Did you see his girlfriend?” he asked.
I paused, rubbing my chin as I glanced at him. “Whose?”
“Cole’s.”
My head snapped up. “When did that happen?”
Ever since the night of the fireworks on New Year’s Eve, I had been quietly conflicted about my feelings. I had convinced myself the moment—him standing close, his arm around my shoulder, the way he had looked into my eyes while wishing me a happy New Year—had simply been the wine, a harmless blur of celebration and alcohol. And when he never mentioned it again, I told myself that was proof.
It had definitely been the wine.
Girls constantly threw themselves at him. I had seen it when we met for coffee in the city or spent time at the park with the children. There was something about his quiet confidence and modest way of carrying himself that made him even more attractive.
“A couple of days ago,” Jack replied. “He said he felt ready to move on with his life. I don’t think that girl was the right choice, but I agree with the moving on part.”
I forced a small smile.
Inside, however, something burned in my chest.
It made no sense.
I wasn’t dating Cole.
I was his friend.
He was free to date, to live his life however he wanted.
He was not mine.
And I was not his.
