Page 6 of Never Your Valentine

She doesn’t fit into any of the boxes labeled “winter tourist.” She’s too young to own a cabin, too put-together to be a drifter, and too happy to be here for work. What’s her deal?

One way to find out.

Chapter 3

Annabelle

The Frostline has heavy tables and corner booths with dark leather seats, lit with exposed Edison bulbs overhead and electric candles in birchbark holders on the tables. The wall art is black and white nature photography in matte frames.

I want to sit by the massive stone fireplace in the corner, but the seats around it are already taken. In the center of the room, six middle-aged corporate types sit at the largest table with appetizers and pitchers of beer. The men are wearing dress shirts with fleece vests over them, while the women sport sweatshirts that say Solduxe in a cursive font. They’re loudly debating the best project management system. Not how I’d want to spend a Friday night, but they seem very passionate about software.

I take a seat at the bar. The bartender is young and pretty, with lush brown curls and a dimpled smile. She hands me a specialty cocktail menu. Her eyes slide over to the businesspeople. “Unless you’d prefer beer or wine?” She sounds sad at that prospect.

“What’s your favorite cocktail to make?” I ask.

“Right now, it’s the winter cosmo.”

“You know, I was just saying to myself that I love a cosmo and I wondered if there’s a winter variety I could try.”

“Did you now?” She raises her eyebrows. “You said that?”

“If I didn’t, I should have.” I give her my credit card. “One winter cosmo, please.”

She fills a shaker with ice, then adds white cranberry juice, vodka, lime syrup, and orange liqueur. She does a movie-style cocktail shaking dance, then strains the contents of the shaker into a wide-bowl glass. She takes a moment to add a delicate sprig of rosemary and two sugared cranberries before placing it in front of me.

“This is gorgeous,” I gush. “Almost too pretty to drink.”

“But you’re going to anyway?” She lifts her chin with pride.

“Heck yes I am. But just know, I’ll have a tiny bit of regret in my heart.” I take a sip and put a hand over my chest. “The regret is fading, because this is delicious.”

She grins and then moves down the bar to help the man who just walked in. It’s my doorman from the bakery. I don’t know why I’m surprised to see him again. What did I expect in a small town?

He removes his beanie and runs his fingers through shiny brown hair that floats into place as if it hadn’t been mashed down by a hat a second ago. He shucks his coat to reveal a plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned to reveal his t-shirt underneath. My fingers give an involuntary twitch, dying to reach over and see if the flannel of his shirt is as soft as it looks. I thread my fingers in my lap, making them still.

He stands at the bar, chatting with the bartender as she makes his cocktail, and finally turns my way. I raise my eyebrows and lift my drink. “Just so you know, confusing men with doors isn’t my signature move.”

“That’s a relief,” he says. “Not sure the bakery’s heating bill could take another standoff.”

I indicate the empty seat next to me. “I’m not even blocking barstools these days.”

“All right, then.” He accepts his drink, thanks the bartender, and takes his cocktail to the far corner booth.

I watch him go, then turn back to the bar. “Seriously?”

The bartender gives me a sympathetic nod. “Seriously.”

So much for that.

I decide that’s a good thing. The best thing. I’m new here. Fresh off a breakup. Not the time to meet interesting men who are very hot and clearly single. My brain knows this. My hormones just need a minute to catch up.

I have pencils and a sketchpad in my bag. I should be working on new card designs. But I don’t want to. I drove across the whole state today, and I deserve a minute to relax. I swivel on my barstool. My gaze rolls over the knot of people near the fireplace, past the big table in the center of the room, landing on the hot guy in flannel. I’m not staring. I’m trying to read his t-shirt. I can only make out “Mi Bet Ha.” What does the rest of it say?

Over at the central table, the conversation gets louder. They’ve moved on to “leveraging synergies,” whatever that means. Then one of the men launches into a story that involves bootstraps and a tough management style, because, “I’m done coddling Gen Z crybabies.” Just to be more gross, he adds in some homophobic and ableist slurs. The men at the table laugh. The women exchange a look but say nothing. Disappointing. I know it’s hard to be a woman at a table full of dude bros, but come on, ladies! Do better.

The guy in the corner tilts his head toward the loud table and back to me, as if asking for my opinion. I turn up my nose in an “eww” face. He nods in agreement.

While the Solduxe people go on about crushing the competition and having the best sales prospects in the Midwest, I pretend to fall asleep at the bar. When I open my eyes, he’s laughing, brown eyes crinkling up.