Chapter Five
Melanie
By the time The Rusty Stag filled up for the night, the snow had gone from picturesque to full-on blizzard. The kind of storm that made everyone in town abandon their plans and pile into the bar for warmth, food, and something spiked enough to make the weather look romantic.
I sat at the far end of the bar, watching locals walk in with red cheeks and puffy jackets, stomping snow off their boots like they owned the place.
Lydia was chatting up some woman from the bakery, Drew was behind the bar pouring drinks and flashing smiles, and I was silently wondering why my hot cocoa had somehow turned into mulled wine.
Small-town hospitality, I guessed.
“Busy tonight,” I said, mostly to myself.
Drew glanced up from pouring a pint, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth.
“Storm nights always are. Nothing to do but drink and gossip.” His eyes nearly twinkled if I didn’t know better.
“Charming,” I muttered, taking a sip.
“Reckless River’s motto.”
“Is that what they put on the welcome sign?”
“Should be.”
He slid the pint across to a bearded guy at the counter and wiped his hands on a towel. “You good over there?”
“Perfect,” I said. “Just embracing the festive chaos.”
“You don’t sound festive.”
“That’s because I have taste.”
He chuckled under his breath, and I told myself it wasn’t my favorite sound. But it kind of was with that low, easy rumble that somehow made this old wood-paneled place feel warmer. It didn’t help that the Take me to the River fish on the wall kept staring at me.
Lydia appeared beside me with two empty glasses and a grin. “You have glitter in your hair.”
“What?”
She laughed, brushing at my shoulder. “From the tinsel.”
I frowned. “Tinsel?”
Before I could look, Drew’s voice cut in, soft and amused. “Hold still.”
He reached across the bar, closer than necessary, definitely closer than legal bar etiquette, and his fingers slid through a strand of my hair. Static sparked against my skin. He caught the offending piece of silver tinsel and held it up, sparkling between his fingers.
“There,” he said, voice low enough to hum through me. “Got it, babe.”
I forgot how to inhale for a second. My knees went weak. Which, for the record, was ridiculous. I was not some swoony holiday heroine starring in some movie and undone by a man and a piece of Christmas décor.
Except apparently, I was.
My skin buzzed where his fingers had grazed my neck. I needed to move. To think. To stop feeling.
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing my glass and marching toward the jukebox like it had personally offended me.
Behind me, Lydia’s laughter followed.
I crouched in front of the machine, muttering under my breath. The screen glowed with scrolling song titles like Jingle Bell Rock, Santa Baby, Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree. All varying degrees of annoying.
But not the song we’d first kissed to when the bar had emptied and I hadn’t wanted to leave.
Not that I was looking for it.
“Seriously?” I said to no one. “Where’s the decent stuff? You can’t tell me this town only listens to Burl Ives and Mariah Carey.”
“I replaced the playlist last week,” Drew said behind me, his voice closer than it should’ve been.
I didn’t turn around. “With what? Candy cane jingles and trauma?”
“Christmas songs,” he said, leaning against the jukebox like he owned it. Oh wait! He kind of did. “It’s December. Comes with the territory.”
I straightened, arms crossed. “So you got rid of everything else?”
“Mostly.”
“Even…” I hesitated, trying to sound casual. “That one song.”
He blinked. “What one song?”
I glared at the floor. “You know. That song.”
His grin widened, slow and knowing. “You mean the one we—”
“Don’t say it,” I hissed.
Okay, so we’d done more than just kiss to that song.
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “The one we… listened to last summer?”
I groaned. “You’re impossible.”
“That word again.”
“It’s because it keeps being true.”
He was enjoying this far too much. The twinkle lights above the bar cast a golden glow over his face, highlighting the tiny scar on his chin, the one I knew the story behind because I’d kissed it once. Twice. Too many times.
Well, six to be exact.
“Relax,” he said, hands sliding into his back pockets. “I didn’t delete it. Just swapped the mix for December. It’s still in the system.”
“Good,” I said before I could stop myself.
His brows lifted. “Good?”
I quickly folded my arms tighter. “I just meant that musical variety is important.”
“Right,” he said, stepping a little closer. “Totally about the music.”
“Obviously.”
He leaned in, that wicked smile playing at his mouth. “You sure it’s not because you’re sentimental about that night?”
“I’m sure I’m not,” I said, heat crawling up my neck.
“Because it didn’t mean anything.” His brows lifted.
“Exactly.”
He tilted his head. “Then why’s it matter if the song’s gone?”
I glared at him. “You are such a—”
“Charmer? Delight?”
“Menace.”
He grinned, leaning one arm on the jukebox beside me. “You say that like it’s new information.”
“I’m serious, Drew.”
“So am I.” His voice dropped lower, the teasing giving way to something else—something rougher, closer. “You keep saying none of it mattered. That it was a mistake. But every time you look at me, Mel, you get that same look you did that night.”
My throat went dry. “What look?”
He didn’t hesitate. “The one that says you want to kiss me, but you’re already mad about it.”
I tried to laugh it off. “You’re delusional.”
“Probably,” he said, smiling. “But you’re blushing again, so…”
“I’m cold,” I said, even though my skin was burning.
He leaned closer, just enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the faint trace of pine and soap and whiskey that clung to his shirt.
“Right,” he said softly. “Freezing.”
I stepped back before I did something stupid, like grab his shirt and close that stupid inch of space between us. “You should get back to work. People are waiting.”
He straightened, that grin still there but softer now. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Can’t help it. You make it sound like a challenge.”
He sauntered back to the bar, all confidence and easy charm, and the locals practically melted around him.
Lydia shot me a look from behind the counter that screamed I told you so.
I ignored her and jabbed the jukebox buttons until something non-holiday played like Fleetwood Mac, maybe. Something with an edge.
But when the first notes came through the speakers, my stomach dropped.
Not that song. But close enough.
And when Drew looked over his shoulder, his smirk told me he knew it.
I turned away, pretending to study the snow falling outside, even though my reflection in the glass betrayed me with my pink cheeks, wild hair, and a damn piece of tinsel still clinging to my shoulder.
He called out over the music, voice full of that lazy amusement that always got under my skin. “Hey, Mel?”
“What?”
“Maybe next round of songs, I’ll add our old one back in.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Too late,” he said, chuckling as he handed a drink to one of the locals. “Seems like it’s stuck in your head anyway.”
I grabbed my glass, took a long sip of mulled wine, and muttered into it, “So is the urge to strangle you.”
From behind the bar, his laugh rolled through the room, and that low, rich, and infuriatingly warm tone made me want to melt. And even though I wanted to scowl, I caught myself smiling instead.
The night wore on, the snow kept falling, and I told myself the flutter in my chest was just the tinsel’s fault.
But I wasn’t fooling anyone.
Somewhere between the second snowstorm warning and the third round of drinks, The Rusty Stag had turned into a warm, humming snow globe of laughter and flannel.
Locals packed the tables, their cheeks pink from the cold, and tourists with their perfect puffer jackets and wide-eyed holiday awe squeezed into the last few stools.
Christmas lights blinked lazily over the bar, reflecting off the glass bottles lined up behind Drew, who was moving like he’d been born behind that counter—laughing, pouring, listening.
I told myself I was just people-watching.
But then he rolled up his sleeves again to cool off.
The act of the fabric sliding against his forearms might as well have been a thunderclap.
My brain short-circuited.
It wasn’t my fault.
Those forearms were illegal. Strong, tan, lightly dusted with hair, the veins visible beneath the skin as he twisted open a bottle.
And then there were the tattoos.
I’d memorized most of them before, though I’d never admit that out loud…the raven that wrapped around his wrist, the faint script near his elbow I’d once traced with my fingertips. But as he reached for a glass, I caught a glimpse of something new, something I didn’t recognize.
Black ink peeked out from under the cuff.
Curiosity flared, sharp and inconvenient.
I leaned forward, pretending to check my phone while my eyes zeroed in on the edge of that tattoo. It looked like… letters? No, numbers. Maybe a date inside a compass?
And then he caught me staring.
He didn’t say a word. Just grinned. That slow, devastating grin that said gotcha.
My entire face went nuclear.
I spun on my heel so fast I nearly tripped over a barstool and made a beeline for the back booth where Lydia sat, surrounded by papers and markers and a roll of glittery tape like she was running Santa’s administrative office.
She didn’t even look up as I slid into the seat across from her. “You were staring, weren’t you?”
“No,” I said too quickly.
“You were totally staring.”
“I was not.”
She hummed, uncapping a red marker. “I can practically feel the fluster from here.”
“I’m not flustered,” I said, snatching a stray napkin and folding it in half. “I was just—”
“Admiring the decor?”
“Yes.”
“Specifically, his arms?”
I glared. “Why are you like this?”