Chapter Six
Drew
I hadn’t slept a damn wink. Not a stitch.
Which would’ve been fine if I were the kind of guy who thrived on caffeine and chaos. But I wasn’t twenty-one anymore, and the older I got, the more I realized sleepless nights hit harder when the reason for them wasn’t fun.
It was her.
Melanie.
Every time I closed my eyes, there she was. The way she’d looked at me across the bar last night, with eyes flashing, jaw tight, shoulders pulled in like she was trying to fold herself into armor.
I’d seen that look before, the one that said you’re under my skin and I hate it.
And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love that look on her.
Still, it didn’t make for a restful night. Especially not after watching her body language change the second that blonde out-of-towner had leaned over the counter.
Christ, I hadn’t even done anything. I’d handed the woman a drink, smiled out of reflex, and suddenly Melanie had gone rigid and cold enough to frost the beer taps.
Lydia had followed her outside, thank goodness, because the way she’d been glaring, I half-expected her to set my flannel on fire with her mind.
And yet… she’d never looked more adorable in her life. Cheeks flushed, lips pressed tight, muttering something under her breath as she stomped out the back door that led up to Lydia’s old apartment above the building. Wouldn’t even say goodnight.
So yeah. No sleep for me.
Now it was barely six in the morning, snow still falling thick as flour, and I was standing in The Rusty Stag dragging tables around like a lunatic so Lydia could turn the place into the venue for the town’s annual Holiday Pancake Breakfast.
The sign on the door still said Bar, but this morning it might as well have said Daycare for Grown Adults Who Love Santa.
I shoved two tables together and leaned on the edge to catch my breath.
“You know,” I muttered to no one, “if you’d told me ten years ago, I’d be making room for gingerbread men pancakes, I’d have laughed in your face.”
The heater kicked on with a groan. The smell of coffee had started to fill the place thanks to the industrial urn Lydia hauled out of the closet.
I yawned so hard my jaw cracked.
Footsteps sounded behind me.
“Morning, sunshine,” Callum said, stepping inside with a grin that was way too chipper for a man who’d also been roped into this madness.
“Don’t,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “It’s too early for whatever that tone is.”
He snorted and clapped me on the shoulder. “You look like hell.”
“Feel like it too.”
“Didn’t sleep?”
“Not a wink.”
He started unfolding chairs beside me. “Lydia said to be here before the snowplows, and I thought she was kidding. But she meant it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Apparently, holiday spirit doesn’t need rest.”
Callum shot me a sideways look. “You sure that’s what’s keeping you up? Holiday spirit?”
I sighed. “You’re not subtle, you know that?”
He grinned. “I don’t try to be. So, rough night?”
“Depends on how you define rough.”
“Melanie looked ready to commit homicide,” he said, smirking. “That’s one definition.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “So, you noticed?”
“Oh, I noticed,” he said, stacking chairs like it was a competitive sport. “She froze you out so fast I almost got frostbite.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “Guess I deserved it.”
Callum raised a brow. “What’d you do this time?”
“Apparently smiled at someone,” I said dryly. “Big crime in Reckless River.”
He laughed. “That blonde at the bar?”
I gave him a look. “See? It was harmless. She asked about the local ski trails, I gave her directions, and next thing I know, Melanie’s glaring like I kicked her puppy.”
“Maybe she just didn’t like the view.”
“What, me being friendly?”
He shrugged. “You being you.”
I snorted. “Thanks, brother. That’s helpful.”
“Anytime.”
We worked in silence for a while, pushing tables, lining up chairs, trying not to trip over the tinsel explosion Lydia had left in her wake.
Snow dusted the windows, and the bar looked strangely cozy in the morning light, with soft, golden light like it had decided to take a break from being a bar and play nice for once.
“You talk to her after she left?” Callum asked.
I gave a humorless laugh. “She didn’t exactly stick around for a heart-to-heart and since she blocked me and doesn’t return my texts...”
“Got ya.”
“She looked at me like I’d ruined Christmas,” I said. “Wouldn’t even say goodnight.”
“Can’t say I blame her. You’ve got a talent for pushing her buttons.”
“Not on purpose.”
He gave me a look that said really?
I sighed. “Okay, sometimes on purpose. But last night? I swear I didn’t do anything.”
He chuckled, flipping a chair right side up. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He grinned. “Melanie’s used to you chasing her. Teasing, poking, getting under her skin. You suddenly decide to call a truce, and she probably doesn’t know what to do with it.”
I frowned, trying to ignore the flicker of truth in that. “She wanted me to leave her alone.”
“Sure,” Callum said. “But that doesn’t mean she meant it.”
I ran a hand through my hair, the exhaustion starting to catch up. “You’re saying she wants me to ignore what she says?”
“I’m saying she wants you to make her forget why she said it,” he said with a grin. “Big difference. And the blonde at the bar was probably just bad timing.”
“Right,” I said, shaking my head. “Because women love mixed signals.”
“Only from guys who mean them,” he said, voice softening. “And for what it’s worth, Lydia says Melanie is definitely pissed at you.”
“Shocking.”
He laughed. “But she also says the stories match up.”
I blinked. “What stories?”
“Yours. Hers.”
“You’ve been comparing notes?”
“Lydia told me Melanie said you were annoying, arrogant, and full of yourself,” he said, ticking the words off on his fingers.
I smirked. “Accurate so far.”
“And you said she was difficult, stubborn, and drives you crazy.”
“Also accurate.”
“So,” he said, folding his arms, “I’d say you two are on the same page.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “The page right before everything blows up.”
He laughed again, but there was a note of sympathy in it. “You’re in deep, huh?”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “Or maybe I’m just an idiot.”
He shrugged. “Could be both.”
We finished setting up the tables just as the first hint of daylight started to brighten the snow outside. For a moment, the peace of it settled something in my chest.
Then I remembered who would be walking through that door in less than an hour, with cheeks flushed from the cold, hair probably tangled from the wind, and still mad enough to bite.
And all that peace went right out the window.
“You think she’ll show up?” I asked, stacking the last few chairs.
“Oh, she’ll show up,” Callum said. “Lydia’ll drag her here if she has to.”
“Great,” I muttered. “Can’t wait.”
He smirked. “Hey, if it helps, she’s not telling people you’re the devil or anything.”
“Just a menace?”
“Pretty much.”
I sighed, grabbing a rag to wipe the counters. “I’ll take it.”
The smell of coffee thickened as the urn finished brewing. I poured myself a mug and leaned on the bar, staring at the snow outside. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear a snowplow rumbling down Main Street, slow and steady.
“I swear,” I said quietly, half to myself, “if she walks in here looking at me like that again, I’m gonna forget this truce ever existed.”
Callum chuckled as he started flipping pancakes on the griddle.
“Oh, you will,” he said easily. “You just won’t realize it until it’s too late.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Because if there was one thing I’d learned about Melanie, it was that she could turn even the simplest morning, snow, coffee, and pancakes into something dangerously sexy.
And I couldn’t stop waiting for the next time she’d prove it.
By the time the first snowplow finally groaned its way down Main Street, The Rusty Stag was already warm and humming.
The pancake griddle sizzled, and the smell of butter and cinnamon was thick in the air. Holiday music played from the jukebox, Lydia’s doing, obviously, and a handful of early risers were trickling in, shaking snow off their coats and stomping their boots like they owned the place.
Callum was flipping pancakes at the far end of the bar, humming something that was probably meant to be Jingle Bells but sounded like a dying moose. I was pretending to be useful, pouring coffee and wondering how many hours of sleep I could catch up on once this was over.
Then the door opened, and all that quiet, steady rhythm fell apart.
Melanie stepped in, bundled in her coat, snowflakes clinging to her hair, a steaming paper cup in her hand. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and she looked… well, she looked like the kind of trouble that keeps a man awake two nights in a row. I could already feel the next sleepless night coming.
I’d been bracing myself for this moment all morning, telling myself to play it cool, stay calm, not say anything stupid. Unfortunately, my brain short-circuited the moment she looked at me.
“Morning,” I said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere between friendly bartender and nervous teenager.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re awfully chipper for someone who didn’t sleep.”
I blinked. “Who told you that?”
She shrugged, taking a slow sip of her drink. “You’ve got that glazed look in your eyes. And the fact that your brother’s doing all the cooking tells me you’re running on fumes.”
I smirked. “Observant as ever.”
She nodded. “It’s a gift. So where’s Lydia?”
“Gone to pick up more syrup.” I smiled. “A pancake emergency, if you will.”
“Oh,” she said, almost too quickly, like that was news she wasn’t sure what to do with. She stood there a beat too long, holding her mocha like it was a weapon, before adding, “Guess it’s just you and me, then.”
“Looks that way.”
She didn’t move closer, but her gaze darted toward the pancake griddle. “Just promise me not to make my pancakes.”