Chapter Seven
Melanie
By the time the crowd thinned out, The Rusty Stag smelled like sugar, butter, and sin.
People were laughing, kids were licking syrup off their fingers, and the Christmas music had looped back to Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree for the fourth time, which I was convinced was some kind of psychological warfare.
Lydia had gone to hand out ballots for the chili cookoff, and I’d made the mistake of staying behind to help at the bar.
And by help, I meant eating my second gingerbread man pancake.
Or, well, thinking about it. Because the second I looked up and saw Drew, the idea of food became secondary to whatever… this was.
He was working the griddle like a man born to flip things. His arms were busy flexing, flannel sleeves shoved up, tattoos catching the light as he poured batter into another perfect gingerbread shape.
Argh. Even his hair was a little messy, and I swear the morning sun filtering through the window was conspiring with him to make a little shadow along his jawline.
I told myself to look away.
I didn’t.
“Going for seconds?” Lydia’s voice chirped at my elbow, making me jump.
I pretended to study my empty plate. “Just… quality control.”
“Sure,” she said, clearly amused. “For the pancakes or the cook?”
I shot her a look. “Don’t you have a contest to host or something?”
“Not for another five minutes.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “You’ve got syrup on your mind and it’s not maple.”
“Lydia.”
“Mel.”
“Don’t.”
“Too late.”
I sighed, shoving my chair back. “Fine. I’ll get another pancake. A normal, wholesome pancake. Without emotional baggage.”
“Good luck with that,” she said, smirking. “You’re ordering from the source.”
I ignored her and made my way up to the counter, where Drew was plating another batch. He glanced up the second I approached, that familiar half-smile sliding into place.
“Back already?” he asked.
“I didn’t get a full one earlier. Somone ripped the heart out of the chest,” I said, trying for breezy. “Call this a breakfast do-over.”
He handed the plate to an old man waiting at the bar, then leaned his weight on one arm, close enough that the heat radiating off him could melt snow. “You sure it’s not an excuse to come flirt with me again?”
“Again?” I repeated, tilting my head. “You think this is flirting?”
He grinned. “If it’s not, I’ve been reading all the wrong signals for decades.”
I tried for a scathing retort, but my brain short-circuited the moment his sleeve pulled higher on his arm. There it was. It was the tattoo I’d caught a glimpse of last night. I could see it clearly now, ink dark against his skin: a single line of small and deliberate script.
A letter and numbers inside a compass.
My eyes lingered.
Longer than they should’ve.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“What’s that one?” I asked, forcing my tone to stay casual even as my voice came out a little too soft. “The new one.”
He followed my gaze, then looked back up, slow and knowing. “You tell me.”
I blinked. “I’m asking.”
“And I’m asking why it matters.”
“I’m curious.”
His grin turned teasing. “That curiosity didn’t exist the last few months.”
“Maybe I’ve evolved.”
He leaned closer. “Into what?”
I swallowed. “Someone with an interest in tattoos.”
The corner of his mouth quirked.
“What does it mean?” I asked again.
He looked down at the ink, brushing a thumb absently over the edge of the design. “It’s a special number.”
“What number?”
“Wouldn’t mean anything to you.”
My heart stumbled. “How do you know?”
He met my eyes, no smile this time. “It means something to me, and maybe someday, it will mean something to you.”
For a second, I forgot how to breathe. “Is it something to do with me?”
“Don’t make it sound like I branded myself,” he interrupted lightly, but there was something underneath—something raw. “It was just… a reminder. Of a few months that got complicated.”
I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. The silence stretched, full and heavy and too damn intimate. His gaze didn’t move from mine. His eyes remained steady and unflinching, and I swear the air between us grew hotter by the second.
Then Lydia appeared beside me, setting down a tray of syrup bottles and muttering under her breath, “Good grief, I can feel the temperature rising from over there. Are you two trying to melt the snow outside?”
I tore my gaze away, cheeks blazing. “Just talking.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “Looks like you’re about to set the pancakes on fire.”
Drew didn’t even flinch. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said, voice low enough that only I heard it.
Lydia snorted, shaking her head and walking away, muttering something about sexual tension and syrup hazards.
I folded my arms, trying to find my footing again. “You realize you’re impossible.”
“Pretty sure you’ve mentioned that.”
“I meant it.”
“You always do.”
“And yet, somehow you keep proving me right.”
He chuckled, pouring another perfect gingerbread man onto the griddle. “Maybe you just like being right about me.”
“I don’t like anything about you.”
He looked up, green eyes gleaming. “Then why are you staring again?”
“I’m not.”
“Sure.”
“I was looking at the…at the pancakes.”
He nodded seriously. “Of course. My arms and the pancakes are easily confused. Happens all the time.”
I glared. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s three times today. Starting to sound like a term of endearment.”
“It’s not.”
“Feels like one.”
“Then your feelings are broken.”
He grinned. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
That stopped me cold. His tone wasn’t teasing that time. It was quiet, sincere, and something softer under the armor.
And that, God help me, was what did me in. Because underneath all his sarcasm, there was this realness I couldn’t ignore. The kind that made me want to step closer instead of run away.
So I did. Just half a step.
“You got that tattoo for real?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” he said, watching me closely. “But don’t get any ideas. You’re not the only one with walls.”
“I didn’t ask you to have walls.”
“Didn’t have to,” he said. “You built mine for me.”
I should’ve been angry.
Instead, I was dizzy. The sound of the griddle, the chatter of the room, even the smell of cinnamon, all of it blurred into background noise.
We stood there, inches apart, staring at each other like the rest of the world had gone quiet. His eyes dropped to my mouth for the briefest moment, and my pulse tripped over itself.
“Drew,” I warned.
“Melanie,” he murmured.
“Don’t.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He grinned again, infuriatingly, beautiful, and went back to flipping a pancake as if my heart wasn’t doing gymnastics.
I exhaled shakily, grabbing the plate he slid toward me a minute later. “You’re infuriating.”
“I’m gifted.”
I muttered something unprintable and turned away, but his laughter followed me all the way back to the booth.
Lydia looked up from her stack of nametags, grinning like she’d just watched her favorite show. “Well,” she said. “The snow survived, but barely.”
I plunked my plate down. “I hate you.”
“No,” she said cheerfully. “You just hate that you don’t hate him.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but my stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. Lydia smirked, and I stabbed my pancake with a fork.
“Fine,” I muttered. “Maybe he makes good pancakes.”
“And maybe,” she said, leaning back, “he makes you a little crazy.”
“Crazy’s an understatement,” I said, but the corner of my mouth betrayed me, curling upward, just enough for her to see.
Outside, snow drifted past the windows, and Drew laughed at something one of the locals said, sleeves still rolled, tattoo catching the light.
Bah. Humbug.
I had the sinking, hopeless feeling that I was in way more trouble than I wanted to admit.
The second Lydia and I stepped outside The Rusty Stag, it hit me.
The town had somehow turned into a holiday movie set overnight.
Strings of lights crisscrossed Main Street, glittering against the pale morning sky.
Red ribbons looped around lampposts. Kids in puffy coats were rolling giant snowballs in the middle of the road for the snowman contest, even though more snow had been trucked in from somewhere else in case Mother Nature didn’t provide enough.
Lydia took a deep breath, her eyes shining. “Isn’t it perfect?”
“Perfect?” I echoed, scanning the chaos. “It’s like Santa’s workshop mated with a state fair.”
She grinned. “Exactly!”
People were everywhere. Booths lined both sides of the street, each one decked out in its own brand of holiday insanity.
There was an ornament-decorating station where kids dipped glitter with reckless abandon, a wreath-making tent spilling over with pine and ribbon, and a hot chocolate stand doing a booming business.
Someone had even set up a makeshift ice rink at the corner near the river, where the younger crowd skated in wobbly circles while parents cheered them on with phones in hand.
Across the way, a man in a Santa suit was posing for photos with a toddler who was very clearly not on board with the concept of bearded strangers. Laughter carried on the cold air, mixing with the scent of cinnamon and roasting chestnuts… and somehow garlic.
Lydia noticed my nose wrinkle and grinned. “Chili cook-off starts at two.”
“Of course it does,” I said. “Why have one festival when you can have four at once?”
She nudged me. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s… overwhelming,” I admitted, even as my lips twitched.
Truthfully, it was overwhelming, but in a good way. The whole scene buzzed with life and laughter, a town collectively choosing to be happy even if their fingers were freezing.
Sometimes I wondered if that was why I chose teaching grade school. The familiar buzz of activity during the day was in such stark contrast to my nights at home.
Alone.
In my apartment.
But I wasn’t here to reconsider all my life choices.