Chapter Ten
Drew
The drive back to my cabin was slow going, the tires crunching over a thickening layer of snow that refused to quit. Reckless River was buried under white by now, the lights from town a faint golden glow behind me. The windshield wipers squeaked, the heater rattled, and my brain wouldn’t shut up.
Callum. A dad.
That one still hit weird. My big brother, the guy who once tried to make scrambled eggs in a coffee pot, was about to be someone’s father.
I should’ve been giving him grief about it, but the truth was, every time I pictured the look on his face when Lydia laughed or the way he hovered protectively around her today, it hit me in a place I didn’t know was sensitive.
I parked in front of the cabin and sat there for a minute, engine idling, snow piling on the windshield. The quiet wrapped around me in a soft, steady way, but it was too loud inside my head.
An uncle.
That I could wrap my mind around. Uncle Drew. The cool one, obviously. The one who slipped the kid extra marshmallows when Lydia wasn’t looking. But then another thought elbowed its way in—one I didn’t see coming.
What if I wanted more than that someday?
The idea hung there like fog in the cold air. I’d never pictured myself as the dad type. My lifestyle didn’t exactly scream “stable provider.” Between the bar, the odd hours, and the chaos that seemed magnetized to me, I could barely keep a houseplant alive, let alone a kid.
Still, the thought stuck. A dangerous little whisper of what if.
I killed the engine and stepped out into the cold, pulling my jacket tighter as the wind swept through the pines. I walked toward the front porch, where the single string of lights I’d hung last year sagged sadly against the railing. I guess I could plug them in.
“Festive, Benedict,” I muttered, glancing at the cabin. “Really nailed the Christmas spirit this year.”
The inside wasn’t much better.
The cabin was exactly what you’d expect from a guy who lived alone—wood floors, a leather couch, a single shelf of books that leaned like they were drunk, and a fireplace I kept meaning to fix but never did. It was masculine, sure, but not cozy.
Cozy required effort.
And the truth was, I’d been running on autopilot for a long time.
Work. Sleep. Repeat.
Unless Melanie was in town.
Then I suddenly remembered what living felt like.
I dropped my keys on the counter and sighed.
She’d probably be gone again soon. Every time she came back, she acted like she was allergic to staying.
Seattle called to her like a siren—bright lights, big city, endless distractions.
And then there was me. Mr. Flannel and Whiskey, king of The Rusty Stag, and her favorite bad decision.
Now she wanted dinner.
Demanded it, actually.
I grinned to myself, kicking off my boots.
I walked through the small living room and into my bedroom, which was as bare bones as the rest of the place with merely a king bed, flannel sheets, a dresser, and a single lamp that gave off about as much light as a dying candle.
The window overlooked the river, now half frozen, the water whispering under a layer of snow-dusted ice.
Rustic, manly, quiet. The kind of space that echoed when you didn’t have anyone to share it with.
“Maybe I should get a dog,” I said aloud, stripping off my flannel and tossing it onto the bed. “Dogs don’t argue about flirting.”
The shower groaned when I turned it on, pipes rattling like they were trying to shake off frostbite. I stepped under the hot spray and let it pound against my shoulders, washing away the cold and maybe a little of the restlessness that had been sitting there since this morning.
A Dad.
The idea still felt foreign. Heavy in a way that made my chest tighten. I wasn’t sure if it was longing or fear.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I told the tiles. “You can barely commit to grocery shopping.”
But there it was anyway…that annoying flicker of wanting something more.
I shut off the water, grabbed a towel, and stepped into the steam-fogged mirror. My reflection stared back, rough around the edges, a few days’ worth of stubble, hair damp and sticking up in all directions.
“Uncle Drew,” I said, pointing at the mirror. “Coolest uncle in the Pacific Northwest. Not ready for anything else.”
The reflection didn’t look convinced.
I laughed quietly, shaking my head. “Great. Now I’m arguing with myself. Fantastic sign.”
I dressed slowly in dark jeans, a clean black T-shirt, and a flannel that wasn’t covered in flour or beer this time. When I caught sight of the tattoo on my forearm in the mirror, the one she’d noticed earlier today, and I traced a thumb over it without meaning to.
A date. A moment I didn’t want to forget, even when she tried to.
“Dinner,” I said to my reflection, buttoning the shirt. “That’s all it is. You’re feeding her, not falling for her again.”
The reflection raised a skeptical brow.
“Fine,” I muttered. “You’re feeding her and falling for her a little.”
I ran a hand through my hair, grabbed my jacket, and glanced toward the window again. The snow was coming down heavier now, blanketing the riverbank in white. The whole world looked hushed, slowed down, like it was holding its breath.
It made me think of her laugh at the festival, the way her cheeks flushed when she argued with me, the way her eyes softened when she thought I wasn’t looking.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “You’re in trouble, Benedict.”
My stomach twisted to remind me that I was walking right back into something I’d promised myself I wouldn’t.
But promises were easy to make when she wasn’t standing in front of me.
And right now, she was probably pacing in the apartment above the bar, muttering about how late I was, pretending she wasn’t excited to see me.
The thought made me grin.
“Dinner,” I told myself again, grabbing my keys. “You’re just going to dinner. She’s going to insult your outfit, roll her eyes at your jokes, and you’re not going to care because you’re a grown man with self-control.”
I paused, hand on the door handle.
“Yeah,” I said with a laugh. “That’s a lie.”
The wind howled outside, rattling the eaves, but the cabin felt warm for once. Alive, almost.
I turned off the lights, locked up, and stepped back into the storm.
Somewhere between the falling snow and the sound of the river, I realized I wasn’t nervous about seeing her…I was excited.
And that scared me more than anything else, but I wasn’t going to jump to any conclusions.
It was merely dinner.
By the time I made it back into town, Reckless River was half buried in snow. The streetlights glowed amber through the falling flakes, the world muffled and soft. I slowed as I turned down Main, tires moving over packed ice, and there it was.
The Rusty Stag stood on the corner, its windows fogged and warm, twinkle lights glowing faintly through the haze.
Familiar. Steady. Mine.
But tonight, it wasn’t the bar I was focused on. It was the apartment above the building.
That apartment used to be Lydia’s back before Callum finally stopped being a stubborn idiot and she stopped pretending she wasn’t in love with him. Once they’d moved into the house near the river, she started renting the space to tourists and friends passing through.
And this week, that friend was Melanie.
My pulse kicked up a notch as I turned down the street and parked behind the building.
The staircase leading to the apartment was half-covered in snow, the old wood creaking under my boots as I climbed.
The cold bit through my jacket, the wind cutting sharp and clean, but it was a small price to pay for the anticipation burning in my chest.
I paused at the top landing, brushed the snow from my shoulders, and knocked.
No answer.
I frowned and knocked again, a little louder. The only sound was the wind.
For a split second, I wondered if she’d stood me up.
It wouldn’t have been the first time she bailed when things started feeling too real.
My hand hovered over the doorknob, half-tempted to try it, when I finally heard movement inside, followed by a string of swearing that would’ve made a sailor proud.
I grinned. “There she is.”
A few seconds later, the lock turned and the door cracked open.
And then she was there.
Every smart, logical thought I’d had on the drive over evaporated on the spot.
She was barefoot, hair tousled from sleep, eyes still heavy-lidded and warm. The lamplight behind her caught on the curve of her cheek and the shine of her lip gloss, and my brain just… stopped.
“Hey,” she said, blinking like she was still catching up. “ I…oh my word, what time is it?”
“Seven,” I said, fighting the urge to lean on the doorframe because my knees had apparently forgotten how to function.
“Crap,” she muttered, raking a hand through her hair. “I fell asleep on the couch. Give me five minutes.”
She stepped aside to let me in, and I followed, probably too fast. The apartment was warm, cozy in that small-town way. Lydia had fixed the place up with the exposed brick walls, soft lighting, and the faint scent of vanilla candles. A blanket was tangled on the couch where she’d obviously crashed.
“I wasn’t sure you’d actually answer the door,” I said lightly, shrugging out of my jacket.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she said, disappearing toward the bathroom.
“You stood me up once.”
“That was different.”
“How so?”
“Just was.”
I laughed. “So this is progress?”
“Don’t push your luck.” Her voice echoed in the tiny space.
I grinned, wandering around the living area, pretending to admire the decor when really I was just trying not to imagine what she looked like getting dressed in the next room.
“You want something to drink?” she called out.
“Got any beer?”
“Fridge.”
I found a couple of bottles, twisted one open, and took a long swallow. My reflection in the window looked far too pleased with itself.
When she came back out, tugging on a soft sweater and running a hand through her hair, I nearly dropped the bottle.
Radiant.
That was the only word for her, and not in some dramatic, movie-star way.
She just glowed. Her cheeks were pink from sleep, her eyes bright, and her smile, half shy, half defiant, was enough to make my pulse stutter.
“You, uh,” I started, then caught myself. “You look—”
“Like I fell asleep in my clothes?”
“Yeah,” I said with a crooked grin. “And somehow still manage to look better than anyone has a right to.”
She rolled her eyes, but I saw the corner of her mouth twitch. “You were six minutes late.”
“Traffic,” I said automatically.
“Reckless River doesn’t have traffic.”
“Snow, then.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you overslept.” I leaned back against the counter, still grinning. “Rough day?”
“Just long, lots of pressure. There was a squirrel incident. A guy who kept talking,” she said, fussing with her sleeves.
I raised a brow. “Work wearing you down that bad? Or is it the cold weather? Or the squirrel?”
That earned me the look. “The man.”
“I bet he’s a stud.”
That cracked her. She tried to hold a glare but failed as her lips curved with a laugh.
“Okay,” she said finally. “You might be right about that.”
“Might be?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
She moved toward the kitchen island, pulling her hair up into a messy knot. The motion exposed the smooth line of her neck, and I swear every ounce of blood in my body made a unanimous decision to abandon my brain entirely.
I forced myself to focus. “So, shall we go, or do you want me to cook, or are we ordering in?”
“Please,” she said, grabbing a takeout menu from the counter. “Just because you won the cookoff doesn’t mean I trust anything else.”
I held up a hand. “Fair. So, takeout?”
She nodded, flipping through a menu, her brow furrowing in concentration. The silence stretched, comfortable but charged, and I couldn’t stop watching her. The way she bit her lip while she read, the soft hum she made when she found something that looked good, it all drove me crazy.
Then, just as I was about to say something dumb to break the tension, she turned around.
There was a spark in her eyes now, and when she met my gaze, it felt like she’d flipped the balance of the room completely in her favor.
“Drew,” she said, voice low and curious.
“Yeah?”
She smiled slowly. “You know what?”
“What?”