Chapter Eleven
Melanie
The thing about Drew Benedict was that he always looked like he was waiting for the next disaster with a grin.
So, when I said, “How about we stay in and I cook dinner?” the surprise on his face was almost worth the inevitable teasing that followed.
His brows shot up. “You? Cook?”
“Don’t look so skeptical,” I said, folding my arms. “I can handle pasta.”
“And we know my chili is world-winning,” he said, clearly amused. “So we could feed ourselves for two nights a week.”
“Two nights a week? What are you even talking about?”
“Well, when I finally wear you down to stay in this town, we only have to figure out dinner five nights a week.”
His words sank into my soul, did a backflip, and I coughed them right out.
“I’m not staying.”
Drew’s gaze stayed on me. “All hypothetical. But staying in tonight sounds perfect.”
Flustered wasn’t even the right word as my mind raced with all sorts of future images of us at his cabin, shopping at the small grocery store together, waking up morning after morning together…
“You’re good,” I said, tugging my sweater sleeve over my hand, trying to sound casual.
“Am I? Did it get in your head just a little bit?” He squeezed his thumb and index finger together, and I chuckled.
“Not at all. It just means that I can get into pajamas and recover from the blizzard of the century.”
He chuckled. “Pajamas, huh? Didn’t realize this was that kind of dinner.”
“Relax,” I said, trying and failing not to smile. “It’s strictly flannel and comfort food. Not negligées and chocolate strawberries.”
“Flannel’s my favorite,” he murmured, and I could hear the smirk in his voice.
My stomach flipped. Not helpful.
I turned away, pretending to fuss with the grocery bag Lydia had dropped off earlier. Anything to avoid the way Drew was looking at me. He had this way about him sometimes, a look…like I’d just walked into his favorite dream.
But I cleared my throat and straightened. All would be fine. This was just dinner.
The apartment, at least, was working in my favor.
Lydia had gone full-on Christmas explosion when she redecorated.
Twinkle lights draped across every surface, pine garlands around the windows, a tiny fake tree glowing in the corner.
The place smelled like cinnamon, pinecones, and cozy domestic bliss, which was disorienting, given that my apartment was about as boring and boxy as they came.
It was adorable. And tiny. Which suddenly became a problem.
Because as I looked around the open layout with the bed tucked against one wall and the kitchenette along the other, it dawned on me: it’s a studio.
Meaning there was no private place to change unless Drew turned around and stared at the wall.
And Drew Benedict had the patience of a golden retriever at a steakhouse.
I turned to find him unwinding his scarf, snow melting into his hair, his flannel still dusted with white. He was pulling off his cap, shaking out his dark hair, when I blurted, “You need to sit on the couch.”
He blinked. “Okay?”
“And don’t look behind you. Like, at all.”
He grinned, instantly catching on. “You’re changing, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” I said, backing toward the dresser. “And before you say anything…just don’t. Just sit. Face the wall. Be normal.”
“Being normal’s never been my strong suit,” he said, but he did as I asked, plopping onto the couch and stretching out like he owned the place.
I pointed a finger. “No peeking.”
“Okay, but,” He turned his head slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You know I’ve seen you naked before, right?”
My jaw dropped. “Drew!”
“What? Just stating a fact.”
“You’re not even in this orbit!”
He laughed, low and easy, and the sound rolled through the small apartment.
And damn it, the way he said it all soft, teasing, and confident, did something traitorous to my insides.
Because yes, he had seen me naked.
Six times, in fact.
And suddenly I could remember every single one of them with painful clarity.
The way his hands had felt on my skin. The sound of his laugh against my neck. The way he always looked at me like I was the only person in the world worth seeing.
I shook my head hard, trying to banish the memory. “You’re on thin ice, Benedict.”
“Wouldn’t dream of testing it,” he said, voice still full of laughter. “I’ll be a good boy. Promise.”
“Uh-huh,” I muttered, grabbing my Santa-print pajama pants and matching long-sleeve top. “Good boy, my foot.”
“Did you say foot?” he asked innocently.
I groaned. “You’re the worst.”
He chuckled. “Still sounds like a compliment.”
I turned my back to him and started changing as quickly as possible, muttering under my breath about men and their egos. My sweater and jeans came off easily enough, but when I stepped into the pajama pants, my left foot decided to rebel.
The hem bunched. My toes caught.
And in the span of two seconds, gravity betrayed me completely.
“Mel?” Drew called.
“Fine!” I said automatically. “I’m—ow!”
I’d tried to steady myself by grabbing the back of the couch. Unfortunately, it was approximately two inches farther than I thought. My hand slipped, my chin connected with the cushion, and I collapsed in a very ungraceful heap, half on the couch, half on the floor.
There was a stunned pause. Then…
“Do I turn around?”
“No!” I yelped.
“Are you sure? Because it sounds like—”
“I said no!”
He started laughing. That deep, rough laugh that made my stomach twist even as my chin throbbed.
“Melanie,” he said between chuckles, “what the hell are you doing back there?”
“Dying of embarrassment!” I snapped, trying to pull myself upright without exposing anything.
“Need a hand?”
“Don’t you dare!”
He was laughing so hard now I could practically feel it vibrating through the couch. “You okay?”
“Perfect,” I said, adjusting my pajamas and finally managing to stand. “Just bruised in every way possible.”
“Physically or emotionally?”
“Both.”
“I’m impressed,” he said. “Didn’t even peek once.”
“Congratulations,” I said, glaring even though he couldn’t see it. “You win a medal for basic human decency.”
“I’ll wear it with pride, but you could have just changed in the bathroom.”
I exhaled, finally tugging the pajama top into place and glancing in the mirror. My hair was a mess, my cheeks were pink from mortification, and my chin had a tiny red mark where it hit the couch, but honestly? I didn’t look half bad for someone who’d just survived a one-woman slapstick routine.
“Okay,” I said, pulling myself together. “You can turn around now.”
He turned slowly, the grin already forming the second his gaze landed on me. “Nice pajamas.”
“They’re festive,” I said defensively.
“They’ve got Santa heads and candy canes.”
“Exactly. It’s Christmas.”
He chuckled, eyes lingering a little longer than necessary. “You look… cozy.”
The way he said it, rough around the edges and low enough to hum, made my pulse skip.
“Don’t start,” I said, moving to the kitchen.
“Didn’t say a word.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Probably,” he admitted, still smiling. “But hey, points for honesty.”
I busied myself pulling out ingredients from the bag: pasta, sauce, garlic bread, and a bottle of wine Lydia had probably hidden in there on purpose. My hands were still shaking slightly, though whether from nerves or amusement, I couldn’t tell.
Drew leaned against the counter, watching me with that unreadable mix of amusement and affection. “You sure you’re up for cooking after that acrobatic performance?”
I shot him a look. “One more word and you’re eating cereal for dinner.”
“Noted.”
He held up his hands in surrender, but his eyes were dancing.
Somehow, even as my chin throbbed and my pride lay in tatters, I couldn’t stop smiling. Because the truth was, this was us—messy, ridiculous, funny, and alive.
And that was exactly what I’d missed most, which was the problem.
Especially during the holidays.
If someone had told me this morning that I’d be cooking spaghetti in Santa pajamas with Drew Benedict standing six feet, or maybe six inches, away from me, I’d have laughed. Then maybe cried. Then moved to a new zip code.
But here we were.
The flurries still piled up outside, with wind howling like a warning neither of us wanted to hear. Inside, the apartment was warm, bright with the glow of Christmas lights Lydia had hung everywhere.
Drew leaned against the counter, watching me like I was both the entertainment and the main course.
“So,” he said, nodding at the pot. “This is your idea of cooking dinner?”
“It’s called pasta,” I said, trying to sound breezy while I stirred. “Some of us have mastered it.”
He grinned, that slow, crooked thing that made my knees feel unreliable. “I’m impressed. You even turned the stove on.”
“Keep talking and you’ll be eating it off the floor.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve threatened me in a kitchen.”
I shot him a look. “You’re lucky I don’t have a rolling pin.”
“Lucky’s one word for it.”
He was infuriating.
And handsome. And probably the reason the sauce was starting to bubble over while I stood there pretending to hate him.
“Can you grab the pasta?” I asked, turning down the heat.
“Sure thing, boss.”
He reached for the strainer just as a rogue bubble from the sauce popped in the pan, sending a perfect glob of tomato straight across my sleeve.
I froze. “Did you just—”
“It jumped!” he said quickly, but he was laughing. “That was a self-defense splatter.”
I looked at my arm, then at him. “You just murdered Santa.”
“I’m sure he’ll recover,” he said, grabbing a towel and stepping closer. “Here, let me—”
“Don’t…”
Too late. He wiped the spot with the towel, and his hand brushed the inside of my wrist, warm and rough and entirely too gentle.
For a second, neither of us breathed.
“There,” he said, voice low, his thumb grazing the edge of my skin. “Clean.”
“Thanks,” I said, my voice coming out too soft.
He smiled. “Anytime.”
I turned back to the stove, pretending to be fascinated by the simmering sauce. “You’re distracting.”
“That’s my charm.”
“It’s your downfall,” I muttered.
“Only if I let it be.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Still sounds like a compliment.”
I grabbed the wooden spoon like it might double as a weapon. “You’re lucky this apartment doesn’t have a back door.”
“Pretty sure you’ll still find a way to throw me out,” he said, laughter in his tone.
“Don’t tempt me.”
We fell into a rhythm after that—him stirring, me draining the pasta, both of us pretending the air between us wasn’t charged enough to power the town’s Christmas lights. Every brush of his arm, every laugh, every shared glance felt heavier than it should’ve.
“So,” he said after a few minutes, “should we go all Lady and the?”
“No,” I said, twirling noodles onto plates.
“Could be romantic.”
“Could be trouble.”
He chuckled, and I felt it in my stomach like a ripple.
The sauce was ready. The pasta steamed. The whole place smelled like comfort and chaos. I reached for the serving bowl and poured everything in, stirring it together, trying not to notice how his eyes followed my every move.
He was standing close now—too close. His arm brushed mine as he reached for the ladle, and the tiny contact sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with static electricity.
“Need help?” he asked.
“No,” I said too fast. “I’ve got it.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because it looks like you’re—”
“I said I’ve got it,” I said, turning right into him.
We collided with just enough force to make the wooden spoon slip out of my hand and hit the counter.
And suddenly, he was right there.
Chest to chest. Breath mingling with mine.
The whole room seemed to shrink to that single point of contact.
I could smell the faint spice of his cologne, feel the heat of him through my flannel, hear the unsteady rhythm of my own heartbeat competing with his.
He didn’t move. Neither did I.
His hand hovered just above my hip, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from it.
“Careful,” he said quietly, his voice rougher now. “You’re playing with fire.”
“Maybe I’m tired of being cold,” I said before I could stop myself.
His eyes darkened, that teasing glint replaced by something quieter. Something real.
“You keep saying things like that,” he murmured, “and I’m gonna think you mean them.”
“Maybe I do.”
I didn’t even recognize my own voice.
He took a slow breath, eyes locked on mine, and the world around us seemed to fade. The smell of garlic, the ticking clock, the snow pressing against the windows, it all dissolved into that single stretch of air between us.
Then he leaned in.
“Melanie,” he said, like a warning.
“Drew,” I whispered back, like a dare.
And then he kissed me.
It wasn’t a cautious kiss. It was months of tension and teasing, every argument and half-swallowed confession poured into one moment that burned hotter than the stove.
His hand slid up my back, the other bracing against the counter as he pulled me closer. My fingers tangled in his shirt without permission, like muscle memory taking over.
The kiss deepened, the taste of sweetness and mint, and all of him filled my senses until the rest of the world went utterly, beautifully blank.
When he finally pulled back, both of us were breathing hard, foreheads touching, smiles pulling at the corners of our mouths.
“So,” he said, voice low and rough, “was that part of the recipe?”
I laughed, breathless. “You tell me. You’re the one who ruined Santa.”
He grinned. “Worth it.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said, but I couldn’t stop smiling.
“Too late.”
We stood there like that for another heartbeat, both of us caught between laughter and something far deeper.
Outside, the wind howled against the glass. Inside, it was quiet except for the sound of our breathing.
I knew I should step away. I knew what getting close to Drew meant—complications, old feelings, the risk of falling again.
But for once, I didn’t care.
Because right now, in this tiny Christmas-lit apartment, with spaghetti cooling on the counter and his heartbeat steady against mine, it felt like everything I hadn’t known I was missing had just walked back into the room.
And kissed me breathless.