Chapter Sixteen
Drew
I told myself I wasn’t looking for her. That I’d just stepped outside to check the heaters for the festival crowd, that I wasn’t scanning the streets like a fool waiting for one particular woman to appear out of the snow.
And then there she was.
Melanie Sauser was walking through the festival like a Christmas card someone had dropped into real life. Her hair was tucked into her hat, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, and Lydia was beside her, beaming like she’d just singlehandedly saved the holiday season.
I froze, my breath fogging the air.
She stopped near the river, a cup of cider in hand, and for half a second, she looked right at me.
The world narrowed to that single moment.
Just me, her, and the quiet ache of everything we hadn’t said.
I almost moved.
Almost.
But before I could, a group of kids barreled between us, shrieking about snowball fights and candy canes, and the spell broke. When the path cleared, she’d already turned away, and whatever courage I’d worked up went with her.
So, I did what I do best, walked away, and pretended I wasn’t unraveling.
By the time I stomped back into The Rusty Stag, snow clung to my boots, my jaw was tight, and I probably looked like someone had just stolen my truck.
Callum was behind the bar, polishing glasses and humming “Jingle Bell Rock.” Because of course he was.
He took one look at me and grinned. “Ah, there it is—the classic Benedict brood.”
“Don’t start,” I muttered, shrugging out of my jacket and hanging it on the hook.
“Too late,” he said cheerfully, setting the glass aside. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’ve been standing in the snow contemplating life and love like you’re the main character in a tragic Christmas movie.”
I scowled. “You been drinking the spiked cider again?”
“Don’t dodge,” he said. “What happened? You saw her, didn’t you?”
“Who?” I asked, knowing full well it was useless.
He smirked. “Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”
I sighed, leaning on the bar. “Fine. I saw her. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” he said. “How’d it go?”
I shot him a look. “If you have to ask, you already know.”
He grinned. “So… not well.”
“Didn’t say a word to her,” I admitted, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck.
“Ah, the old ‘strong and silent’ routine,” he said. “Classic move.”
“It wasn’t a move,” I said. “It was self-preservation.”
“Right,” he said, nodding solemnly. “Because nothing says healthy emotional processing like glaring at your love interest from across the street and then sulking about it.”
I threw a bar towel at him. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas.”
He caught it easily, grinning wider. “You know, for a guy who claims he doesn’t believe in holiday miracles, you sure are acting like you’re waiting for one.”
I groaned. “Can we not?”
“Nope,” he said, pouring himself a coffee. “We absolutely can.”
He leaned across the bar, lowering his voice in that infuriatingly big-brother way. “So, what’s really going on, huh? You and Mel kiss, she freaks out, you walk away like a martyr, and now you’re both playing the world’s saddest staring contest?”
“Something like that,” I said.
He whistled low. “Yikes.”
“Helpful.”
“I try.”
I slumped onto the stool near the register, running my hands through my hair. “She’s scared, Cal. Of me. Of this. Of… all of it.”
“And that surprises you?”
“I just—” I exhaled, shaking my head. “I thought maybe… I don’t know. That it meant something.”
“It probably did,” he said. “But since when has meaning ever made things easy?”
“Spare me the wisdom, Confucius.”
He grinned. “What can I say? Fatherhood’s making me philosophical.”
“God help us all,” I muttered.
He laughed, topping off my mug. “You know, for someone who swears he doesn’t do feelings, you’re doing a bang-up job of wallowing in them.”
“I’m not wallowing,” I said.
He raised a brow. “You’re literally sitting at our bar sighing into your coffee like a Dickens orphan.”
I glared at him. “You done?”
“Almost,” he said. “But seriously, Drew, you care. That’s not a weakness.”
I stared into my cup, the steam curling up like smoke. “It feels like one.”
“That’s because you’ve spent half your life convincing yourself that the only safe way to care is to keep it casual,” he said, softer now. “But the thing about love, little brother, is it doesn’t give a damn about your rules.”
I didn’t answer.
Because what was there to say? He wasn’t wrong.
Outside, laughter from the festival drifted through the half-open door, along with the faint sound of sleigh bells and someone singing off-key.
“You ever notice,” Callum said after a beat, “that this town gets louder every December?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Like the Christmas plague.”
He chuckled. “You’ve been spending too much time with Mel. She’s rubbing off on you.”
“Maybe,” I said, a reluctant smile tugging at my mouth.
He eyed me for a second, then grinned. “Hey, at least she’s got taste.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning if she’s going to have a full-blown existential crisis over a guy, it might as well be you.”
“Wow,” I said dryly. “Touching.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I leaned back, exhaling slowly. The warmth of the bar seeped into my bones, the familiar creak of the floorboards grounding me. For all its noise and chaos, The Rusty Stag was home. Always had been.
But tonight, it felt emptier.
Like it was missing something or someone.
“You know,” Callum said after a minute, “if you’re waiting for the perfect timing, you’ll be waiting forever. Life doesn’t hand out neatly wrapped second chances.”
“Is that supposed to be motivational?”
“Depends,” he said. “Is it working?”
I smirked faintly. “Not really.”
“Then I’ll keep trying,” he said, pouring himself another coffee. “We’re brothers. Annoying each other is kind of our brand.”
“Yeah,” I said, a small laugh escaping me despite everything. “That checks out.”
We stood there for a while, the bar humming quietly around us, the snow falling harder outside. I stared at the window, at the faint reflection of the Christmas lights we’d strung.
“She’s something, huh?” Callum said softly.
“Yeah,” I said, my throat tight. “She is.”
He clapped me on the shoulder. “Then quit standing still. You’re not a tree.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, though we both knew I probably wouldn’t—at least not tonight.
Callum chuckled. “You know what you need?”
“A vacation?”
“Eggnog.”
I groaned. “God, no.”
He grinned, reaching for the bottle under the counter. “Too late. It’s Christmas, brother. Brooding’s allowed but not without booze.”
I laughed despite myself, shaking my head as he poured. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet somehow with the smartest woman in town,” he said, raising his glass. “Miracles do happen.”
I clinked my mug against his. “To miracles, then.”
“To love,” he said pointedly.
“Don’t push it.”
But I drank anyway.
And as the warmth hit my chest, I couldn’t help glancing toward the door again, half-hoping, half-dreading that the next time it opened, it’d be her.
The night was supposed to be easy.
Callum left to run an errand for Lydia, and I had the bar under control, mostly.
It was one of those steady Reckless River nights where the whole town was buzzing from the festival—snow falling thick outside, heaters flickering along the sidewalk, the scent of roasted nuts and cocoa sneaking in each time the door opened.
The Rusty Stag glowed warm and golden, laughter spilling between tables. It was comfortable. Predictable.
Until she showed up.
Not her-her, not Melanie. Not yet.
No, first came the blonde.
The same one who’d been here the other night—icy blue eyes, a laugh like mistletoe and trouble, and just enough flirtation to make the regulars lean closer when she talked. I remembered her because Melanie had noticed her too.
And judging by the way that night had ended, with Melanie storming out and me wanting to kick myself, I really didn’t need this woman back in my bar.
But there she was, perched on a stool near the middle, stirring her martini and smiling like she knew things she shouldn’t.
“Evening,” she said as I walked by. “The usual?”
I kept my voice neutral. “You were here once, not a regular yet.”
She laughed softly. “I could be.”
“Uh-huh.” I started pulling a draft for another table. “You here for the festival?”
“Came for the festival,” she said, tilting her head, “stayed for the company.”
“Good for you,” I said, setting the beer down for someone else.
She smiled wider. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”
“Depends who’s listening.”
She raised her glass in a mock toast. “Mysterious. I like that.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and turned to grab a towel. My job was to pour drinks, not imagine things that weren’t there or the sharp edge of irritation that always followed when certain people saw me talking to someone else.
I was halfway through restocking the garnishes when the door opened.
The blonde leaned forward just slightly, chin in hand, and smiled in that slow, deliberate way some people do when they like trouble.
I grabbed a rag and busied myself with the counter, pretending not to notice the sparks… and not the good kind.
The bell chimed, the wind carried in a swirl of snow, and there she was.
Melanie.
And Lydia, right beside her, all smiles and scarves and the kind of glow that came from pregnancy and pure mischief.
The bar was warm, but suddenly I was freezing.
Melanie stomped snow off her boots, muttering under her breath about the weather. The lamplight caught her hair, a few stray strands escaping her hat, and even from behind the bar, I could see the pink in her cheeks and the way her lashes were still dusted with flakes.
Lydia’s eyes landed on me first. “Hey, Drew!” she called cheerfully, as if nothing about this was awkward.
Melanie froze mid-step. Her eyes flicked toward the bar and the blonde.
Her expression changed faster than I could say oh no.
If heat had a color, it would’ve been the shade of red crawling up her neck.
The blonde noticed too, of course. Because of course she did. Lydia walked up to the bar like she’d been waiting all week for this moment. “Is Callum around?”
“Nope. Still running some errand.”
Melanie still hadn’t said a word.
She just stood there, arms crossed, scanning the room like she was assessing fire exits or deciding who to strangle first.
“Want me to get you something?” I asked finally, because silence between us was worse than any argument.
Her eyes snapped to mine. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
The blonde smirked over the rim of her glass. “You sure? He makes a mean peppermint martini.”
Melanie didn’t even look at her. “I’m not much for peppermint.”
Lies. It was one of her favorites.
“I am,” the woman said, tilting her glass toward me. “But you already knew that, right, Mr. Bartender?”
I blinked. “Uh… right. Because you ordered one the other night.”
She laughed softly. “Relax, bartender. I’m teasing.”
Melanie’s jaw clenched.
“So, you here for the festival again?” I asked, directing the question at the blonde mostly to diffuse the tension.
“Maybe,” she said, tracing her finger along the edge of her glass. “Or maybe I was hoping to run into familiar company.”
Melanie’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow. Subtle.”
The woman smiled sweetly. “Small towns, right? Everyone knows everyone.”
“Not everyone,” Melanie said coolly. “Some of us are just passing through.”
There was that tone. It was the one that could slice through glass. It hit me dead center, and before I could think of a way to steer this back into safe territory, Lydia piped up, voice bright and cluelessly strategic.
“Well, while you’re passing through, maybe you could give me a tip or two with this cranky bartender,” the blonde cooed.
Melanie’s glare could’ve melted a snowbank. “I’ve got nothing. I barely know him.”
I coughed into my sleeve, mostly to hide the grin that was threatening to break loose.
“It seems like there’s history between you two,” the tourist said, glancing between me and Melanie.
“Nah, not history. But he is history in my book.” Melanie shrugged as the blonde eyed me carefully. “Like I said, I don’t know him that well.”
“I wouldn’t say that’s true, Mel. You’ve explored every part of me and come back for more.” My eyes stayed fastened on Mel’s. There was no way I would let this escalate between the blonde and me while Mel let her imagination run, and the only thing I could think of was to claim her publicly.
“I…uh.” Melanie flushed and glanced at the jukebox before turning back to me, and I loved every second of it.
The blonde stood, pulling her coat off the back of the stool. “Well, I should probably catch up on emails.”
“Have a great night,” I offered.
When the door closed behind her, the bar felt warmer again, quieter.
Lydia finally looked up from her fake interest in the menu and said, far too casually, “She seems nice.”
Melanie didn’t even blink. “She seems like she has a thing for bartenders.”
I raised my brows. “Just bartenders?”
“Probably anyone with a pulse,” she muttered.
Lydia coughed, hiding her laugh. “Well! On that note, I think I’m going to check the bakery stall out front before it closes. You two behave.”
“Lydia—”
The door jingled shut, and just like that, it was me and Melanie.
The silence stretched.
She finally exhaled and muttered, “Of course she had to be here.”
I leaned on the counter, trying for casual. “Pretty sure she’s here for the drinks, not me.”
“Oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “She was practically purring.”
“Didn’t notice,” I said.
She gave me a look. “You noticed.”
I smiled, slow and small. “Only because you did first.”
Her lips parted, the tiniest flicker of a blush creeping in before she turned away. “You’re insufferable.”
“Still sounds like a compliment,” I said softly.
She didn’t respond. But she didn’t walk away either.
And standing there behind the bar, watching her fight not to smile, I realized that for all our bad timing, for all the frost between us, she’d still come here.
And maybe that meant the ice was finally starting to crack.