Chapter Seventeen
Melanie
The second Lydia slipped out the door, leaving me alone in The Rusty Stag with Drew Benedict and a thousand volts of unresolved tension, I knew she’d done it on purpose.
That woman was a menace in mittens.
The door jingled behind her, a burst of cold air swooping in just long enough to remind me that outside was safer. Less flannel. Less temptation.
Inside, though?
Inside was Drew.
And God help me, he looked unfairly good tonight.
The soft glow of the bar lights made his skin look sun-warmed even in the middle of December.
His flannel sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off those forearms that had no business being that strong or that distracting.
The jeans fit just right, and the faint smudge of flour from some earlier food prep clung to his thigh like even inanimate objects couldn’t resist touching him.
I took one step toward the counter before I caught myself. “Why did you say that to a complete stranger?”
He looked up from restocking glasses, a slow grin spreading across his face. “So you knew I wasn’t trying to flirt with her. I was saving her the trouble.”
I smiled, unable to pretend I didn’t like what he just did. “I think you’re trouble.”
He chuckled. “That’s a compliment coming from you.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
He leaned an elbow on the counter, his eyes glinting in that teasing way that made it impossible to tell if he was amused or about to ruin me. “You want a drink, Mel?”
I hesitated, torn between running for the door or drowning in whatever that smile was promising. “What are my options?”
“Bad decisions or good decisions?”
I snorted. “Both sound like bad decisions.”
He winked. “My specialty.”
I sat down at the bar, trying not to think about how my heart was thudding in my chest. “You really shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it sounds like flirting.”
“It is flirting,” he said easily, reaching for a glass. “You just never seem to mind as much as you pretend to.”
I rolled my eyes, but it didn’t stop the heat creeping up my neck. “You’re impossible.”
He grinned. “Still sounds like a compliment.”
I groaned.
He laughed under his breath, then turned to grab a bottle from the shelf. And that’s when I saw it again. The new tattoo curled around the inside of his forearm, dark ink shifting with the flex of muscle as he poured.
I didn’t mean to stare.
Okay, maybe I did.
Because the longer I looked, the harder it was not to notice everything else—the easy way he moved behind the bar, the quiet confidence, the way the fabric of his flannel stretched just enough to make my brain short-circuit.
He turned back and caught me.
Of course he did.
“See something you like?” he asked, voice low, amused.
My cheeks went up in flames.
“Does the new ink turn you on?”
“Drew!”
“What?” he said innocently, though his eyes were anything but. “Honest question.”
I tried to glare at him, failed miserably, and muttered, “Maybe.”
His brows lifted, his grin softening into something more dangerous. “Maybe?”
I sighed, giving in. “Fine. Yes. It’s… hot, okay? You happy?”
He pretended to think about it. “Yeah, that’ll do.”
I tried to scowl, but he looked so smugly pleased I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re blushing,” he said, delighted.
I pressed a hand to my cheek. “I am not.”
“You are,” he said, leaning closer. “You always do when you’re trying not to say something.”
I rolled my eyes again, desperate to get the conversation anywhere but here. “So what does it mean, anyway?”
He looked down at the ink for a second, tracing the edge absently.
“It’s a compass,” he said. “Callum designed it for me. Figured it might remind me to keep my bearings.”
“That’s… surprisingly deep.”
He smirked. “Disappointed?”
“Honestly? A little. What about what’s inside it? The letters and numbers?”
He laughed, the sound warm and rich, sliding right under my ribs.
“City girl,” he said finally, shaking his head. “You ever stop to think maybe you like a guy with a little depth?”
“Depth’s fine,” I said, crossing my arms. “It’s the chaos that comes with it that’s exhausting.”
“Chaos keeps things interesting.”
“You would think that.”
“What about the letter and numbers inside?”
“That’s personal.”
He poured me a drink, something golden and fizzy, and slid it across the counter.
“Here. On the house. Maybe it’ll make me more tolerable.”
“Nothing short of divine intervention could do that,” I said, but I took a sip anyway.
It was sweet with a little bite, and it warmed me faster than I expected.
He watched me over the rim of his own glass, eyes soft but sharp. “So, tell me something, Mel.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.”
I sighed. “Go ahead.”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the bar, voice low and teasing. “What’s it like dating those guys in suits back in Seattle?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You know,” he said, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The ones with the fancy watches and expensive haircuts. The ones who probably order their coffee with adjectives.”
I nearly choked on my drink. “Adjectives?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Like ‘half-sweet, oat-milk, cinnamon-dusted, soul-devoid latte.’”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Still sounds flattering and like a…”
I interrupted him, chuckling. “You’re really proud of that line, aren’t you?”
“Maybe a little.”
I set my glass down, leaning on my elbows to meet his gaze. “For the record, not every guy in Seattle wears a suit.”
He raised a brow. “But you dated the ones who did.”
I hesitated, then smiled wryly. “Yeah. I did.”
“And?”
“And they were fine,” I said honestly. “They were polite, ambitious, clean. Always smelled like sandalwood and spreadsheets.”
He grinned. “Sounds thrilling.”
“It wasn’t,” I admitted. “It was… predictable.”
His eyes caught mine, softer now, the teasing melting into something quieter. “And you don’t like predictable or you do?”
I shrugged, my pulse jumping. “Let’s just say predictable never set my world on fire.”
For a second, neither of us moved. The air between us stretched tight, crackling with everything we weren’t saying.
He smiled a small, crooked, and devastating grin. “Guess that explains a lot.”
I tilted my head. “Like what?”
“Like why you keep ending up in a bar run by a guy who doesn’t own a suit.”
My heart thudded once, hard. “You’re awfully confident for someone who ran out on me at dinner.”
He winced, the grin faltering. “Fair.”
And just like that, the moment tilted, flirting turning into something rawer, quieter.
He looked at me for a long beat, like he was trying to read something in my face. He finally exhaled and said softly, “For what it’s worth, I haven’t stopped thinking about that night.”
I swallowed hard. “Neither have I.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in. The lights from the Christmas tree reflected in his eyes, and for the briefest, most dangerous moment, I thought he might reach for me.
But then someone opened the door, letting in a rush of laughter and cold air, and the moment broke.
He straightened, running a hand through his hair. “Festival’s still going strong. Guess I should get back to work.”
“Guess so,” I said quietly.
He gave me one last look, a mix of longing and restraint, and turned to pour another drink.
And I sat there, staring into the glow of my glass, realizing that I was already in far deeper trouble than I wanted to admit.
Because maybe suits and city life had never been the problem.
Maybe it was that no one had ever made me feel this alive, this reckless, until Drew Benedict. I had my routine, my classroom, my apartment. My mom was nearby and always ready to bring a bottle of wine if needed.
Things were…predictable.
If someone had told me this morning that I’d end the day sitting in The Rusty Stag, cheeks still warm from flirting with Drew Benedict while Christmas lights twinkled in every direction, I would’ve laughed them out of the room.
And yet, here I was sitting in a corner booth, trying to remember how to breathe normally while he moved behind the bar like he belonged there.
Which, of course, he did.
The man was maddeningly at home in this place with his voice low and easy as he chatted with customers, and laughter deep and warm enough to fill every corner of the room. The fire in the stone hearth crackled softly, a pine garland draped across the mantle, it was…nice.
Outside, the snow kept falling, catching the glow from the string lights on Main Street. Every time someone opened the door, a swirl of winter swept in, carrying laughter and the faint sound of carolers.
If Norman Rockwell and Hallmark had a baby, this was it.
And somehow, I was in the middle of it, still flushed from his teasing about Seattle men in suits and trying very, very hard not to look like a woman who’d been caught staring at his forearms all evening.
The door jingled again, and I looked up to see Callum stepping in, brushing snow from his hair. Behind him, Lydia followed, glowing like a Christmas ornament personified.
“Finally!” I said. “I’m starving.”
“So what you’re saying is you’re ready for dinner.”
“I was ready five hours ago,” I said, laughing.
“Mel, you mind if we just eat here? I can’t feel my fingers, and this place smells too good to leave, and I’m having a craving.”
Hearing her say she had a craving made my heart tighten and a sloppy grin plop on my face.
“For what?”
“Don’t laugh.”
“Never.”
“Chili cheese fries with extra onions and mustard on the side.”
My mouth puckered instinctively. “Mustard?”
“Don’t ask. I need it on everything.”
“I’m not sure if I should be excited or worried. Will our child inherit this taste?” Callum grimaced.
Lydia swatted his arm. “Pregnant cravings are not a character flaw. How do you know your child isn’t the one demanding mustard?” She stuck her tongue out at him, and he laughed, leaning over to kiss her temple.
I smiled because they were ridiculous and happy and so clearly in love that it made something ache deep in my chest.
I turned toward the bar, half to hide the look on my face and half because I could feel Drew watching.
He caught my eye and smirked, like he’d just read my mind.
“I’ll grab menus,” he said, voice low enough that it felt like a secret.
Before I could respond, he wandered over to the old jukebox near the wall, the one with the soft crackle in its speakers.
He punched in a number, and a few seconds later, the opening notes of Baby, It’s Cold Outside drifted through the room.
I groaned audibly. “Really?”
He turned, that grin spreading slow and unapologetic. “Seemed appropriate.”
“For what?” I asked, glaring.
He shrugged. “For the weather. For the mood. For driving you crazy.”
“Mission accomplished,” I muttered, but I could feel my mouth tugging at a smile.
He winked and returned to the bar, humming along under his breath.
Lydia gave me a knowing look. “You two are disgusting.”
“We’re not anything,” I said quickly.
She sipped her cider. “Sure, and I don’t own seventeen Christmas sweaters.”
Callum chuckled. “Seventeen?”
“Eighteen, actually,” she corrected primly.
I shook my head. “You’re both hopeless.”
“And you’re in denial,” she shot back, eyes dancing.
Before I could argue, Drew appeared at our table with a notepad in hand and that infuriatingly calm expression that said he was completely aware of the effect he had on me.
“Chef’s special tonight,” he said, “is roasted chicken with cranberry glaze and rosemary potatoes. Comes with stuffing or winter greens. Very festive, very small-town, very delicious.”
Lydia clapped her hands. “Sold!”
“I’ll take the same,” Callum said.
Drew turned to me. “And you?”
I hesitated. “What’s the least festive thing on the menu?”
He leaned down slightly, resting a hand on the edge of the booth. “You.”
I stared. “Excuse me?”
He grinned. “Kidding. Sort of. But the fried chicken is good. You’ll like it.”
Lydia smirked so hard I could feel it.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll take the chicken. And maybe a glass of wine.”
He straightened, still grinning. “Good choice.”
When he walked away, Lydia sighed dramatically. “He really is unfairly good at that.”
“At what?” I asked, pretending not to know.
“Existing,” she said simply. “And flirting. And making it impossible for you to pretend you don’t notice him.”
I groaned. “Can we not dissect my emotional turmoil while I’m sober?”
“Too late,” she said, taking another sip.
Callum chuckled, reaching for her hand under the table. “You’re relentless.”
“Thank you,” she said sweetly.
Before I could decide whether to strangle her or thank her, Drew returned with our drinks before sliding into the booth beside me.
I blinked. “What are you doing?”
“Taking a break,” he said casually, resting one arm along the back of the booth. “Callum’s technically my boss, but since he’s busy being domestic, I’m calling this a management-approved dinner.”
Callum laughed. “Fair enough.”
Lydia beamed. “Look at us! One big cozy family dinner.”
“Define cozy,” I said weakly.
Drew chuckled beside me, the sound low and warm. “You’re really bad at pretending you don’t like this, you know.”
“Like what?”
“Being here,” he said simply.
My breath hitched. “You don’t know what I like.”
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Don’t I?”
For a second, everything else faded—the chatter, the music, even Lydia and Callum’s laughter across the table.
It was just him. The heat of his arm behind me, the smell of cedar and spice clinging to his flannel, the faint hint of a smile that made my heart trip over itself.
I turned back to my glass before I could say something stupid. “Drink your drink, Benedict.”
He chuckled, leaning closer just enough for his voice to brush against my ear. “Yes, ma’am.”
And just like that, I forgot what wine even was.
Lydia, of course, noticed. She elbowed Callum and whispered loudly enough for half the bar to hear, “This is better than TV.”
But I caught the smile on Callum’s face as he exchanged a look with Drew. And as his shoulder brushed mine while he reached for his glass, I realized Lydia had gotten exactly what she wanted.
I was staying.
At least for another night.