Chapter Eighteen
Drew
It was supposed to be a simple gesture.
Coffee. A peace offering. Maybe a truce. Definitely not an excuse to see her before she left town.
That’s what I told myself as I walked up the narrow staircase to her apartment above The Rusty Stag, my hand carefully balancing the paper cup filled with peppermint mocha Riley had made for me. She’d even drawn a tiny candy cane on the lid and winked when she handed it over.
“For the city girl,” she’d said. “Looks like she’s the type to need closure and sugar.”
I’d laughed. But now, halfway up the stairs, my pulse was hammering like I’d just sprinted through a snowstorm.
The morning air was crisp, the kind of cold that bit at your nose but left the world sparkling. The festival cleanup had already started with vendors packing up, the faint smell of pine and cinnamon still drifting from the square.
But my brain wasn’t on the town. It was on Melanie.
She was supposed to leave tonight. Back to Seattle. Back to her real life.
And I wasn’t ready for that. Not even close.
I paused outside her door, trying to figure out how to knock without sounding like a man on the verge of an emotional breakdown. I told myself this was harmless.
Friendly. Platonic.
That word sounded wrong even in my head.
Still, I raised my hand and knocked lightly.
There was a pause on the radio or television, and finally soft footsteps, a sleepy shuffle, and the sound of her unlocking the door.
When it opened, I forgot how to breathe.
She stood there, blinking at me in the early light, hair tousled in every direction like she’d just rolled out of a very good dream or a very long night. Her oversized buffalo plaid nightshirt fell halfway down her bare thighs, the sleeves too long, the collar slipping slightly off one shoulder.
And just like that, I knew this was a terrible, terrible idea.
“Drew?” she said, voice rough and warm from sleep. “It’s eight in the morning.”
I held up the cup. “Peace offering.”
Her brow furrowed. “Peace for what?”
“For existing,” I said before I could stop myself. “And for being an idiot the last while.”
She squinted at me, trying not to smile. “You brought me coffee for existing?”
“Technically, it’s a peppermint mocha,” I said, handing it over. “Riley’s idea. She said caffeine fixes most bad moods.”
Melanie took the cup, her fingers brushing mine. She smelled like vanilla and sleep and something that made rational thought impossible.
“This doesn’t mean I’m forgiving you for… whatever you think you did wrong,” she said, though her tone was softer than her words.
“I’ll take my chances,” I said, forcing a grin.
She took a cautious sip, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Okay, fine. It’s perfect.”
“Riley’ll be thrilled,” I said, shifting my weight so I didn’t do something stupid like reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
She leaned against the doorframe, holding the cup close to her chest.
“You look cold,” she said after a moment.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not wearing gloves.”
“I’ve got calloused hands,” I said, wiggling my fingers.
She gave me a look. “That’s not a personality trait.”
“Tell that to half the tourists who come through this town.”
She laughed, shaking her head, and the sound hit me square in the chest. It was the same laugh that had been haunting me for weeks—low, genuine, a little self-conscious.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said.
“Still sounds like a…” I stopped myself.
Her smile faltered, just a little, the teasing giving way to something heavier.
“Drew…” she said quietly.
And there it was. The warning. The line she’d drawn and redrawn a hundred times between us.
I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets. “Relax. This isn’t a romantic gesture.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, taking another sip.
“It’s not,” I insisted. “This is strictly… friendship maintenance. You know, since you’re leaving tonight and probably won’t speak to me for six months.”
Her lips quirked. “You make it sound like we’re divorcing.”
“Feels like it.”
She blinked, caught off guard by my honesty.
I exhaled, trying to lighten it again. “Anyway, it’s just coffee. Platonic. Totally nonthreatening.”
She tilted her head, studying me. “You keep saying that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
“Maybe I am,” I said before I could stop myself.
Her expression softened, and for a second, neither of us said anything. The world outside was quiet except for the faint hum of a snowblower somewhere down the street. The cold air drifted between us, carrying the smell of coffee and winter and something that felt like goodbye.
“So,” she said finally, her voice careful. “Is this what you do? Bring coffee to all the women you’re… platonically not interested in?”
“Only the ones I can’t stop thinking about,” I said, then immediately winced. “Kidding. Mostly.”
She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed, and that was enough to make my pulse stumble again.
“Drew,” she said softly. “You don’t make this easy.”
“Wasn’t trying to,” I said, my voice rougher than I meant it to be.
Her hand tightened around the cup. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes it harder to leave.”
The words hit harder than I expected. I tried to find something clever to say, something to make her smile again, but nothing came out.
So instead, I said the only thing that felt true. “Then maybe don’t.”
Her eyes lifted to mine, full of conflict and something dangerously close to longing. “You know I can’t stay.”
“Yeah,” I said, my throat tight. “I know.”
The silence that followed felt fragile, like one wrong move could shatter it completely.
She looked away first, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You should go before this coffee becomes… more than coffee.”
I tried to smile, but it came out crooked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Liar.”
“Occupational hazard,” I said, stepping back.
She smiled faintly. “Thank you for the mocha, Drew.”
“Anytime,” I said. “You know, platonically.”
She rolled her eyes again, but the corners of her mouth lifted. “You really are impossible.”
“Still sounds like a compliment,” I said automatically, because I didn’t trust myself to say anything else.
Then I turned, heading down the stairs before I could do something stupid like go back and kiss her again.
Because I knew exactly how it would go: she’d melt into me for one perfect, impossible moment, and then she’d pull away, walls slamming back up, and tonight she’d be on that road to Seattle with a polite thank-you text and radio silence for the next six months.
No. This was safer.
This was the kind of gesture that said, I care about you but I won’t ruin you.
It was friendship. Platonic. Entirely selfless.
I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets and muttered to myself, “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”
Riley’s peppermint drawing on the cup lid stared up at me from the extra drink I’d ordered.
And for all my good intentions, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere between the first sip and goodbye, I’d just made the biggest mistake of the season.
I didn’t make it three steps off the last stair before my feet changed their mind and turned me toward Bean There, Done That.
The morning had sharpened into one of those bright, brittle Reckless River days with the sky so clean it almost hurt to look at it, and the sun flashing on drifts like ground glass.
The town was deep in cleanup mode until next weekend, with vendors folding canvas, kids hopscotching between piles the plows had left, someone dragging a twelve-foot nutcracker across Main like it owed them money.
The bell over Riley’s door jingled when I walked in, and the shop swallowed me whole—warm air, espresso haze, vinyl crackle from the back corner.
Fleetwood Mac drifted off an old record player.
The place smelled like cinnamon and toasted coconut and the faint citrus of whatever hand soap Riley buys by the gallon.
Mismatched mugs lined the shelves like a friendly crowd.
Riley clocked me the way a hawk clocks movement. One glance, and she slid an order cup down the counter.
“Well hey there, Mr. Not-At-All-In-His-Feelings,” she said, smirking. A dusting of cocoa marked one cheekbone like festive camouflage. “Back again? Running a caffeine marathon or avoidance campaign?”
“Both,” I said. “Don’t judge me.”
“I already judged you the second you walked in with that face.” She tipped her chin toward the register.
“I think I’m too hard for sweet drinks at the moment.”
“So your usual instead of the amazing mocha I made you?”
I chuckled and nodded. “Please.”
She began the ritual: grinder’s burr-song and the click of the machine. She could talk over it, too, which she did.
“So, how’d the delivery go? Did she hurl the mocha at your head or just stab you with a candy cane?”
“Neither,” I said. “She said thanks.”
Riley raised a brow. “And?”
“And I said it was platonic.”
Her laugh came out like a bark. “You told Melanie Sauser a peppermint mocha was a platonic gesture?”
“I panicked.”
“You’re adorable when you panic. Stupid, but adorable.”
“I’m aware.”
She slid a cup across with no lid, because she knows I stay when I’m spiraling. The coffee was dark enough to read omens in. I took a sip that should’ve scalded me and set it down, throat tight.
“She leaves tonight,” I said.
Riley leaned in on her elbows, chin propped on her knuckles, and a nosy, knowing look in her eyes. Reckless River in human form.
“And what exactly are you planning to do about that?”
“Apparently, bring her beverages labeled emotionally neutral and walk away.”
“Huh,” she said. “Bold strategy.”
“She’s… she’s got a life,” I said, and the words scraped coming out. “Everything in Seattle. An apartment. Work. Friends. Yoga classes with names I can’t pronounce. Noise that makes her feel like she’s moving forward.”
“And you’ve got the Stag,” Riley said, not unkindly. “A river and a routine and a flannel rotation.”