Chapter Twenty-Six
Drew
The smell of coffee hit before the light did.
For a second, I thought I’d dreamed the whole thing—the drive, the market, her laughter, the way the city glowed on her skin. But the weight of the blanket, the faint hum of traffic outside, and the indentation on the pillow next to me said otherwise.
Seattle sunlight hit hard with its gray, lazy sky.
The twinkle lights over her bed were still glowing, one stubborn bulb flickering every few seconds. She was moving around the apartment, in soft footfalls, the quiet sound of a cupboard door.
I sat up, rubbed my face, and exhaled.
So this was the morning after. No hangover, no regrets. Just the strange, quiet peace that comes from having what you want and realizing you still don’t quite know what to do with it.
Her laugh carried down the hall, and I smiled. There it was again, the sound that never failed to knock something loose in my chest. I swung my legs out of bed, found my jeans, and tugged them on before heading toward the kitchen.
She stood by the counter in one of my shirts—the soft gray one I’d left in my bag, the one she must’ve swiped sometime last night.
It hit mid-thigh and looked a hell of a lot better on her than it ever did on me.
Her hair was up in a messy knot, her bare feet tucked under her as she poured coffee into two mismatched mugs.
“Morning,” I said, leaning on the doorframe.
She turned, smiling, and for a moment I forgot how to breathe. “Morning yourself,” she said. “You sleep okay?”
“Better than okay.”
Her cheeks colored just enough to make my grin widen. She handed me a mug and lifted hers in mock salute. “To questionable decisions and very good coffee.”
“Dangerous combination,” I said, taking a sip. “Especially when the questionable decision can cook.”
“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes but was smiling. “You’ve been dying to brag about that salmon.”
“Can you blame me? You made noises, Mel. Noises.”
She choked on her coffee, laughing. “I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
She swatted at me with the dish towel, and I caught it, tugging her close before she could retreat.
“See?” I said, lowering my voice. “No regrets.”
Her laughter softened, melting into a small, almost shy smile. “Not yet.”
“Yet?”
“Give me a few hours to overthink,” she said, but she was teasing again, or at least trying to.
That was when I saw it…the flicker. Quick, subtle, but there. Like a curtain shifting just enough to show what was behind it.
Distance.
Not physical, hell, she was standing against me, warm and real, but something in her eyes that was already half a mile down the highway.
I told myself I imagined it. The mind plays tricks in the morning. But as she leaned up on her toes to kiss me, I couldn’t quite shake it.
“You’re thinking too hard,” she murmured against my lips.
“Can’t help it. It’s early.”
“You’re dangerous when you think,” she said, stepping back and taking another sip of coffee. “I like you better when you just… exist.”
“Exist?”
“Mmhmm.” She smiled, all lazy mischief. “Making breakfast. Looking smug. Saying dumb things about Christmas and compliments.”
“That’s my entire personality, so lucky you.”
She set her mug down and looped her arms around my neck.
“I am lucky,” she said quietly.
That word—am—did something weird to me. It sounded temporary, like a moment she was holding onto before it disappeared.
“Stay,” she said suddenly. “Don’t drive yet. It’s still early.”
I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But the practical part of me, the one that owned a bar, managed a staff, and lived hours away, was already counting the miles.
“I’ve got deliveries coming this afternoon,” I said. “And the poinsettia festival is moving in tonight.”
She groaned. “Your town’s addicted to festivals.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Fine.” She sighed dramatically and reached up to kiss me again. “But I’ll be there this weekend. I promise.”
I searched her face. “You sure?”
“Of course,” she said easily. Too easily. “You think I’d pass up another chili cookoff or wreath-making competition?”
“I was thinking you’d pass up the drive.”
She looked up at me, her smile softening. “I’ll come. Promise.”
I nodded, but something in her tone, something careful, made my stomach twist. She was trying. We both were. That had to count for something.
“Okay,” I said, setting my mug aside. “Then I’ll save you the good room.”
“You mean the couch.”
“It has character.”
She laughed, a sound that still made my chest go loose. “Right. Character that smells like beer and regret.”
“Adds to the charm.” I grinned wider. “I’d never make you sleep on my couch.”
She shook her head, still smiling, and brushed her fingers down my chest, tracing the edge of the tattoo on my arm like she couldn’t help herself. “You’re off your rocker.”
“Still sounds like you enjoy my company,” I murmured, and she laughed.
We stood there in the half-light, the city stretching awake around us—horns, brakes, the distant wail of another siren.
Seattle moved fast even when it was still sleepy.
She fit here. I could see it in the way she glanced at the skyline out the window, the way she breathed easier with the noise.
Reckless River would always feel too quiet for her.
I wanted to tell her I didn’t need her to stay forever. Just try. Just give it the same effort we’d both been too scared to before. But I didn’t want to weigh down a morning that still tasted like hope.
Instead, I said, “You’re staring at me.”
She smiled. “Because you look so serious.”
“Serious about you.”
“Dangerous thing to say before caffeine.”
“Too late,” I said. “I’m caffeinated and reckless.”
“Then at least eat before you go.”
She disappeared into the kitchen again, bare legs and my shirt disappearing with her. The sound of the fridge opening, the rattle of pans. She was humming softly under her breath. It was some old pop song that didn’t fit her at all and yet somehow did.
When I walked in, she was standing over the stove, flipping eggs like she was auditioning for a diner commercial. I leaned against the counter, watching her with a stupid grin.
“What?” she said, not looking up.
“Just trying to burn this into memory,” I said. “In case the weekend feels too far away.”
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing playfully. “You really are a sentimental sap, aren’t you?”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I said. “I’ve got a reputation.”
Her lips curved into a soft, knowing smile, but she didn’t say anything. We ate at the counter, sharing toast, trading small talk about the weather, traffic, and Lydia’s inevitable baby shower. She laughed at all the right spots, but every so often, her eyes drifted somewhere else.
I noticed it again—that faraway flicker. Like she was already thinking about the rest of her day, her week, her life here. I told myself I was being paranoid, but it gnawed anyway.
When it was finally time to go, she walked me to the door, barefoot and sleepy-eyed. I bent down and kissed her slowly, the kind of kiss that tried to make up for the time we hadn’t lost yet.
“Drive safe,” she said softly.
“Always.”
“And text when you get there. I mean it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled and tugged at the collar of my jacket. “Don’t call me ma’am. Makes me sound like I run an HOA.”
“You don’t like rules,” I teased, and she laughed, the sound chasing away the lump in my throat. “Funny for a teacher.”
As I turned toward the door, she caught my hand, squeezing once.
“This weekend,” she said, looking up at me. “I’ll be there.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” I said.
“I know you will.”
I kissed her forehead and stepped into the hallway before I could overthink it. She leaned against the doorframe, watching me with that same half-smile that made promises I wasn’t sure she’d keep.
When the elevator doors closed, I caught a last glimpse of her through the narrowing gap. By the time I reached the parking garage, my thoughts had swallowed me up again.
I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets, telling myself I was imagining it. The flicker in her eyes. The small hesitation. The way she’d touched me like she wanted to memorize something she didn’t plan to keep.
She’d said she’d come this weekend.
She’d promised.
And I believed her.
Or at least, I wanted to.
Still, as I climbed into my truck and started the engine, the silence felt too heavy.
The city faded in the rearview mirror, and all I could think was that something about her goodbye had felt a little too much like a maybe.
Seattle fell away behind me in layers—gray towers, glass, the heavy hum of traffic.
The rain chased me up I-5, then slowed to mist around Everett, the clouds thinning as I climbed into the hills.
Every so often, a green highway sign flashed Reckless River – 97 miles, 82 miles, 49, like a countdown I hadn’t realized I’d started.
I should’ve felt good. I’d just spent a night with the woman I couldn’t stop thinking about since the first time she walked into The Rusty Stag, all sharp wit and soft eyes, acting like she didn’t see me watching her. She’d said she’d come up this weekend.
That should’ve been enough.
Except my brain didn’t know how to leave things alone.
Every mile, I replayed her smile when I left.
The way she’d leaned in the doorway in my shirt, trying to look casual and failing miserably.
The way she’d said, I’ll be there this weekend, like she meant it, like she wanted to mean it, but something in her eyes had already started drifting somewhere else.
It was a look I knew too well. The kind people get right before they disappear.
I told myself I was being paranoid. I’d always been that way with her…half in, half waiting for the floor to drop. But I couldn’t shake it, the quiet doubt whispering under my ribs.
She’s coming, I told myself for the tenth time. She promised.
The words tasted hollow by the fifteenth.
Still, I pushed on.