Chapter Seven
Holden
The Ridgeline Tavern was louder than usual for a Saturday night.
Someone had set up in the corner with an acoustic guitar and a voice that carried.
She was young, maybe twenty-five, with dark hair cropped short and silver rings stacked on her fingers that caught the light when she strummed.
Folk songs, mostly, the kind that made people tap their feet without realizing they were doing it.
The bar was three deep with ski crowd overflow, and every booth was full.
Jamie had snagged us a table near the back, away from the worst of the noise, but close enough that the music wrapped around us like something warm.
The tavern's idea of decor was neon beer signs and mounted elk antlers. Not a flower in sight, unless you counted the faded silk arrangement on the hostess stand that had probably been there since the place opened.
My grandmother would have had opinions about that.
Jamie was watching the performer with that expression he got sometimes, open, delighted, like he'd discovered something worth discovering. His fingers drummed against his thigh in time with the rhythm. When the song ended, he clapped hard enough that a few people at nearby tables glanced over.
“She's good,” he said. “Really good.”
“Local. Plays here most weekends in the off-season.”
“You've seen her before?”
“Once or twice.” I didn't mention that I usually left before the music started. That I came for a burger and a beer when friends dragged me out for someone's birthday. The illusion of being social before I could escape and no one could corner me into conversation.
Tonight I wasn't escaping anything.
Denise came by with our drinks. “You two are cute,” she said with a wistful look softening her usually sharp expression. “Just so you know.”
“We're aware,” Jamie said, grinning up at her. “But thanks for the confirmation.”
She laughed and moved on. Jamie caught my eye across the table, his smile shifting into something softer.
“You're blushing.”
“I'm not.”
“Your ears are bright red. I can see them from here.”
I took a drink instead of answering. The beer was cold, familiar. Jamie's foot found mine under the table, not playing footsie, just resting there. Contact for its own sake.
“Well, well.” A dry voice cut through the music. “Holden Hutchinson at the Tavern on a Saturday night. With company. And you're almost smiling. I need to mark my calendar.”
Reid stood at the edge of our booth, beer in hand.
He'd lost weight since the divorce, face thinner, cheekbones sharper than they used to be.
The soft middle he used to joke about was mostly gone, his frame angular in a way that read more exhausted than fit.
His button-down was untucked on one side, wrinkled at the cuffs, which wasn't like him.
Reid had always been the put-together one.
The wire-rimmed glasses were the same ones he'd had since I met him, slightly bent at one temple where he'd sat on them six months ago and never gotten them fixed.
He looked like a man who'd stopped paying attention to himself. I recognized the signs.
“Reid.” I sat back. “Didn't know you came here.”
“I contain multitudes.” He turned to Jamie, extended his free hand. “Reid Grant. I do Holden's taxes and occasionally drag him out of his apartment for a beer and some poker.”
“Jamie Redford.” Jamie shook his hand, glancing at me with open curiosity. “Nice to meet you.”
Reid pulled out an empty chair without asking and sat down, setting his beer on the table. “You're the graphic designer. The one with the corgis.”
I barked out a laugh. “Word travels fast.”
“Word travels instantly. This is Prospect Ridge.” Reid took a sip of his beer, studying us over the rim with that accountant's gaze that never missed a number out of place.
His eyes moved from Jamie to me to the small gap between us that wasn't really a gap at all.
“You two interested in signing up for trivia league? Starts next month, in March.”
Something flickered across Jamie's face. Interest, hope, something that made my chest tight.
“I didn't know there was a trivia league.”
“Chalkboard by the bar. Teams of four, runs through spring.” Reid looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “Holden's terrible at trivia, for the record. No pop culture knowledge whatsoever. But maybe you can carry him.”
“I'm adequate at trivia.”
“You thought Baby Yoda was a band.”
“That was one time.”
Jamie laughed, that full sound that made people turn their heads. “Hell yeah, I'd be into it. Trivia league.” His smile flickered, dimmed. “I mean, if you need someone on your team. Whenever. If we—” He looked at me and stopped.
The unfinished sentence hung there, loud as a bell in a quiet shop. If we're still doing this. If there's still an us.
“We'll see how things go,” I said.
The words came out wrong. Noncommittal when I wanted to say yes, sign us up, put my name next to his. But something closed off behind Jamie's eyes, a door I didn't know how to reopen.
“Right.” He picked up his drink. “We'll see.”
Reid's gaze moved between us, cataloging something I didn't want him to see. He'd known me too long, survived too many of my silences. I could see him filing this moment away for later examination.
“I have to say,” Reid said, his tone deceptively casual, “you're different tonight, Hutchinson. Almost pleasant. It's unsettling.”
“I'm always pleasant.”
“You once told Claire that that her taste in flowers was, and I quote, 'aggressively mediocre.'“
“That was constructive feedback.”
Jamie was watching this exchange with something like wonder. Reid caught the look and leaned back, a ghost of his old smile crossing his face.
“See what I mean? Pleasant. For him, anyway.” He stood, draining the last of his beer. “I'll leave you to your evening. Holden, I'll stop by the shop this week. Tax stuff. I know you're behind on your receipts again.” He nodded at Jamie. “Nice to finally meet the man behind the rumors.”
He disappeared back toward the bar. The guitarist launched into something slow, and around us the Tavern kept moving, laughter, glasses clinking, the steady hum of a town enjoying its Saturday night.
Jamie was quiet. His foot had gone still against mine.
“He seems nice,” he said finally. “Reid.”
“He's nosy.”
Jamie traced a finger through the condensation on his glass. “March is a long way off, anyway.”
I heard what he wasn't saying. March meant planning ahead. March meant believing we'd still be doing this in six weeks. And Valentine's Day was the end date we'd agreed to, the finish line of our arrangement, after which he'd have no reason to keep showing up at my shop, my apartment, my life.
My chest tightened. He was giving me an out. Making it easy for me to agree that March was too far, that we didn't need to think that far ahead, that whatever this was had an expiration date stamped on it in red ink.
I took it. Because I was a coward.
“You should join if you want. You'll have your Saturdays back by then,” I said. “No more getting roped into shop duty.”
“And you back to your quiet.” His voice was light. Almost convincing. “That'll be nice for you.”
No. The word caught in my throat like a thorn. It won't be nice. It'll be empty. It'll be the silence I used to think I wanted and now know was just waiting.
But I didn't say it. Just nodded, finished my beer, and told myself the ache in my chest was nothing.
The guitarist sang something about roads not taken. I signaled Denise for the check.
“Should we head out?” Jamie asked. “It's getting late.”
“We could go to my place. It's closer.” I hesitated, the words feeling heavier than they should. “Unless you need to get back.”
“Your place works.” He was already reaching for his jacket.
Outside, snow had started falling.
Not heavy, just a dusting, the kind that made the streetlights glow soft and turned Main Street into something out of a postcard. Jamie glanced around to watch it come down, flakes catching on his eyelashes, his cheeks already going pink from the cold.
We walked the two blocks to the shop without talking. The snow muffled our footsteps, muffled everything, and the silence felt different than it had inside. Less awkward, more charged. Just two people moving through a quiet night, shoulders almost brushing, not quite touching.
The apartment was cold when we got upstairs. I reached for the light, but Jamie's hand caught my wrist. He pulled me toward him in the darkness, and then his mouth was on mine and I stopped thinking about lights.
The kiss was different than before. Harder. His teeth caught my lower lip, his hand fisted in my shirt, his body pressing against mine like he was trying to leave a mark. Like he was trying to make me remember this when he was gone.
“Jamie—”
“Don't.” His voice cracked, rough and desperate. “Just—no talking. Not tonight.”
I didn't argue.
We stumbled through the dark apartment, shedding clothes as we went.
His jacket hit the floor by the door. My flannel in the hallway.
His sweater somewhere between the bathroom and the bedroom.
By the time we hit the mattress, I had him pinned beneath me, his wrists above his head, his chest heaving.
The streetlight through my thin curtains cast everything in shades of gray. The snow outside made the light softer, diffused. His face. His body. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world.
This might be over soon.
The thought surfaced and I couldn't push it away. Saturday was coming. Valentine's Day. And after that, our arrangement was done. He'd walk out of my shop and my life, and I'd go back to the quiet I'd built around myself like armor.
But right now he was here. Right now he was mine. And I was going to make it count.