The next night, when I sit at the bar at Cedar and Salt, it’s a very different situation.

For starters, Mark’s working again, but this time he’s behind the bar, which means I get to see him.

The night’s even busier than it was last time I was in, and the pre-Christmas enthusiasm is contagious. Mark pointed out that most people anticipate more time in the kitchen than usual on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, so they want to do as little cooking as possible in the days leading up to it.

“Darling!” I turn to see Ivy and her brood walk in the door, and give her a wave, having already decided to forgive her for telling Erika about my ex list. I don’t stay mad for long under most circumstances, and definitely not around Christmas.

She says something to her husband, who nods and ushers their kids to the host desk.

“Hi!” she says as she approaches, looking tired but happy in an off-the-shoulder blue top that makes her red hair even brighter than usual.

“What are we drinking?” She leans forward and inspects. “Dirty martini. That’s good. Real good. Too bad I’m on the club-soda train for the next few months.” She pats her belly. “Which means I’ll have to endure my in-laws visiting sans alcohol. Horror.”

I wince on her behalf. Her in-laws are good people but definitely the meddling type.

“We’re giving them Cory’s room,” she says, unapologetically eating one of my martini olives. “Which means Cory’s with us, which means . . .” She mimes a noose around her neck. “No sleep.”

“Poor baby,” I murmur, rubbing her arm.

“And I have Santa duties in a couple of nights. Ask me how many gifts I’ve wrapped.” She holds up her fingers in a zero shape.

“Do you need help? I can come over and watch the kids tomorrow. Or I can take them for ice cream after the parade tomorrow night. You’re going, right?”

She gives me a look. “Does anyone in Haven miss the holiday parade? Speaking of, how are the green tights? Flattering?”

“I’m not gonna lie, I look kind of adorable in my elf costume.”

Ivy glances over my shoulder, then smiles and waves. “Oh, speaking of elf costumes, you’ll have company. Erika’s an elf, too, right?”

I tense, but turn around and smile at Mark’s ex, who’s working the bar alongside him.

Erika pops a cap off a beer bottle, slides it across the bar to the guy to my right, then gives a good-natured eye roll. “Yeah, still can’t figure out how I got talked into that one. But Ken’s my godfather”—that’d be Ken Prismill, Haven’s current resident Santa—“and I’m not saying no to him, especially when he’s dressed as Santa.”

Ivy nods at me. “Kelly’ll be up there, too. My kids will be expecting double candy canes. Speaking of . . .” She glances over her shoulder to where her husband’s seating her kids. “Feeding time.”

Ivy stands and gives both me and Erika a finger waggle. “See you ladies tomorrow! Kell, I’ll text you about that present-wrapping offer!”

I wave at her, then turn back to the bar, preparing to make small talk with Erika, but she’s gone, and Mark’s in her place, leaning across the bar and watching me.

He nods at my now half-empty martini. “Another?”

The question’s casual. One he’d ask of any patron, one he’s asked of me a million times before when I’ve kept him company while bartending.

But the way he’s watching me? With a little smile and a lot of heat? That’s new.

And I like it. Very much.

“Nah, I’m good for now,” I say, fishing out the remaining olive and popping it in my mouth. I don’t mean for it to be sexy, but the way Mark watches my lips makes me feel like we’re the only two people in the room, and that we’re about to be naked . . .

“Mark?” Erika reappears at his side, setting a hand on his arm to get his attention, and ignoring me altogether. “Penny said they need you in the kitchen. The arugula we got this morning isn’t good, and they want to know what you want to sub in.”

I want to swat her hand away from his arm, which is a little unusual for me. I’ve never really been the possessive, jealous type, but seeing Erika touch my man . . .

Whoa. Where did that thought come from? Mark and I are just . . . what? What are we doing?

Mark drags his gaze away from me and gives Erika a nod of acknowledgment. “Sure, thanks.”

He slips out from behind the bar. Erika stays where she is for a moment, and I feel her studying me, even as I keep my attention on the menu in front of me.

Granted, I have this entire menu memorized. Hell, I’m the one who typed it up for him, because Mark’s a slow-as-heck typer. But I’m afraid if I look at her, she’ll see what I’m thinking, and I’m not really in the mood for a “The Boy Is Mine” scenario.

“Want anything?” Kelly asks.

I glance up. Loaded question, or . . .?

She smiles, and it seems friendly, if maybe a little forced. I smile back. “No thanks, I’m good for now. Actually, I need to use the restroom. Can you make sure no one jacks my spot?”

“Absolutely, no problem.”

Mark returns to the bar just as I hop off my stool and, damn it, my stomach flips in that new-love butterfly kind of way. Forcing the butterflies away, I give him a bright smile and a friendly wave.

That’s what I would normally do. Right?

Crap, this is exactly why I’ve been wary of this, I don’t want to start acting weird, and . . .

I’m still waving.

Mark rolls his eyes, but his atypical grin makes me think he knows exactly what my deal is and is secretly pleased that I’m so flustered.

I bump into Hugh on my way toward the ladies’ room, and he holds my arms to steady me.

“Hey, Byrne, been worried about you! You okay after the other night?”

The other night . . . as in the night before I’d realized I’d wanted my best friend in the biblical way, and before we’d acted on it.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I say, patting his arm. “Better than good, actually.”

He squints at me. “You do look . . . rosy. Who’s the lucky guy?”

For a second I’m dying to tell him exactly who my guy is, but I bite my tongue. Mark and I haven’t even discussed what we are with each other, much less with other people.

One of the waitresses comes out of the restroom and squeezes by me and Hugh with a playful wink as she points upward.

Hugh and I both glance up. Mistletoe.

Hugh waggles his eyebrows playfully and, placing both hands on my cheeks, gives me a smacking kiss. “Don’t tell your mystery boyfriend,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads back into the restaurant.

Shaking my head, I keep heading toward the restroom, smiling at the thought that just a few days ago the sight of mistletoe had made me think of something else entirely: fortune-tellers and ex-boyfriends. Well, what can I say? I guess maybe the woman was a fraud after all. I tried with my ex-boyfriends, I did, and it just wasn’t meant to be.

But not all of them.

My step falters a little at the forbidden thought—at the realization that perhaps I didn’t try to contact Colin as hard as I could have.

I shove the thought aside.

I’m washing my hands when the bathroom door opens. The bathroom’s small, just big enough for two stalls and a sink. I grab a towel, meaning to scoot out of the way for the newcomer, but I freeze when I see who it is.

“Hey, Erika.”

Mark’s ex doesn’t respond to my smile. Neither does she move out of the way or go into the stall. She’s not here to pee. She’s here to talk.

“What’s going on?”

I throw my paper towel in the trash. “Meaning?”

She crosses her arms. “You and Mark. You’re together now?”

“He told you that?” I ask, genuinely surprised. Mark and I haven’t so much as touched the entire evening, so we’re hardly waving the sex flag.

Now she does smile, but it’s a little sad. “He didn’t have to. You forget that I know him.”

“Actually, I never forget that,” I say, before I can realize that it betrays my jealousy.

There’s a long moment of awkward silence, then Erika shoves her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Look, Kelly, I know it’s been years and this is old news, but I heard about Doug and Mark’s fight the other night, and heard you were there. I realized you probably figured out . . .”

“That you and Doug slept together.”

She closes her eyes for a second. “Yeah. That. Anyway, it made me realize that I owe you an apology. I’ve already said sorry to Mark, a million times, but I belatedly realized I hurt you, too.”

“Not so much,” I say, meaning it. “But I appreciate the apology.”

“I regret it,” she says, staring at her shoes. “So much. I was drunk, like super drunk, and Mark and I had gotten in a fight, and . . .”

I hold up my hand to halt the confession. “I really don’t blame you for Doug and me breaking up, I promise. It was a long time ago—”

“We got in a fight about you,” she interrupts, meeting my eyes.

“I—” My brain stutters in confusion. “What about me?”

“You don’t . . .” Erika inhales and seems to consider her words. “You don’t know the effect you have on him. How much he orbits around you, and you just—”

“I just what?” I narrow my eyes. “I respect his relationships, and he respects mine. We’re friends.”

“I know,” Erika says, holding out her palms in surrender. “You always gave Mark and me our space when he and I were dating, and I appreciated it, but I’m just asking . . . Whatever’s going on with you two, don’t use him.”

“Now hold on,” I say, good and pissed now. “You’re the one that cheated on him. You don’t get to tell me—”

“I care about him,” Erika says quietly. “I never stopped caring, and I know I don’t deserve him after what I did, but you don’t get to break his heart.”

“I wouldn’t! I mean, he’s not at risk of that. We’re just—”

“Really don’t want or need to know details. I just want to plant one seed. Mark’s relationships—how long do they last?”

“What?” I let out a startled laugh. “I don’t know, I don’t keep track—”

“Start,” she says sharply, reaching for the door handle. “Start paying attention, and you’ll see that he’s only in a relationship as long as you’re in a relationship. When you’re single, he makes sure he’s single, too.”

I stare at her. “That’s ridiculous.”

Her smile’s a little sad. “Is it?”

She walks out, leaving me feeling totally confused, and more than a little shell-shocked.

She’s wrong. Mark’s had plenty of girlfriends. Plenty of breakups, too, but they don’t have anything to do with me.

I try to think of the timelines of his relationships, but truthfully I haven’t paid that much attention. Sure, I’m sure there are some overlaps among our breakups, but that sort of coincidence is bound to happen over the course of ten years, right?

I’m not even upset with Erika, not really. She’s just being protective. She’s obviously still harboring a thing for Mark, and who can blame her? The guy’s the best man I know, ridiculously good in bed . . .

I pause upon exiting the bathroom and shake my head at the direction of my thoughts. Suddenly fingers wrap around my wrist, pulling me into a dark corridor that leads to a rarely used side door.

I squeak in surprise and find myself pressed up against the wall, firm lips on mine, clever tongue teasing my lips to deepen the kiss.

Mark.

My arms lift to his neck, pulling him in with a soft sigh as I kiss him back eagerly.

It’s strange. Kissing him feels both wonderfully new and fresh, and yet comfortable and timeless, as though we’ve been doing this—or were meant to have been doing this—forever.

I feel something bump softly against my calf, and pull back slightly to glance down at a grocery bag.

“Going somewhere?”

He kisses my nose and grabs my hand, dragging me toward the door. “I’m hungry.”

“Convenient, then, that we’re in a restaurant. Or not,” I add as he pulls me out into the frigid December air.

I’m not wearing my coat, but I can’t bring myself to protest. “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm” and all that. The Rat Pack would be proud.

He releases my hand to pull car keys out of his jeans pocket, pushing the button. His truck beeps, and he opens the passenger door the way he has a million times. “In.”

Mark gives my ass a playful smack as I do as he says. He hasn’t done that a million times, but that too feels natural and familiar. Familiar has never felt as exhilarating as it does in this minute.

You pull him into your orbit.

I push Erika’s words aside.

Mark climbs into his side, but instead of starting the engine, he hands me the bag.

I look inside, and pull out a loaf of the restaurant’s delicious house-made French bread. There’s also a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, some sort of pasta in a to-go container, paper plates and utensils to eat it all, and . . .

I pull the last package out and whimper in ecstasy. “Are these the salted caramel shortbread brownies?”

He shrugs.

They’re my favorite, and he knows it. But he hardly ever makes them. Partially because he’s handed over most of the dessert duties to the staff, and even when he does make dessert, he claims these take too long. They have like six layers: a crust made with browned butter, caramel, chocolate, salty pretzel, something else, something else . . . anyway, they apparently take hours.

“You said you wouldn’t make them anymore. That they weren’t worth it.”

He looks at me. Looks away. “The look on your face right now is worth it.”

The statement is so sweet, so unlike him, that I think I’ve imagined it. The fact that he won’t meet my eyes tells me that I haven’t.

I launch myself across the cab of the truck, planting kisses all over his face and neck. He laughs and tries to push me off, though the effort is halfhearted.

“Can we please eat?”

“Fine, fine,” I say, pulling back and plopping back into my own seat. “But remind me why we’re eating out in your truck when there’s an, oh, what’s it called . . . a restaurant a few feet away?”

“That place sucks,” he says, accepting the paper plate I hand him.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that. The owner and head chef’s a real dick.”

“Mmm.” He wrestles with the wine bottle and corkscrew I hand him, pouring us each some wine in a plastic cup.

“For real,” I say around a mouthful of pasta once I’ve loaded both our plates. “Why are we car-picnicking?”

“You’re supposed to think it’s romantic.”

I swear as I drop a piece of pasta on the passenger seat and pick it up with my napkin. “Very.”

“I don’t like eating in front of my employees,” he says after a moment.

He sounds a little embarrassed by the admission, and I glance over. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Most of the recipes are mine, half the time what I cook is mine. It feels . . . weird eating it with an audience.”

Vulnerable. That’s what he means by “weird.” It feels vulnerable.

“You’re eating in front of me.”

“Yeah, well . . .” He gestures with his fork toward my boobs, and I glance down to see a glob of cheese.

I sigh and get out yet another napkin and clean up the mess, although mostly I just smear oil around. “I’m usually very elegant on dates.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him go still, then give me a half smile. “That what this is? A date?”

“Well, not a very good one,” I say, gesturing around us. “There’s no candles and music.”

He reaches out, punches the radio. Nancy Wilson’s iconic “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve” starts playing.

“Better?” he asks.

I smile and dig back into my pasta. “Much.”

We eat in companionable, easy silence. The food’s delicious, the wine’s amazing. The only thing that keeps this moment from being perfect . . .

I set my plate aside and turn to Mark. “Erika talked to me.”

He shrugs and spears a tomato with his fork. “She’s a bartender. That’s her job.”

“No, I mean, like . . . cornered me in the bathroom and talked to me.”

Mark’s fork stalls halfway to his mouth. Then he drops his fork and sets the plate up on the dash with an annoyed groan. “I don’t suppose she just wanted to borrow lipstick?”

“I think she still has feelings for you,” I say quietly.

“Yeah.”

I feel a little pang at the easy, matter-of-fact way he says it. “Has she said anything about wanting to get back together?”

“Yeah.”

Another pang, stronger this time. “Have you thought about it?”

He doesn’t say anything, and it feels like a knife in the stomach, even though I know I should be happy for him if that’s what he wants.

“She cheated on you,” I say, because the thought of my friend going back to that sort of relationship . . .

He takes a drink of the wine. “It’s more complicated.”

“Um, you told me you caught her and Doug in your bed. That’s brutally simple.”

“Yeah, and it sucked, but she and I were . . . I’d broken up with her a couple days earlier.”

“What?” I turn in my seat to face him more fully. “Why didn’t you mention that the other day when you were bashing Doug’s face in?”

“I already told you I didn’t punch Doug because of what he did to me.”

No. He did it because of what Doug did to me.

“So you and Erika weren’t even together.”

He exhales and rests his head on the headrest. “It’s complicated. I’d told her I wasn’t sure things were working out. She was pissed, asked that I take some time to think about it. I reluctantly agreed, but then the thing with Doug happened, and, well . . . that made it easy.”

I wince at Erika’s misstep. “She begged you to reconsider and then slept with someone else?”

“She was hurting,” he says with a shrug. “Don’t love it, but I get it.”

My eyebrows lift. “That’s very . . . big of you.”

He turns and gives a slight smile. “You seem surprised.”

“Just trying to put the pieces together.”

He reaches over and picks up the plastic container holding the brownies. “Want?”

I do, and yet I’m pretty sure he’s trying to distract me, and I’m not having it.

“Did your breaking up with Erika have anything to do with me?” I ask.

His arm goes still, his head snapping up. “What?”

“It’s nothing,” I say in a rush. “Just something Erika said, but she was probably just weird because she figured out we were sleeping together—”

“What did she say?”

I swallow. “Something about how you’re only in relationships when I’m in relationships. And that when I’m single, you’re single.”

He shrugs. “If that’s true, it’s coincidence.”

“Right,” I agree quickly, relieved by his nonchalance. “Totally.”

If I were smart, I’d distract us both with brownies, but instead I have to go and open my mouth one more time, because I have to know . . .

“After you and I are done with . . . whatever this is, do you think you and Erika will get back together?”

“I don’t know, Kell,” he says, wrenching the lid off the brownie container. His tone is both tired and annoyed. “Does it matter?”

He meets my eyes as he asks the last question, and I wonder if it’s rhetorical or if he’s really asking me.

Would it matter if he started dating his ex-girlfriend again? Really dating, not just hooking up like he and I are doing? Would it matter if they got back together and stayed together? If they got married? Had babies?

Something terrifying and sour rips through me as I force my brain to keep traveling down that path. Because even if it’s not Erika, it’ll be someone else. One day Mark and I won’t be single at the same time. One day he won’t be single ever again, but in a relationship with someone who has a ring on her finger. Who gets to wake up beside him every morning and tease him every night. Who gets to taste-test all of his recipes, whose Christmas tree he’ll show her how to cut down . . .

“Kelly?”

I look up at him. He’s waiting for my response. A cavalier quip is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t make it come out.

Instead I reach out, setting my palm against his cheek. “The only thing that matters is that you’re happy.”

His eyes search mine for a moment, then he surprises me by reaching up and pulling my hand away from his face and planting a quick, sweet kiss against my palm.

“Brownie?” he asks, turning his attention to dessert.

I smile at the simple question. At the wonderful simplicity of us. “Yeah. Yeah, I want a brownie.”

And I’m terrified I want so much more than that.