The chief tilted his head at Alex and pretended to be confused. “I’m sorry, you didn’t just suggest lighting something on fire thanks to your carelessness was ‘nothing,’ did you?”
Alex closed his eyes. His jaw ticked. He took a breath before opening his eyes and plastering on a fake smile. “What can I do for you, Chief Kincaid? Would you like a holiday cocktail? It’s on me. I’d love to help you celebrate the season with asedative.”
“Thanks for your kind offer, but I have to decline. I have a hot date tonight with my?—”
“Great, have fun,” Alex snapped, cheeks crimson. “Good night.”
I watched, fascinated, as Alex moved away and began aggressively mixing cocktails. His movements were sharp and precise, but there was definitely more alcohol going into each drink than the recipes probably called for. When he set the first flight in front of me, the glasses were notably fuller than they should have been.
The fire chief watched him go, murmuring, “My book and a frozen pizza,” too softly for Alex to hear.
After a beat, his shoulders fell, and he turned to leave.
Maddox’s voice was low, his breath hot against my ear. “See what I mean? You could charge money for this shit.”
Before I could say anything, Alex returned, his voice overly bright. “Let’s start with the holiday cocktails! This first one is my take on a cranberry Moscow mule—cranberry juice, ginger beer, and vodka with fresh mint and lime.”
I took a sip and immediately felt the burn. Alex wasn’t kidding about these being stronger than they tasted. The cranberry masked most of the alcohol, but there was definitely a generous pour of vodka in there.
“Wow,” I managed, reaching for Maddox’s hand as the warmth spread through my chest. “That’s… potent.”
“Good thing we’re walking home,” Maddox said, alreadyreaching for his own glass. His fingers lingered against mine when he took it, and I felt that familiar spark of electricity.
As we moved through the flight—a spiced pear whiskey sour that tasted like Christmas in a glass, followed by a pomegranate champagne cocktail that was dangerously easy to drink—I found myself relaxing in ways that had nothing to do with the alcohol. This felt natural, easy. Like something we’d done a hundred times before.
“You know,” I said, leaning closer to Maddox to supposedly check the camera angle, “this flannel smells like you.”
“That’s because it’s mine,” he replied, but his voice had gone rough around the edges.
“I know.” I let my fingers trail along the collar, ostensibly adjusting it for the camera. “I like wearing your clothes.”
His eyes darkened. “Yeah?”
“Makes me feel like I belong to someone,” I murmured.
With alcohol comfortably zinging through my system, the words slipped out before I could stop them, honest and raw and completely unfiltered. Maddox’s breath caught, and for a moment, I thought he might kiss me right there in front of everyone.
Instead, he reached up to brush a strand of hair from my forehead. “Good,” he said simply, and the single word settled in my chest.
Alex reappeared with fresh shots in his hands. “Who’s ready for some Christmas Courage? I know I am.”
“Christmas Courage?” I asked, accepting the glass.
“My own creation. Whiskey, honey, cinnamon, and poor life choices.” Alex raised his glass in a toast. “To welcoming new people and seeing the backs of others. Cheers!”
We clinked glasses, and I threw back the shot, immediately feeling the burn all the way down to my toes. The whiskey was smooth but potent, and combined with the cocktails I’d alreadyconsumed, it left me feeling warm and loose-limbed and increasingly fixated on the way Maddox’s hands looked wrapped around his glass.
“You know,” I said, leaning into Maddox’s space, “your hands are really nice.”
“My hands?” He looked down at them with amusement.
“Mmhmm. Strong. Competent.”
“Competent again, huh?” Maddox leaned closer.
“Yeah. I like watching them work.” I reached out to trace one of his fingers, marveling at the calluses from years of manual labor. “I like how they feel on me, too.”
Maddox’s breath hitched. “Adrian…”
