“She does have good spreadsheets,” Elijah says.
Milo and I both stare at him.
“What? I’ve seen them. For the auction logistics.” He shrugs. “Color-coded. Very thorough.”
“Elijah.” Milo shakes his head slowly. “You’re complimenting her spreadsheets. You’ve got it bad.”
“I was just—” He stops. Takes a drink of his beer. “Shut up.”
I feel some of the tension drain out of the room.
This is nice, I realize. Just the three of us, stuck in a cabin, giving each other shit. Like old times.
The game plays on in the background. The snow keeps falling. We crack open more beers and argue about stats and whether the referees are biased and who makes the best burger in town (Millie’s, obviously, anyone who says otherwise is wrong).
“Remember when we helped move that couch into the community center for the Christmas fair?” Milo grins. “And you dropped your end?”
“I didn’t drop it.” I point my beer at him. “You let go.”
“I sneezed!”
“You sneezed for thirty seconds while I held a couch by myself.”
Elijah shakes his head. “I had to carry the table in alone because you two were arguing about whose fault it was.”
“And you did it without complaining.” Milo raises his beer to him. “That’s why you’re the favorite.”
“I don’t have favorites,” I say.
“You absolutely do. It’s Elijah. Everyone’s favorite is Elijah.”
“I’m not anyone’s favorite,” Elijah says. “I’m just quiet. People confuse that with agreeable.”
“Are you not agreeable?”
“I just agreed to spend my Saturday hauling furniture in a snowstorm.” He takes a sip of his beer. “Draw your own conclusions.”
Milo laughs. “See? Funny and humble. Favorite.”
Elijah’s ears go pink, but there’s a small smile on his face as he watches the snow pile up against the window.
That’s how it works in a town like Honeyridge. You end up friends with people you might never have met anywhere else. Milo’s a few years younger, runs in different circles—or he did, before he took over the bar. Elijah keeps to himself mostly, out at his workshop. But you volunteer for enough town events, help out at enough fundraisers, and pretty soon you’re drinking beers together watching the game.
Different as hell, but it works. Small towns are like that.
At some point, Milo takes over my kitchen and starts making chili. The smell fills the cabin—tomatoes and spices and meat browning—and my stomach growls loud enough that Elijah actually laughs.
“Shut up,” I tell him.
“Didn’t say anything.”
“You laughed. That’s saying something.”
Milo ladles out three bowls and we eat at my new table, in my new chairs, fire crackling in the fireplace, and the whole thing feels stupidly domestic. Like this is what the cabin was always meant for.
The cabin fills with warmth and noise and the smell of food. Elijah tells us about a bookshelf commission he’s working on—custom built-ins for Ashpine Books, Levi’s expanding the back room—and his whole face changes when he talks about it. Lighter. More open. The guy comes alive when he talks about his work.
Milo shares some gossip from the bar about the town council and their ongoing feud over parking regulations, which is somehow both boring and hilarious at the same time. Small town politics at its finest.
