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“I do.” Kristen bites her lip. “Well, I try to. I just never quite get the words out right.”

“Do you want to go back to work?”

“I do.” Kristen says it with something like fierce determination. In the background, the music plays, the singer belting out lyrics from a near-forgotten language. “I want to do something with my life—like you.”

Mel knows she should feel honored, that she’s being held up as an example of someone who has achieved in life, who has the kind of profession to which other people aspire. Instead, it brings a squirming to her gut, and anxiety over what tomorrow—and Lillian Hart—will bring. She slides her wine toward herself across the bar, takes a sip.

“If I have this baby, though…” Kristen places a hand on her stomach. “When I have this baby. Maybe that will be it—you hear about it, women who have been too long out of the workforce.” Her eyes spark with tears, and Mel reaches out to squeeze her arm.

“Talk to Mark,” Mel says—because she doesn’t have any other advice to give. But this explains the vibe she thought she’d picked up on from Kristen every now and then—something tense between her and Mark.

“I know,” Kristen says, almost on a sob. “I will.” She wipes her fingers under her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unload on you. I just need some time to figure it out—that’s all.” Then she grips Mel’s wrist. “Please don’t say anything, will you?”

“Of course,” Mel says, though something uncomfortable lodges in her stomach as she does. It’s not something she would tell Mark, of course—that’s for Kristen to do. But it’s another secret she’s keeping from the family, isn’t it?

“You’ll have to come round for dinner,” Kristen says, clearly trying to move things on to the mundane. “You and Finn.”

“Absolutely,” Mel says automatically—then immediately regrets it. She shouldn’t make those kinds of promises.

When they get back to the table with the drinks, Dylan is laughing loudly at a joke of Hattie’s. Too loudly? Mel’s not quite sure.

“I want to dance,” Hattie announces.

Mark raises his eyebrows. “I’m not sure this is the type of place you can…”

Hattie waves that away. “Sure it is.” And, to be fair, there are people dancing—or at least people bopping along to the music. On the outskirts rather than in the middle of the pub, but still. “It’s Christmas,” Hattie says, as if that means anything goes. “Mel? You’ll dance with me, won’t you?”

Mel hesitates for the briefest of seconds, glancing toward Finn. He takes a sip of his drink, and she watches his mouth on the glass. And that decides it, doesn’t it? Between making an idiot of herself dancing with Hattie and sitting back on Finn’s lap, there’s only one option.

“Sure,” she says with a smile, going with Hattie so they are a little closer to the band.

The lead singer smiles at them as they start to dance, and Hattie takes Mel’s hand, spins her around, making her laugh.

“I MISS YOU,” Hattie screams over the noise of the pub.

“I MISS YOU TOO.” It is so painfully honest that it makes her heart lurch a little. Could she stay friends with Hattie, after this holiday? Would Finn let her? Would it be too hard? Would Hattie even want to, if Mel dumps Finn in front of everyone?

Mark and Kristen come up to dance, too, and watching them together Mel wonders now if she was overthinking it. Yes, Kristen is stressed and clearly finding being a full-time mother a lot, and, yes, Mark can be a bit black-and-white—but they look happy, dancing together. Moving as one, Kristen smiling at something Mark says, his arms coming easily around her waist.

People are clapping along with the music now, and laughter fills the air. The singer pauses between songs to encourage more of them to dance, and Dylan takes that moment to swoop over to them.

He offers out a hand to Hattie. “May I have this dance?” The gesture is confident, though the question is almost hesitant. But Hattie nods, puts her hand in his, lets him take her into his arms. Over by the bar, Mel sees a woman nudge her friend, point at Dylan. Definitely recognized.

Mel takes a step back, away from the band, and finds Finn there, like he has been waiting for her. His arms come around her as she turns and she doesn’t think as she reaches up to wind her hands behind his neck. They are in front of everyone and it would be weird not to dance. She is not backing down at this game that he started. But, really, she just wants to touch him.

“Going to show me your moves?” she asks him, trying to keep it light.

He grins down at her, a hint of a spark in his eyes. “Sure. After all, you’re playing with the big leagues here, sweetie.”

She wrinkles her nose, remembering her line from New Year’s Eve in Edinburgh—she’d regretted saying that for months, and he’d known that, cracking it out whenever he was trying to tease her.

His hands trail down her sides, coming to rest on her waist. Why can she not stop looking at him, for Christ’s sake? She’s remembering the first time she saw him, that initial spark of attraction—the way he’d hit on her with such confidence, like he was used to getting his way. How she’d thought, Well, why not, just a bit of fun. How she’d tried not to get swept away with it, with him—and how he’d stuck around, worming his way in. For what? Just so he could break her heart, in the end, go back to his old ways, moving from place to place—and from woman to woman?

His eyes hold hers—why has it always been impossible to look away from him? They are pressed together, stomach to stomach, and she can’t help touching the ends of his hair, hair that used to be hers to touch, whenever she wanted. Goosebumps rise at the base of his neck and a part of her thrills in this reaction—in knowing that, yes, she might be affected by him, but at least it is not one-sided.

His eyes darken, and his grip moves from her waist to her hips, fingers digging in. Her hand skims down his back, and she sees his pulse jump at the base of her neck. They are moving out of time to the music, lost in their own rhythm, her heart beating something that might be a warning, but which is easy to ignore as he edges her closer, as she feels the whisper of his breath on her skin.

He moves his head, and she feels the scrape of his jaw, lightly against her cheek. Her insides are shimmering, her limbs hot and unsteady. He draws back to look at her, his attention wholly focused on her. She knows that look. He’s going to kiss her. And she is leaning in, wanting to feel his mouth on hers, wanting to remember what it was like, to be wanted by him.