Page 63 of When in December

Hannah leaned over the bar to wave her hand and catch the eye of the person working. “Where’s this bartender? I need to get myself a drink, stat. Something that’s pink or comes with cherries, inspired by your bright red cheeks. Fill me in as I order. Tell me everything that’s happening with you right now.”

I resisted the urge to bring a hand up to the side of my face. “Nothing has been happening. Work, work, and more work have been going on. That’s it.”

Hannah ordered her cosmopolitan as soon as the bartender made his way toward us, giggling at how she was already strumming her fingers against the speckled black granite bar top before the martini glass was gently set in front of her with a clink.

She leaned in so as not to spill, slurping up a large gulp. She let out a sigh of contentment as the combo of cranberry and vodka hit her bloodstream.

Clearing her throat, she returned to stare at me with raised brows. “Now, tell me why I don’t believe you.”

“Because you’re bored, sitting in an office all day, and looking for drama?”

“Trust me, I’m not.” She sighed as if thinking of something else before rolling her eyes. “Try again.”

“But you’re always looking for drama,” I countered.

She reached for her martini glass, turning away from me.

“Hannah, do you need to tell me something?”

“It’s nothing. I have four other female roommates. There are random pots to stir, and I have drama coming out of my ears,” she said. “Right now, I want to hear about yours.”

I didn’t think that was it. I narrowed my eyes at her and waited for her to break in the silence. It always seemed to work.

Hannah couldn’t stand the silence after all. She needed to fill it. She liked conversation, music, and podcasts constantly. Oddly, she didn’t rise to the occasion. The only sound that came from around me was the bark of a laugh from the table in the corner and the clamor of glasses being pulled out of the dishwasher behind the bar, blowing up a billow of steam.

“Stop looking at me like that. I want to hear about this hot Army man you have riling you up. I thought you said you were beyond a—what did you call it?A little high school crush?”

“I am.”

Or at least, I’d thought I was. Aaron wasn’t a high school crush anymore. And he wasn’t little.

And it was hard to stop thinking about the cabin when I wasn’t there. And him in it.

“Mmhmm.” Hannah took another sip of her drink, waiting for more details.

“Stop it. Anyway, it turns out that I was right. It was him sabotaging the whole project.”

“You’re kidding,” she said, totally unsurprised. “I still can’t believe it though. That kind of pot-stirring to mess up your scheduling takes a lot of energy.”

“Now, however, he’s helping.”

Her eyes widened. At least that shocked her as much as it had me. “Maybe you aren’t the only one with a little crush.”

“Neither of us has a crush. He is alone in the cabin. We are working together. Professionally,” I told her. “He’s been doing a decent job, and he takes direction well.”

“We like men who take direction well.”

“He’s been cooperative lately. And nice.” I stared at Hannah through lowered eyes, knowing what she was trying to insinuate—again. “We’re not sleeping together.”

She put her hand on her heart. “Poppy Owens! When did I ever say such a thing?”

I rolled my eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“I would never.” She sounded like a shocked Southern aunt.

“Make that assumption?”

“Well”—she dropped the act and traced her finger around the rim of her drink—“it doesn’t mean you can’t maybe act with your instincts a little in the future.”

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