“No,” Carly said. “What did she say?”

“She said she doesn’t date cops.”

More kids were coming through the door, and a few called out hellos to Eli as well as Carly.

Carly sighed dramatically. “She dated a police detective in Boston,” the girl confided, sotto voce. “I heard her telling Shallie about it once. Evidently, it was a real shitshow, and Brynne got her heart broken.”

“Language,” Eli said, with mock sternness.

Carly laughed. “Right.”

“Go join your friends,” he told her.

She kissed his cheek again, then did as she was told.

Eli carried his check to the cash register and waited for Brynne to take his money.

When she did, he handed over a twenty.

She made change. He add it to the tip.

The kids were making a ruckus, but it was a happy sound, full of holiday merriment. They were hoping for a heavy snowfall so they could sled and go snowboarding in the nearby mountains.

“So,” Brynne asked quietly, meeting Eli’s gaze and holding it. “Are you going to be my guest at the New Year’s Eve party or not?”

He imagined the scene. Practically everybody there would be a friend of Brynne’s, so he wondered how she thought this thing was supposed to go.

“I might stop in,” he allowed.

“I hope you do,” Brynne replied.

And the conversation was over.

Eli waved to the kids, and Eric gave him a thumbs-up. He and his nephew hadn’t always been on the best of terms—the kid had gone through a rough stage, gotten involved in some stuff he shouldn’t have—so Eli reckoned the gesture was better than a middle finger.

His shift was almost over for the day, and he was glad.

He’d go home, let the dog out, crack open a beer, kick back and watch a little Netflix.

Damn, he needed a hobby.

Outside, he surveyed the darkening sky, gunmetal gray and boding ill for snowplow operators, nervous drivers and the sheriff’s department.

The noise from inside Bailey’s was muffled, but it was poignantly joyous, too.

He thumbed the fob to unlock his SUV and headed toward it, head down, snowflakes chilling the nape of his neck.

ONCE HER WORK-DAY was over—after 10 p.m.—Brynne climbed the stairs behind the kitchen to her apartment on the second floor.

Her cat, a rescued tabby named Waldo, met her at the door, winding himself around her ankles and meowing piteously for a snack.

Brynne smiled and bent to pet him. “Don’t give me that poor-starving-cat routine,” she said. “You had supper at six, like always.”

Waldo subsided, but only slightly.