“Fine. I’ll do it, but you tell Mrs. Peterson,” I said, surprising myself with how quickly the decision came. “But I’m not volunteering Holly without asking her first. If she’s not interested, you’ll need to find another solution.”
“I will, and Holly will be interested,” Matt said with complete confidence. “She loves this kind of thing—bringing people together, making something beautiful happen. She just needs someone to believe she can do it.”
After we hung up, I sat in the kitchen for another ten minutes, drinking coffee and considering what I’d just committed to. Working with Holly on the Christmas festival would require spending significant time together, which would either help her feel more comfortable around me or make her hyperaware of every interaction.
Given my growing awareness of her as an attractive, interesting woman rather than just Matt’s little sister, extendedclose contact was probably not the most rational choice I’d ever made.
But then I thought about her expression earlier—that combination of mortification and resignation that suggested she expected people to judge her rather than see her potential.
If working together on the festival happened to give me legitimate reasons to spend time with her, to see if this attraction was worth exploring... well, that was just a secondary benefit.
My phone buzzed with a text from Matt:Thanks for doing this. Holly’s going to be so relieved to have someone competent to work with.
I typed back:Assuming she agrees to do it.
She will.
The confidence in his statement was either encouraging or ominous, depending on how much Matt suspected about my feelings toward his sister. But either way, I was committed now.
I turned my attention to researching Everdale Falls’s previous Christmas festivals, familiarizing myself with vendor lists, and permit requirements and the kind of logistical details that would help me sound competent when I approached Holly about this collaboration.
Because approaching Holly was going to require some strategy. She was clearly already feeling vulnerable about her personal situation, and the last thing I wanted was for her to feel like charity work or her brother’s attempt to manage her social life.
What I needed was a way to present this that emphasized how much I could use her help rather than how much help she might need. Holly strikes me as someone who responds better to being useful than to being pitied.
This was either going to go very well or spectacularly badly. But given that Holly Winters had been occupying increasinglylarge portions of my mental bandwidth since yesterday’s homecoming, perhaps it was time to find out which.
Six
HOLLY
Volunteered for Disaster
I was halfwaythrough my second cup of coffee the morning after bumping into Declan Hayes in town. I was happy hiding out for the rest of the festive period, so I didn’t have to see him again. He was perfectly put together and charming, and I was a hot mess, albeit one who still took pride in my appearance. That had to count. Maybe. But the more I thought about showing my face, the more I felt like becoming a forest witch and living in isolation in a burlap sack with twigs in my hair. The thought grew more appealing when Mom burst into the kitchen with the kind of bright-eyed enthusiasm that could only mean trouble.
“Holly, sweetheart, I have the most wonderful news!” she announced, setting down her phone and beaming at me like she’d just won the lottery. “Jessica Peterson called, and you’ve been selected to co-chair this year’s Christmas festival!”
I choked on my coffee. Actually choked, sputtering and coughing while Mom rushed to pat my back with the kind of vigorous helpfulness that made breathing even more difficult.
“Excuse me? Co-chair?” I wheezed when I could finally speak. “Mom, I just got home. I don’t even have a job. I can’t co-chair anything, besides that’s Matt’s job!”
“Of course you can! You’re perfect for it—organized, creative, wonderful with people. And you’ll have help, which makes it even better.”
I have the sinking feeling this was less of achoosingand more of ameddling.
There was something ominous in the way she said ‘help,’ like she was delivering good news that she knew I wouldn’t initially appreciate.
“What kind of help?” I asked suspiciously.
“Declan Hayes volunteered to co-chair with you!” Mom’s smile was so bright it could have powered the Christmas lights. “Isn’t that wonderful? You two will be amazing together!”
Amazing. Together. Thoughts of us tangled in tinsel, lips inches apart, hands where they shouldn’t be entered my head, and I stifled the cough that burst out.
This. Was. A. Disaster.
Perfect, successful, devastatingly handsome Declan Hayes, who’d seen me taking out trash in my pajamas when I was a teenager, with spots and bushy eyebrows, while he looked like he rolled out of bed ready to impress. He probably felt sorry for the pathetic hometown failure living in her childhood bedroom.
“Mom, no. Absolutely not. I am not co-chairing anything with Declan.”
