Tomorrow evening. Alone with Declan at the community center, without the buffer of committee meetings or family members or vendor lists to keep our interaction safely professional. The idea made my stomach do something complicated that I didn’t want to examine too closely.
“I suppose that would be practical,” I said finally.
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Brooks said, clapping her hands together. “You two will get so much accomplished together.”
The way she emphasizedtogethermade it sound less like collaborative work planning and more like the setup for a romantic encounter, which—given the increasingly obvious matchmaking agenda of this entire meeting—was probably exactly what she intended.
“Are there any other questions about the actual festival?” I asked, emphasizing the wordactualin hopes of discouraging further romantic commentary.
“Just one,” Mrs. Hall said innocently. “Will you be serving hot chocolate at the tree lighting? Nothing brings people together like sharing warm drinks on a cold winter evening.”
“Hot chocolate sounds lovely,” Declan said before I could respond. “We’ll look into it.”
“Perfect,” Mrs. Brooks said with satisfaction. “Hot chocolate, romantic music, dancing, mistletoe... it’s going to be the most magical festival we’ve ever had.”
As the meeting finally, mercifully, came to an end, I found myself surrounded by well-meaning community members offering suggestions, volunteering for committees, and making pointed comments about how wonderful it was to see Declan and me working so well together.
“You two make such a lovely team,” Mrs. Patterson told me as she gathered her coat. “So well-suited for each other—I mean, for collaborative planning.”
“Holly’s always been good at bringing out the best in people,” Mrs. Brooks added with a meaningful look at Declan. “Haven’t you, dear?”
“I think you might be overestimating my influence,” I said weakly.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Mrs. Hall said with a knowing smile. “Some people just have a gift for inspiring others to be their best selves.”
By the time the community center finally emptied out, leaving just Declan and me to stack chairs and collect the leftover cookies that Mrs. Peterson had insisted we take home, I was exhausted from managing the most transparently obvious matchmaking attempt I’d ever witnessed.
“Well,” Declan said as we loaded the last of the folding chairs onto the storage cart, “that was... illuminating.”
“That’s one word for it,” I grumbled, wrapping leftover cookies in napkins with perhaps more force than necessary. “I’m sorry about all the romantic commentary. It’s probably my mom. They mean well, but they’re about as subtle as a Christmas parade.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said, and when I looked up, he was smiling in a way that suggested he’d found the whole thing more amusing than embarrassing. “It’s actually kind of sweet, how invested they are in our... collaborative success.”
“Collaborative success,” I repeated. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“What would you prefer? Community matchmaking initiative? Operation Christmas Romance?”
The fact that he could joke about it made some of the tension leave my shoulders. It also made my heart flutter in ways thatI didn’t really want it to. “I was thinking more along the lines of well-intentioned interference in two adults’ ability to plan a festival without constant romantic commentary.”
“That’s a bit wordy for a committee name,” he said, loading the cookie packages into a box with careful order. “Though accurate.”
“So,” I said, trying to sound casual, “about tomorrow evening. The venue walkthrough. We don’t actually have to do that if you’d prefer to just work from the floor plans.”
Declan paused in his cookie packing and looked at me directly. “Holly, do you not want to do the walkthrough, or are you just worried about what the matchmaking committee will think if we’re seen here together after hours?”
The question was fair but answering it honestly would require admitting that I was more concerned about whatImight think about being alone with him in a space that the entire town had just spent an hour describing in romantic terms.
“I’m worried about encouraging them,” I said finally. “If they think their interference is working, they’ll only get more enthusiastic.”
“They’re going to be enthusiastic regardless,” Declan pointed out. “Might as well get some actual work done while they’re planning our fictional romance.”
Fictional romance.The casual way he said it should have been reassuring, confirmation that he wasn’t taking the town’s matchmaking seriously. Instead, it made something deflate slightly in my chest.
“You’re right,” I said. “Tomorrow evening it is. Purely for professional venue assessment purposes.”
“Purely professional,” he agreed, but there was something in his voice—a hint of amusement or maybe warmth—that suggested the distinction might not be as clear-cut as either of us wanted to pretend.
As we walked out of the community center together, I realized that despite my embarrassment at the town’s obvious romantic agenda, I was actually looking forward to tomorrow evening. To having Declan’s full attention without the buffer of committee meetings or family interference. To seeing how we worked together when it was just the two of us and the space we were trying to transform into something magical.
