“Not recently,” I said quickly, because the last thing I wanted was for Declan to think I was fishing for reassurance or carrying around major food issues.
“That’s ridiculous,” Declan said firmly. “You’re a beautiful grown woman who can eat whatever she wants for breakfast without commentary from random people.”
“I know,” I said, surprised by how good it felt to hear him say that so matter-of-factly. “I’ve always known that. It’s just nice to have breakfast with someone who also knows that.”
Declan’s smile was warm and slightly fierce. “I brought chocolate croissants because I wanted to see you enjoy them. Watching you eat something delicious that makes you happy is significantly more attractive than watching someone pick at a sad salad while complaining about carbohydrates.”
The direct way he said it, like my enjoyment of food was genuinely appealing to him rather than something to be tolerated or overlooked, made something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Well, in that case,” I said, taking another deliberately enthusiastic bite of chocolate croissant, “you’re going to find this very attractive.”
Declan laughed, and the sound was rich and genuine. “I already do.”
As if to prove his point, he reached for one of the cinnamon rolls with the kind of obvious enjoyment that suggested he also had no interest in treating breakfast like a moral battlefield.
“So,” I said, settling into my chair with my coffee and trying to steer the conversation back toward safer territory, “what’s our agenda for today’s festival coordination?”
“Vendor confirmation calls, setup logistics, and coordination with Mrs. Peterson about volunteer scheduling,” Declan said, consulting the notes he’d apparently prepared before my arrival. “Plus, we need to do a walkthrough of the vendor booth placement to make sure everything will work with the electrical requirements.”
“Sounds good and busy,” I said.
“I’m attempting to maintain some semblance of professional focus,” Declan said with a slight smile. “Though I’ll admit it’s more challenging than I anticipated.”
“Because of the vendor logistics?” I asked innocently.
“Holly!” Mrs. Brooks’s voice interrupted whatever he might have said next, and I looked up to see her approaching our table with the kind of beaming expression that suggested she’d noticed exactly what kind of energy was radiating from our corner booth, despite neither of us seeming to have much clue.
“Mrs. Brooks,” I said, trying to sound like someone who was definitely having a professional planning meeting and not someone who was basking in attention from the man she’d kissed in a storage closet less than twenty-four hours earlier.
“Declan, dear,” Mrs. Brooks said warmly, “how lovely to see you two here.”
“Just going over today’s plans,” Declan said diplomatically.
“Of course,” Mrs. Brooks agreed with the kind of knowing smile that suggested she wasn’t fooled for a second. “And how are the plans developing?”
“Very well,” I said quickly. “Everything’s right on schedule.”
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Brooks said, her smile widening. “You two work so well together. Don’t forget we have a vendor meeting at two this afternoon.”
After she left, Declan and I sat in silence for a moment, processing that drop-in.
As we spent the rest of our coffee date discussing vendor coordination and volunteer scheduling, I realized that whatever complications this relationship was going to bring, I was looking forward to navigating them with someone who brought me chocolate croissants and told me I was beautiful like he absolutely meant it.
Thirteen
DECLAN
Fixing More Than Lights
The community center'selectrical system had apparently been installed sometime during the Coolidge administration, which explained why half the outlets sparked ominously when we plugged in the Christmas lights, and why the other half seemed to have given up on conducting electricity entirely.
"This is a fire hazard," I said, staring at an outlet that had just produced what I was pretty sure was actual smoke. "We can't have three hundred people in here with wiring that's older than most of the attendees."
"It's not that bad," Holly said, though she was eyeing the suspicious outlet with the same concern I was feeling. "Mr. Bennett said the wiring was updated in the eighties."
"The eighteen-eighties?"
"Very funny." She crouched down to examine the outlet more closely, and I tried not to notice how her fitted jeans hugged her curves perfectly, or how her soft purple sweater had ridden up slightly to reveal a tantalizing strip of skin at her lower back.
