"Are you saying I'm distracting you from electrical problem-solving?" Holly asked, and there was something light in her tone that didn't quite hide the uncertainty underneath.
"I'm saying you're distracting me from everything," I admitted, probably more honestly than was wise. "And that's complicated."
Holly was quiet for a moment, still kneeling among the extension cords, looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Complicated how?" she asked finally.
"Complicated because you're Matt's sister, and he's been my best friend since we were twelve," I said. "Complicated because you're rebuilding your life right now, and I don't know if I should be part of that rebuilding or if I'd just be another complication you don't need."
"And complicated because you're on sabbatical from your real life in New York," Holly added quietly. "And you don't know if you're staying or going back."
The fact that she'd identified the same obstacles I was worried about should have been reassuring. Instead, it made something sink in my chest, because it meant she was thinking about all the reasons this couldn't work rather than all the reasons it could.
"Exactly," I said. "So maybe we should focus on the festival and worry about everything else later."
"Focus on the festival," Holly repeated, and there was something careful in the way she said it. "Right. Professional boundaries and all that."
"Professional boundaries," I agreed, though the words felt ridiculous when we were kneeling two feet apart in a space barely large enough for both of us.
"Good plan," Holly said, turning back to the extension cords with renewed focus. "Very mature and sensible."
"I'm known for my maturity and sensibility," I said, watching her work and trying not to notice how the movement made her sweater ride up in ways that were definitely not mature or sensible to be thinking about as my cock grew harder.
"Right up until you're making poster board signs and hanging them in your bedroom window," Holly pointed out without looking up from the electrical work.
"That was adaptive communication," I said with dignity. "Very professional."
"That was twelve-year-old behavior," Holly corrected, but she was smiling as she said it. "Though effective twelve-year-old behavior."
"The best kind."
We finished the electrical work in relative silence, testing each circuit and confirming that Holly's power distribution plan worked perfectly. The Christmas lights blazed without sparking, the outlets remained cool, and the community center looked appropriately festive without resembling a fire hazard.
"There," Holly said with satisfaction, dusting off her hands as we surveyed our work. "Problem solved through superior electrical engineering and mature, professional collaboration."
"The very best kind of collaboration," I agreed, though I was acutely aware that the professional part of our collaboration felt increasingly forced.
As we gathered our tools and prepared to leave, I found myself watching Holly move around the space with easy confidence, straightening decorations and making final adjustments to the lighting display. She was beautiful, obviously, but it was more than that. There was something about her competence, her creative problem-solving, the way she approached challenges with both practical thinking and genuine care, that was infinitely more attractive than simple physical appeal.
Which was exactly why maintaining professional boundaries was going to be so difficult.
"Holly," I said as we reached the community center exit.
"Yeah?"
"For what it's worth, I think you're amazing at this," I said, gesturing back at the festival setup. "Not just the electrical problem-solving, though that was impressive. All of it. You're going to make this festival exactly what the community wants it to be."
The smile that spread across her face was radiant, and for a moment, I forgot about professional boundaries entirely.
"Thank you," she said softly. "That... means a lot."
"Any time."
As we walked to our cars in the December evening air, I realized that professional boundaries were probably the most theoretical concept I'd ever tried to maintain. Because watching Holly Winters solve problems and create something meaningful for people she cared about wasn't just professionally impressive.
It was making me fall for her in ways that had nothing to do with nostalgia or proximity or holiday romance fantasies, and everything to do with who she was as a person.
Which was definitely going to complicate our mature, sensible, professional collaboration in ways that Mrs. Peterson's planning manual had not prepared me for.
