My phone rang, jolting me out of thoughts that had no business occupying my brain.
“Hayes,” I answered, expecting it to be Holly with a vendor question or my mother with another request to move something heavy.
“Declan, it’s Richard,” came the voice of my managing partner, sounding exactly as impatient as he had during our last three conversations. “We need to talk.”
I cursed myself for not checking the screen before I answered. My heart started thumping, and my head went dizzy.
“Richard,” I said, stepping away from the electrical box and trying to shift into Manhattan lawyer mode. “Good morning.”
“Is it?” Richard asked dryly. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like our lead corporate attorney is playing small-town festival coordinator in Vermont.”
I grimaced. “The sabbatical was approved through the holidays,” I reminded him, though we both knew that approving it and being happy about it were two very different things.
“That was before Brennan Industries decided to accelerate their timeline,” Richard said. “Look, Declan, I get it. You needed a break. Burnout happens to the best of us. But we need you back here, and we need you focused. This sabbatical thing has run its course.”
Sabbatical thing.As if the past few weeks had been some kind of quaint pastime instead of the first time in years I’d felt like myself.
“I understand the pressure,” I said carefully, “but I am on leave.” My hand shook, and I gripped the phone tighter.
“We need an answer on when you’re coming back, Declan.Areyou coming back, or do we need to start looking for your replacement?”
Replacement. The word hit harder than it should have, carrying implications about my value to the firm and my commitment to the career I’d spent years building. I was about to respond when I spotted Holly emerging from her caracross the square, carrying what looked like a too-heavy-for-her-box and wearing jeans that made focusing on corporate law impossible.
“Can I call you back?” I asked Richard. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“Something,” Richard repeated, like I’d announced I was taking up professional juggling. “Christ, Declan. Just... call me back soon. We need a decision.”
He hung up, and I stood in the town square holding my phone and trying to reconcile the high-powered Manhattan attorney Richard needed with the man who’d spent yesterday morning digging cars out of snow and laughing about prehistoric coffee with the woman who was currently struggling to balance a heavy box while unlocking the festival supply storage shed.
She wanted distance, I reminded myself, walking over to help her. Just because we’d had incredible sex didn’t mean I needed to complicate things by developing feelings or acting like we were anything more than temporary festival coordination partners. It was becoming increasingly clear that Holly Winters had decided to return to Chicago after the holidays, and that was something I had to accept. I wasn’t going to pressure her like Richard was pressuring me.
“Need a hand?” I asked, reaching for the box before she could protest, and ignoring the way my lungs decided to squash all the air out.
“Thanks,” Holly said, our fingers brushing as she transferred the box to me. The contact sent electricity up my arm, and based on the way she quickly pulled her hands away, she felt it too.
“What’s in here?” I asked, trying to maintain normal conversation while hyperaware of how good she smelled.
“Table linens for the vendor booths,” she said, unlocking the shed with the kind of focused efficiency that suggested she wasworking as hard as I was to maintain appropriate boundaries. “Margaret’s been ironing them all week.”
“Table linens?” I croaked as the weight of this box felt like I was lugging rocks around. Following her into the shed, I immediately regretted the decision when the small space made maintaining distance impossible.
The storage shed was apparently where the town kept everything from outdoor Christmas decorations to folding chairs, and it was organized with the kind of military precision that suggested Margaret Fletcher had been involved in the setup. Holly moved through the cramped space with efficiency, checking items off her list and carefully not looking at me directly.
“Extra string lights are there. And the backup hot chocolate supplies are—“ She reached for a high shelf at the same moment I stepped closer to help, and we collided in a way that sent her stumbling backward against the wall of the shed with me pressed against her, my hands braced on either side of her face to keep from crushing her completely.
For a moment, we just stared at each other, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her green eyes and feel her breath against my lips. Close enough that it would have been the most natural thing in the world to kiss her again, to pick up where we’d left off at the cabin instead of pretending nothing had happened.
“Sorry,” Holly whispered, though she made no move to duck under my arms or put distance between us.
“Don’t be,” I said quietly, and I was about to lower my head and kiss her when the shed door creaked ominously behind us.
“Oh!” came Margaret Fletcher’s voice, bright with obvious delight. “I’m so sorry to interrupt!”
Holly and I sprang apart like teenagers caught making out in a closet, which was essentially what had happened, except wewere both adults and this was a festival supply shed instead of a teenage party.
“Margaret,” Holly said, her voice slightly higher than normal. “We were just... checking the inventory.”
“Very thorough checking,” Margaret said with a smile that suggested she wasn’t buying our inventory story for a second. “I can see you’re both very... dedicated to proper organization.”
