Meeting at coffee shop moved to 6:30. Storm strategy session over coffee and croissants.
Storm strategy session. Because apparently coordinating an outdoor Christmas festival during a blizzard required military-level tactical planning and enough caffeine to power a small city.
I pulled on my warmest jeans, my waterproof boots, and three layers under my heaviest coat, then headed downstairs to find my parents in full crisis management mode.
“The power’s been flickering,” my mother announced, bustling around the kitchen with the kind of energetic anxiety that meant she’d been awake for hours. “And the Hendersons’ tree came down across Maple Street, but the road crew is already working on it.”
“The festival will be fine,” my father said reassuringly, though he was checking the weather radar on his tablet with the focused intensity of a NASA engineer. “Vermont weather builds character.”
Apparently, that was the official town motto for dealing with meteorological disasters.
“Matt texted from Boston,” my mother continued, refilling her coffee cup for what was probably the fourth time. “He’s leaving early to beat the worst of the storm, should be here by afternoon if the roads don’t get too bad.”
“Great,” I said, grabbing a coffee and trying to calculate how to manage festival logistics, family dynamics, and whatever the hell was happening between me and Declan while also preparing for a career-changing interview in two days.
The drive to the coffee shop was an adventure in applied physics—how to maintain forward momentum on icy roads while visibility approached zero and the wind tried to relocate my car to a different zip code. By the time I made it, I felt like I’d survived some kind of meteorological obstacle course.
The coffee shop was packed with festival committee members, town council representatives, and what appeared to be half of Everdale Falls, all clutching coffee cups and discussing contingency plans with the focused intensity of a war room briefing.
I spotted Declan immediately, his dark hair damp from snow and his cheeks flushed from the cold in a way that made my pulse quicken despite my determination to maintain professional boundaries. He was deep in conversation with Bernie about generator backup plans, gesturing with his hands in the way that meant he was problem-solving, and I had to force myself to look away before someone noticed me staring.
“Holly!” Mrs. Peterson called out, waving me over to a table that had been converted into festival headquarters. “Perfecttiming. We need to discuss vendor tent reinforcement and heating options.”
For the next hour, we battled the blizzard with spreadsheets and sticky notes, like generals planning a war against Mother Nature herself. I suggested triple-anchoring the vendor booths after Mrs. Peterson’s horror story about the Great Craft Fair Disaster of ’09, when three tents became accidental hot air balloons. Bernie insisted we needed, what he called, tactical warming stations for the carolers whose faces might freeze mid-fa-la-la.
Meanwhile, I was developing an entirely new weather condition: Declan-induced warmth. Every time he leaned over the table, I caught a whiff of his cologne that somehow made me think less about Christmas trees and more about climbing him like one. He ran his hand through his snow-damp hair, completely oblivious to what it was doing to my internal temperature.
“The sound system is our Achilles’ heel,” he announced, tapping the festival map with a pen that he’d been absently chewing on. “Unless we want ‘Jingle Bells’ to sound like it’s being performed underwater by angry dolphins.”
“What about moving the music to the community center?” Sandra suggested.
“Too small for the crowds we’re expecting,” I said, studying the weather forecast on my phone. “But we could set up auxiliary heating stations around the perimeter of the square.”
“Good thinking,” Declan said, our eyes meeting across the table for a moment that made my stomach flutter in ways that had nothing to do with coffee consumption or weather anxiety.
We worked together with the kind of seamless coordination that would have been impressive if it wasn’t so obviously charged with unresolved chemistry. Every time we reached for the same document, our hands brushed.
“You two really do make an excellent team,” Margaret observed with obvious satisfaction. “So intuitive about each other’s thoughts.”
Intuitive. That was one way to describe the fact that I was becoming dangerously good at anticipating Declan’s every gesture and expression.
“Days of practice,” Declan said with a smirk, though the look he gave me suggested he was thinking about more recent forms of practice.
By the time we finished planning, the storm had reached the level where stepping outside felt like entering a snow globe being vigorously shaken by an overly enthusiastic child. The festival setup would be an adventure in applied determination and really excellent winter gear.
“All volunteers meet at the town square at ten for final setup,” Mrs. Peterson announced as everyone gathered their things. “Weather gear mandatory, hot chocolate provided.”
“Festival opens at eleven, rain or shine,” Bernie added with a grin. “Though in Vermont, we don’t let a little snow stop us from having a good time.”
A little snow. I looked out the diner window at what could generously be described as a meteorological assault and wondered if Bernie’s definition of “little” was the same as everyone else’s.
Somehow, as we left the coffee shop, I found myself walking to my car next to Declan, both of us bundled up like arctic explorers preparing for a polar expedition.
“So,” Declan said as we reached our vehicles, “think we can pull this off without anyone getting hypothermia?”
“I have faith in Vermont stubbornness,” I said, though what I was thinking was that being around him made me feel warm despite the sub-zero wind chill.
“Good,” he said, stepping closer under the pretense of being heard over the wind. “Because I was starting to worry that festival coordination might actually be more challenging than corporate law.”
