Corporate law. A reminder that his real life was in Manhattan, doing important work that had nothing to do with small-town festivals or women who were supposed to be temporary coordination partners.
“Holly,” Declan started, stepping even closer, and I could see in his eyes that he wanted to have the conversation we’d been avoiding.
But before he could continue, my phone buzzed with a text from Matt:
Just hit the Vermont border. Roads are terrible but I should be home in a couple hours. Hope you’re ready for some brotherly interrogation about your life choices.
Brotherly interrogation. I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the snow melt against my eyelashes. Perfect. Just what I needed—my brother’s arrival adding one more spinning plate to my already precarious balancing act of blizzard logistics, whatever was happening with Declan, and an interview that could change everything.
“Everything okay?” Declan asked, noticing my expression.
“Matt’s almost here,” I said. “He’s driving up from Boston.”
“About time,” Declan muttered, but something in his tone suggested he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the fact that my older brother, his great friend, was returning to spoil our Christmas fun. Or maybe that was me projecting.
“I should get home,” I said. “Help my parents get ready for the prodigal son’s return.”
“Drive carefully,” Declan said, and the concern in his voice made my chest tighten in ways that had nothing to do with weather anxiety.
As I drove home through snow that was falling with dedication, I tried to process the morning’s complications. Derek’s call had reminded me of everything I was trying to escape—manipulation disguised as partnership, professional success that came at the cost of personal integrity. But it had also reminded me that I still didn’t have a real plan for my future beyond hoping my Chicago interview went well.
The Chicago interview that was in two days, for which I was a shoo-in.
Everything was temporary, I reminded myself. The festival, the snow, the way Declan looked at me like I was something precious instead of convenient. Better to remember that now, before I made the mistake of thinking any of this could last.
But as I navigated the icy roads toward home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that temporary was starting to feel like the most heartbreaking word in the English language.
Twenty-Seven
DECLAN
Brother’s Return
I was standingin the town square at nine-thirty in the morning, holding a bundle of tent stakes that had apparently been designed by someone who’d never actually seen snow, watching the weather try to cancel Christmas like the Grinch, when Matt’s familiar voice cut through the howling wind.
“Well, this looks like a completely rational way to spend a morning.”
I turned to see my best friend since seventh grade trudging through knee-deep snow, wearing a Boston Red Sox beanie and the kind of shit-eating grin that meant he’d already figured out at least three things I didn’t want him to know.
“Matt,” I said, probably too loudly and with the enthusiasm of someone who was definitely not nervous about facing his best friend after having incredible sex with said best friend’s little sister less than forty-eight hours ago. “You made it.”
“Barely,” Matt said, pulling me into the kind of back-slapping hug that suggested he wasn’t immediately planning to punch me in the face for defiling his baby sister. “The Mass Pike was anightmare, and once I hit Vermont, it was like driving through a snow globe being operated by an overenthusiastic toddler.”
“Quite,” I said, relieved that he seemed to be in a good mood despite the apocalyptic travel conditions. “How was the drive, really?”
“Long enough to listen to approximately forty-seven Christmas songs and contemplate the life choices that led to me driving five hours through a blizzard to come home for approximately seven days before I do the journey in reverse,” Matt said, surveying the town square with the expression of someone assessing a natural disaster. “Speaking of questionable life choices, how are things going with the festival coordination?”
The way he said ‘festival coordination’ made me immediately suspicious that he was fishing for information about more than vendor booth placement.
“Fine,” I said carefully. “We’ve got everything under control.”
“We?” Matt repeated, raising an eyebrow. “As in, you and Holly?”
“As in me, Holly, and approximately thirty other volunteers,” I said, gesturing toward the small army of people who were currently attempting to erect vendor booths in conditions that would have challenged arctic explorers.
“Right,” Matt said with the kind of knowing smile that made my stomach clench with dread. “And how’s working with Holly been?”
The question was casual, but Matt had known me for years, which meant he could probably read my expression like a roadmap to my guilty conscience.
