“Professional,” I said, which was technically true if you ignored the part where we’d spent Thursday night tangled together in a cabin bed while I made her come so hard, she screamed my name.
“Professional,” Matt repeated slowly, like he was testing the word for authenticity. “That’s interesting.”
“Why is that interesting?”
“Because you look like someone who’s been hit by a truck, and not the good kind of truck,” Matt said, studying my face with the focused attention of someone conducting a psychological evaluation. “The ‘I’m completely fucked because I’m falling for someone I shouldn’t be falling for’ kind of truck.”
Jesus Christ. Was I that obvious?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, turning back to the tent stakes with renewed focus. “We should probably get these booths set up before the volunteers revolt.”
“Declan,” Matt said, and something in his tone made me look at him directly. “Dude. It’s me. You can drop the act.”
“What act?”
“The ‘nothing happened between me and your sister’ act,” Matt said with amusement. “Because you’re about as subtle as a Christmas parade, and Holly’s been acting like someone replaced her coffee with espresso mixed with anxiety medication.”
Fuck. If Matt had noticed Holly’s behavior too, then we were definitely not as good at hiding whatever was happening between us as we’d thought.
“Matt—” I started.
“Finally!” came a voice behind us, and I turned to see Holly approaching through the snow, carrying what appeared to be enough coffee to caffeinate a small nation. “I was wondering when you’d—Matt!”
She set down the thermal containers and launched herself at her brother with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested genuine happiness to see him, rather than anxiety about his potential reaction to recent developments.
“Hey, sis,” Matt said, hugging her back with obvious affection. “You look good. Really good, actually.”
“Thanks,” Holly said, stepping back and immediately avoiding eye contact with me in a way that was probably visible from space. “How was the drive?”
“Terrible, but worth it to see you two pretending you haven’t been?—”
“Matt,” Holly interrupted quickly, her cheeks going red in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. “Should we focus on festival setup? We have a lot to coordinate.”
“Right,” Matt smirked. “Festival setup. Very important festival setup that definitely requires both of you to work in close proximity while carefully avoiding eye contact.”
I watched Holly’s expression shift from embarrassment to resignation, like she was realizing that Matt had figured out whatever we’d been trying to hide within approximately thirty seconds of arriving.
“We should probably distribute the coffee,” she said firmly, picking up the thermal containers with the kind of determined efficiency that suggested she was going to maintain professional focus even if it killed her.
“Good idea,” I agreed, grateful for any task that didn’t require explaining my relationship status to my best friend while standing in a blizzard.
Festival setup consumed us like a mission, our movements quick and purposeful. It’s the universal language of people who’d rather freeze their butts off than admit defeat to a little apocalyptic weather. The snow kept falling, but Vermonters kept coming, trudging through white drifts with thermoses and toolboxes, looking personally offended by each snowflake. Matt fell right into the rhythm, commandeering the sound system with his usual take-charge attitude, barking orders like a drill sergeant who’d accidentally wandered onto a Hallmark movieset. But every time Holly and I came within five feet of each other—which I swear wasn’t intentional, despite what my racing pulse suggested—Matt’s eyebrows would perform an Olympic-level gymnastics routine, his face cycling through expressions that clearly telegraphed: “I know exactly what you two did and I’m already planning how to torture you about it for the next twenty Christmases.”
“Can you hand me that extension cord?” Holly asked, crouching behind the main stage to check electrical connections.
“This one?” I said, passing her the cord and trying not to notice how her ass looked in her jeans when she bent over, or how our fingers locked for two seconds during the exchange.
“Thanks,” she said, our eyes meeting for just a moment before she quickly looked away.
“Subtle,” Matt said quietly, appearing beside me with a grin that suggested he’d witnessed the entire exchange. “Really smooth, both of you.”
“We’re just coordinating festival logistics,” I said defensively.
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Matt asked. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re both about two seconds away from jumping each other despite the fact that half the town is watching.”
I glanced around the town square and realized he was right. Mrs. Peterson was beaming at us from the hot chocolate station. Sandra was watching our every interaction with obvious satisfaction. Even Bernie was grinning like he’d won the lottery while he adjusted the sound system.
“The entire town knows, doesn’t it?” I said with dawning horror.
