Before either of us could figure out how to explain the situation without admitting that we were falling for each other while possibly living in different states, Mrs. Peterson appeared with the kind of determined energy that suggested she had festival-related emergencies that required immediate attention.
“Holly, dear,” she said breathlessly, “we have a situation with the Christmas karaoke schedule. Two of our singers called in sick, and we’re supposed to start performances in twenty minutes.”
“No problem,” Holly said, immediately shifting into crisis management mode. “We can adjust the schedule, maybe combine some of the smaller groups?—”
“Actually,” Mrs. Peterson interrupted with obvious excitement, “I was thinking you and Declan could fill in. You both have lovely voices, and everyone would love to see you perform together.”
Perform together. In public. While half the town watched and the other half took pictures for the local newspaper. This was either the perfect opportunity to publicly declare our feelings for each other or the perfect opportunity for mutual humiliation.
“I don’t think—” I started.
“That sounds wonderful,” Holly said firmly, though her smile looked slightly strained. “We’d be happy to help.”
Happy was a strong word for how I felt about the prospect of public performance while having a slow-motion panic attack about my career future, but Holly was already discussing song selection with Mrs. Peterson, and Matt was watching the entire exchange with amusement.
“This should be interesting,” he said quietly to me as Holly and Mrs. Peterson finalized performance details. “Nothing like public singing to really test a relationship’s durability.”
“We don’t have a relationship,” I said automatically, though even I was getting tired of that particular denial.
“Sure you don’t,” Matt said with obvious affection. “That’s why you’re both volunteering to sing in front of the entire town while looking like you want to either kiss each other or run away screaming.”
Before I could figure out how to respond to that disturbingly accurate assessment, Holly returned with the kind of bright smile that meant she’d committed us to something that was going to require more emotional fortitude than I currently possessed.
“We’re doing ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside,’” she announced cheerfully. “In fifteen minutes. On the main stage.”
‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside.’ The most flirtatious Christmas song in existence, which we were going to perform in front of everyone we knew while I tried not to have a panic attack aboutmy career, and she tried not to look at me like she was afraid I was going to disappear.
“Perfect,” I managed, though what I was thinking was that my day had officially entered surreal territory and was showing no signs of slowing down.
Fifteen minutes later, I was standing on the main stage in the town square, looking out at a crowd that included what appeared to be half of Everdale Falls, holding a microphone and trying to remember how to breathe normally while Holly stood beside me, looking radiant and nervous and completely beautiful.
“Don’t overthink it,” she whispered as the music started. “Just... have fun.”
Have fun. Right. Because public performance, while having an existential crisis about my entire life, was exactly the kind of situation where fun came naturally. Where were the actual shits when you needed them?
But then Holly started singing, her voice clear and warm and perfectly suited to the playful melody, and something in my chest loosened.
When my part came in, I found my voice, and suddenly we weren’t just singing a song—we were having a conversation, a flirtation, a declaration that everyone could hear but that felt completely private. Holly moved closer during the playful back-and-forth, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and I found myself grinning as I sang the responses, caught up in the moment and the music and the way she was looking at me like I was the only person in the world.
The crowd was eating it up. I could see people taking pictures, couples swaying together, Mrs. Peterson beaming like she’d personally orchestrated our romantic destiny. But all I could focus on was Holly, the way her voice blended with mine, the way she laughed at my dramatic delivery of certain lines, theway she looked at me during the more intimate parts of the song, like she meant every word.
When we reached the final verse, Holly stepped even closer, close enough that I could smell her perfume and see the way her cheeks were flushed from the cold and the performance. We sang the last lines looking directly at each other, and when the music ended, there was a moment of perfect silence where we just stood there, staring at each other, while the rest of the world faded away.
Then the crowd erupted in applause and cheers, and we remembered where we were and what we’d just done in front of approximately everyone we knew.
“That was...” Holly said breathlessly as we left the stage.
“Intense,” I finished, still trying to process what had just happened.
“Very intense,” she agreed, and the way she was looking at me suggested she was thinking about more than just the performance.
“Holly,” I started, but before I could figure out how to tell her that singing with her had made me realize I was completely, irrevocably in love with her, Bernie appeared with his camera and the kind of enthusiastic expression that meant he’d documented our entire musical declaration for posterity.
“Beautiful performance!” he said cheerfully, showing us the digital display. “Got some great shots. The Gazette’s going to love these for the Christmas edition.”
The Gazette. Which meant our musical flirtation was going to be immortalized in print for the entire town to see and discuss for the next six months.
“Wonderful,” Holly said weakly, though she was smiling as she looked at the pictures. We did look good together, I had to admit. Like we belonged together.
