“I can be silent.”
“You can’t run a twelve-stop event with interpretive glaring.”
I sighed with all the drama of a high school Thespians meeting and shoved my notebook into my tote. “Watch me.”
Of course, fate—or more accurately, Pepper’s less-than-subtle shove between my shoulder blades—intervened, and I ended up face-to-face with Powell anyway. The impact of her push sent me stumbling forward just as he turned from saying goodbye to one of the other volunteers, and now there was nowhere to look except right at him.
He straightened when he saw me, pulling his hands from the pockets of his cargo pants, shoulders going loose in that casual way that suggested he was working very hard to appear relaxed. His eyes went soft—that particular shade of warm brown that reminded me of coffee beans and autumn leaves and other things I refused to acknowledge right now.
“Jess.” He spoke like I was a skittish woodland creature that might bolt if he moved too fast or spoke too loud.
“Powell,” I answered with the approximate level of warmth I’d show a tax auditor.
For a long, uncomfortable moment we just stood there in the slowly emptying community center, the weight of our unwanted assignment hanging between us like a storm cloud. Volunteers squeezed past us with their coats and purses, folding chairs scraped against the linoleum as they were stacked against the walls, someone made off with the wrong thermos from the refreshment table, and still neither of us blinked or moved or did anything productive.
The silence stretched until it became almost painful, filled with all the things we weren’t saying and probably never would.
He cleared his throat, the sound rough in the quiet space between us. “So. The Twelve Stops of Christmas.”
“Apparently.” I shifted my tote bag higher on my shoulder, using the movement as an excuse to put another inch of space between us.
“We should meet soon. Start planning. Get organized. Unless you’d rather just over-caffeinate yourself into a holiday planning frenzy and improvise the whole thing?”
There was a hint of teasing in his voice, like he was testing the waters to see if I might smile or if I was committed to treating him like an unwelcome door-to-door salesman.
“I don’t improvise.” I lifted my chin in haughty defiance. “I strategize. I plan. I make lists and backup lists and contingency plans for when the backup lists fail.”
“I can work with that.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I’m pretty good at following detailed instructions.”
He waited for me to say something else—something gracious or civil or downright miraculous that might indicate I was capable of basic human cooperation. But my supply of graciousness had run out somewhere between Mrs. Wiggins’s impassioned rant about Santa’s workshop logistics and the mayor casually destroying my holiday sanity with a single announcement.
“I’ll text you,” I said finally, because professionalism required it and my business needed this event to go smoothly. Pour Decisions couldn’t afford for me to torpedo our biggest potential marketing opportunity of the year just because I had personal issues with my co-chair.
“You have my number?” I caught a note of genuine surprise in his voice.
“Unfortunately.” I’d kept it after everything fell apart, though I had no idea why. No doubt some masochistic impulse to torture myself.
He smiled then, a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look like the boy I’d once thought I might be falling for. I ignored the small, traitorous flutter low in my stomach, the way my pulse picked up despite my best efforts to remain unmoved.
“Okay.” His voice was so gentle it almost hurt. “Talk soon, then.”
I made a noise halfway between a grunt and a warning growl and turned away before I did something catastrophically stupid, like let my guard down or—God forbid—soften toward him. My boots clicked against the polished linoleum as I stalked toward the exit, putting as much distance as possible between myself and those warm brown eyes that had always been my weakness.
Pepper caught up to me near the double doors, her shorter legs working overtime to match my determined pace. “Well?” she demanded, a little breathless but grinning like she’d just witnessed the most entertaining show in Huckleberry Creek.
“Well, nothing,” I bit out, not slowing down.
She ignored my tone. “Well, he’s hot. Like, seriously hot. Did he always look that good in uniform, or is this some kind of post-high-school glow-up situation?”
“I am begging you.” I stopped to face her and gritted my teeth. “Please stop talking forever and ever, amen.”
She only laughed, the sound bright and unrepentant. “Oh, honey, this is going to be amazing. You, him, forced proximity, Christmas magic in the air?—”
“This is going to be a complete and utter disaster of epic proportions.”
“It can be both,” she said with a cheerful shrug, her gray-green eyes sparkling with mischief.
I groaned and pushed through the heavy glass door into the biting December air. The cold hit my flushed cheeks like a slap, but it was nothing compared to the assault of Christmas cheer that blasted me from every conceivable angle. Twinkling lights draped across storefronts, garland wound around every lamppost, and a massive wreath hung on the door of almost every business lining Main Street. Even the fire hydrants had been decorated with festive red bows, for crying out loud.
