She nodded once. Still not meeting my eyes.
I turned away because staying there, hovering, seemed too much like pressure. And if she needed anything from me, it sure as hell wasn’t pressure.
Another radio call came in about a fuse tripping at Stop Four. I handled that. Then the tree at Stop Seven started leaning at an ominous angle. I anchored that. After that, the sound system cut out mid-song, and the quartet started arguing about which of them had broken the amp. I mediated that.
Every time I had a second to breathe, I looked for her.
She was always there. Smiling. Working. Efficient. Functionally flawless.
Just not… with me.
By twilight, the square glowed under the Christmas lights, casting everything in that soft, hazy gold that made even the cracked sidewalks appear magical. I loved this part—when families settled into the rhythm of the event, when laughter scattered through the cold air, when the whole town felt like it was moving together.
But tonight, something about it twisted in my chest.
Jess was managing a line when I approached again. Pepper and Rhett were helping a family with stroller logistics on one side of the square, and volunteers handed out cocoa coupons on the other. Jess didn’t appear overwhelmed. If anything, she looked calmer now that everything had hit stride. But the calm wasn’t relief. It was distance.
She finished with a customer before noticing me. “Hey.” Her voice was warm enough to sting. Not fake. Never fake. But careful. “Everything running smoothly?”
“More or less. We’ve had fewer near-electrocutions than last year. Improvement.”
That earned me a small real smile, but brief. Like she didn’t want it to linger. “Glad to hear it.”
I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “Jess… what happened? Yesterday we were?—”
“Yesterday was yesterday.” She didn’t say it harshly. Just quietly. Like she’d already worn the edges off the words before letting them out.
“And today?” I asked.
“Today’s the festival,” she said. “I really need to stay focused. That’s all this is.”
I knew her well enough to understand it wasn’t. But I also knew when pushing would only make her retreat further. And right that moment, she looked like someone holding herself together by deliberately not looking at anything too closely. Including me.
Before I could answer, a volunteer ran up, breathless. “Powell! The reindeer pen gate isn’t locking, and one of them keeps testing it. I think he’s planning an escape.”
I swore under my breath, glanced at Jess. Her expression remained unreadable—some mix of sympathy, exhaustion, and something closed-off.
“Go,” she said softly. “I’ve got this.”
I hesitated one more second. She didn’t meet my eyes.
I went.
The reindeer did, in fact, look like he was planning a jailbreak. I didn’t blame him. Being brought to North Alabama probably wasn’t his idea of a good time. Not enough snow. He’d be on his way home to North Carolina soon enough. Fixing the pen took ten minutes. Then the carolers needed help adjusting their sound clip playlist. Then two teenagers knocked over a crate of ornaments at Stop Nine and begged me not to tell their grandparents. Then the generator at Stop Five sputtered and threatened mutiny.
By the time I looked up again, Jess was nowhere in my immediate line of sight. The square buzzed with lights and chatter, and somewhere behind the gazebo, someone started singing an off-key version of “Jingle Bell Rock.”
I caught sight of her eventually near the craft tent, talking to Pepper. She’d shoved her hands into her coat pockets, her shoulders tucked slightly inward against the cold—or the conversation. Pepper frowned and said something that made Jess shrug in a way that didn’t seem like dismissal so much as resignation.
The knot in my chest tightened.
She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t icy. But she wasn’t mine tonight—not the way she’d been yesterday morning when she’d curled against me like she was finally letting herself be held.
And I had no idea why.
Not yet.
But as I adjusted my radio and stepped toward the next mini crisis—Santa losing his spare hat, of all things—I made myself a quiet promise: The second this event ended, I’d find her.
