I put the truck in park with deliberate slowness, buying precious seconds before I have to step into the cold morning air. Before I have to face the man who’s spent twenty years complicating my life just by existing. The man who showed up at my door last night and shattered my whole being with one devastating kiss.
I step out of the truck, hoping to join the group of men gathered by the fence, but Bastian is already too close, moving with the determination that made him the successful musician he is. Gouta bleats a greeting, but her owner’s expression holds something far less innocent. Intent and heat that make the morning air feel thin.
“Good morning,” he says. Before I can respond, he’s there, crowding me against the truck door with one hand on either side of my body. His body radiates heat even through layers of winter clothing, making my skin prickle with awareness.
I take a steady breath, but dammit, he smells like fresh pine and lemon, like lazy Sunday mornings and—fuck, I’m never going to pull unaffected off.
“We should talk,” he continues, one hand coming up to tuck one of my stray curls behind my ear. The position mirrors how he pressed me against my living room wall last night, and my body responds before my brain can object, leaning toward his warmth like a flower tracking the sun.
I force myself to straighten, to remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea. “No thanks.” I plant both hands on his chest, feeling solid muscle beneath his jacket, and push.
Gouta protests with an indignant bleat, like she’s outraged by my behavior, but I’m already moving, putting distance between myself and temptation. My boots are steady on the frozen grass as I head toward where Nikko and Stone wait near the field’s edge.
Stone looks irritatingly fresh. I’ve never met someone who looks perfect all the time. His designer boots somehow remain spotless despite the muddy ground, and his perfectly groomed appearance makes me suddenly aware of my simple care routine. I’m just a farmer. No time for expensive creams and regular haircuts. Beside him, Nikko huddles deeper into his coat, expensive sunglasses hiding what looks like an impressive hangover.
“Where’s Fox?” Bastian asks as he catches up.
Stone’s laugh carries a hint of worry beneath its usual easy tone. “Disappeared on us last night. Said he had to handle something and he’d catch a cab back to the house.” He shrugs. “Haven’t seen him since.”
“He’s not answering his phone,” Nikko adds, like it’s physically painful to talk. “Again.”
The word “again” catches my attention, making me wonder what other disappearances I’ve missed. But it’s not my business. Fox isn’t my friend. I have enough complications in my life without adding someone else’s mysterious behavior to the mix.
Instead, I focus on the field before us, trying to imagine it transformed into the Christmas festival Finn envisions. Anything to keep my mind off the man standing too close behind me, the man whose taste I can still remember with perfect clarity.
“He’ll turn up,” Stone says with forced confidence. “He always does.”
The sound of approaching tires pulls my attention from the endless task of not watching Bastian. Finn’s car appears through the morning haze like a herald of salvation, bringing with it not just my friend but Fox.
Nikko straightens as Fox emerges from the passenger seat, his sunglasses doing little to hide his concern. “Where have you been?”
Fox shrugs. “At the house,” he says. “Slept late, saw Finn’s car coming up the drive, jumped in.”
Finn clears his throat. “Anyway. Let’s get this show on the road.” He gestures to a stocky man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses. “This is Marcus Chen, our public works coordinator. He’s been keeping our town’s infrastructure running smoothly for the past twenty years.”
Marcus nods at the assembled group, his handshake firm as he works his way through the introductions. “Pleasure to meet you all. Though I have to say, my daughter’s going to lose her mind when I tell her who I met today.” His smile is warm despite the professional clipboard tucked under his arm.
“And this is Chief Dan Morrison, our fire marshal,” Finn continues. “He’s the one who’ll make sure we don’t burn down half of Vermont with our holiday lights.”
“Just making sure everyone stays safe,” Dan says with a tone that suggests he’s dealt with his share of ambitious holiday displays. He shakes hands with each band member. “Though I’ll admit, this is probably the most high-profile safety inspection I’ve done in Winterberry.”
Stone grins. “We promise to keep the pyrotechnics to a minimum.”
“Please do,” Dan replies, the corner of his mouth twitching. “My insurance paperwork is complicated enough as it is.”
We begin our tour of the site, and for most of it, we just follow as the officials take measurements and make notes. The public works coordinator mutters about power lines and water access, while the fire marshal paces out distances between theoretical structures.
Throughout the inspection, I feel Bastian’s gaze following my every move. Every time I glance his way, his eyes are already on me. Each accidental meeting of our gazes sends electricity through my system, making it harder to focus on Finn’s excitement about vendor placement and crowd flow.
“The power supply shouldn’t be an issue,” the public works coordinator announces, making another note on his clipboard. “We can run lines from the main road, supplemented by generators if needed.”
The fire marshal nods approval at the wide access paths Finn proposes, his initial skepticism warming into cautious optimism. “The natural curve of the land will make crowd control easier and help with emergency response times,” he comments.
I try to focus on their discussion, but my attention keeps drifting to Bastian. He stands slightly apart from the group,Gouta pressed against his legs, his brow furrowed as he surveys the field. “What about the livestock?” he interrupts, his voice carrying an edge of concern. “We’re talking thousands of people potentially wandering near active barns, disturbing and stressing the animals.” His hand gestures toward the neighboring properties. “It’s not just us. The Petersons share that fence line, and the Whitakers are right behind them. How do we keep festival crowds from spilling onto working farmland during one of the most critical seasons?”
Dan looks up from his notes, his expression shifting. “Good catch. We’ll establish clear barriers with fencing and signage well before the livestock areas. Part of our preliminary safety assessment includes marking off-limits zones.” He makes a note on his clipboard. “We can also coordinate with your neighbors to ensure their properties are clearly demarcated. Standard protocol for events on working land.”
He tucks his notebook away. “With proper planning and adherence to safety protocols, this space could handle the expected crowd capacity.”
