“I don’t have time to run another one,” I laugh. “It’s all yours.”
“Tourists like a theme.” Declan shrugs. “Town leans into it. That’s all.”
I nudge him with my elbow. “You don’t like the festival?”
He hesitates. “It’s fine.”
“What a non-answer.” I narrow my eyes. “You don’t enjoy watching a man dressed as Krampus trying to untangle Christmas lights from fake headstones?”
He follows my line of sight. “That’s the mayor. And yes, I enjoy that part a little. He’s very serious the rest of the year.”
The barista returns with two steaming cups topped with whipped cream and, as Declan promised, ghost marshmallows. “How cute! Thank you.”
She slides them across the counter. “Careful, they’re hot. And cursed, of course.”
“Of course.” I nod at her and she winks.
Declan hands her a bill and doesn’t wait for change.
We wander to the edge of the square, where it’s quieter and less crowded. I balance my cocoa in one hand and the kettle corn in the other, upset I don’t have my camera out to capture all the festivities.
“You all right?” Declan asks, taking a sip of his cocoa.
“Yeah, I was just thinking, I should be filming this.”
His gaze flicks to my cup. “Let me hold that. And give me your bag.”
He leads me closer to the town courthouse where he sets our cups on a low stone wall and takes the bag of corn from my hands.
“Thank you.” I eye the corn. “Don’t eat all that on me.”
He chuckles and pops a handful in his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I take my camera out and turn toward the square again, watching a group of teens testing fake fog machines. One shrieks when it blasts her in the face, and I laugh.
Declan settles beside me, our shoulders almost touching. Fog drifts along the ground where the lights don’t quite reach, soft tendrils curling around people’s boots. Between the cocoa heat and his nearness, my skin feels too warm and too aware.
I aim the camera toward the center of the square and grab some footage. When I think I have enough for Wren to use as background, I shut the camera off and tuck it away in my bag.
His voice drops. “You’re quiet.”
“Just taking it in.” A lie, or half of one. I’m taking him in, too—how closely he studies all of the vendors and people around us. Like this place keeps him on high alert no matter the situation.
A cold pulse flares under my sleeve. The mark prickles, an ice-cold needle sliding across my skin.
Declan notices the way my breath snags. “There it is again.”
“I’m fine.” The words come too fast.
His frown says he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push. “People will linger for a while. Lot of energy around the festival.”
“I bet.” The longer we’re here, the louder and brighter things seem to be, even as the fog thickens.
Declan watches the scene in a detached way. He’s lived here his whole life, people seem to all know and respect him, yet he seems more comfortable at the fringe of things.
I understand that feeling all too well.
“You never told me where else you went today,” Declan asks.
