Page 41 of Midnight and Mistletoe

I close my eyes for a second.

This only happened because none of the barriers we put up over the years have been present. No rushed moments when he pretends to have booked the wrong flight so he can steal a few hours longer with me. No stolen glances when no one is watching, because there has been no one around.

It’s been just us.

Between shared meals, discussions of which one is the all-time best Christmas song, endless rounds of sex, cuddling, and falling asleep in each other’s arms, I’ve forgotten all the rules. And more importantly, why we had them in the first place.

In less than forty-eight hours, my…Fox…is getting in the rental he parked behind my building almost two weeks ago and driving to Burlington to pick up a few Christmas presents for Mik’s daughter, Kay. And then he’s going to drive back to Winterberry the same day and go straight to my parents’ farmhouse for Thanksgiving dinner and be Fox Crue, bass player of Hall of Fame.

He will stop being my Foster and resume his place as one of my brother’s best friends.

I take a breath. Then another. Then I straighten my back and keep walking because I am Griffin Hall, Winterberry’s events coordinator, and I have a market to run.

Noëlle’s booth is my next stop. She’s set up with trays of Thanksgiving cookies stacked high and a big steaming urn of her spiced hot chocolate. Her wife Sam is helping her handle the line, which is already six people deep because Noëlle’s cookies are, in the town’s entirely accurate opinion, the best in the state.

I wait for the line to thin. When it does, I step up.

“Finn.” Noëlle beams. “Have a cookie.”

I show her my half-eaten donut as an excuse for not taking a cookie when I, in fact, don’t think I could stomach anything. “How’s it going?”

“Insane. In a good way. I’ve already sold out of most of the cookies and had to get Sam to run to the bakery earlier to bake another batch. I’m more than ready to put my feet up tomorrow.”

“Any complaints about the space?”

“None. Meredith set us up beautifully.”

“Great. Then I’ll—” She puts her hand on my arm, throwing me a concerned look.

“You look tired.”

“Nah, just Christmas Festival prep.” My usual excuse.

“Finn, honey. You’ve looked tired for a couple of weeks now.”

“I’m fine, Noëlle. Now that the Thanksgiving market is almost over, that’s one less thing on my plate. You know how it is.”

We talk about smaller things for a minute, such as her mother-in-law coming for Thanksgiving. She hates the woman, but Sam has vowed to run interference.