Chapter 22 Taylen
TAYLEN
“Everything’s going to be fine,” I tell Finn as he checks his phone for what must be the hundredth time today.
Instead of replying, Finn makes a sound that might be agreement or maybe the beginning of a panic attack. His town logo pin sits slightly crooked on his lapel. I resist the urge to fix it for him.
The Christmas market stalls stretch behind us, vendors arranging their products with excitement. The stage crew’s equipment check sends occasional bursts of static through speakers that will later carry the sounds of Christmas carols.
“Look around you. Everyone’s doing what they’re supposed to do, and even the weather is cooperating.”
“Why did you have to jinx—” Finn starts, then stops mid-sentence as Mayor Caldwell appears at the far end of the market area.
“Oh god,” Finn mutters, his clipboard creaking under a suddenly tighter grip. “I need to catch him. Do you mind—” He’s already moving before finishing the sentence, weaving between vendors with surprising agility for someone who looks ready to faint.
I take in the calm before the proverbial storm.
The transformation of mine and the Halls’ combined properties into a winter wonderland still catches me off guard.
Strings of white lights are draped between lampposts, each bulb wrapped in frost that makes them sparkle even in daylight.
Red and green garlands twist around every available surface, their pine scent mixing with cinnamon from nearby vendor stalls to create that quintessential Christmas smell that hits you right in the childhood memories.
The Christmas tree stands at the market’s heart, easily twenty feet tall, decorated with ornaments that are ready to shine once the lights are turned on in just a few hours.
Finn has arranged music stands for carolers near its base, their sheet music already clipped and ready for the opening ceremony.
The vendor stalls look like something from a Hallmark movie. Each booth sports its own wreath, some simple pine circles with red bows, others elaborate creations featuring dried orange slices, cinnamon sticks, and silver bells.
Welcoming visitors into the festival is a giant banner that stretches between two poles, with Winterberry Christmas Festival in letters that must be three feet tall, flanked by painted snowflakes and candy canes.
It’s almost too much, except it’s not. It’s exactly right.
It’s the kind of scene that makes even cynical hearts soften a little.
Joe’s pop-up bar is already drawing attention at the far end, his handwritten sign promising Holiday Spirits for Holiday Spirits.
I check my watch, confirming there’s still time. Soon, these paths will fill with locals and tourists alike.
But for now, I’m going to thank my mother’s friend, Eleanor, for accepting the job of managing the stall for me for the duration of the festival.
With the work on the farm and having to meet orders at the busiest time of the year, it would be impossible to manage the stall myself, no matter how much fun it always is.
Eleanor arranges jars of apple butter because they have to be just so. I can already hear her say the words before I reach the stall.
“Everything’s perfect, Eleanor,” I say, watching her adjust a jar that’s barely a millimeter out of alignment.
The familiar scent of Sylvie’s cinnamon bread draws me closer, and I can’t resist snagging a slice from the sample plate.
Sylvie is a superstar for supplying me with the perfect foundation for my samples.
She swats my hand playfully. “You haven’t changed a bit,” she says, though we both know that’s not true. “Still sneaking tastes when you think no one’s looking.”
"Stolen bits taste better," I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
I leave her to walk the market that fills steadily as the afternoon progresses. Vendors call greetings across aisles, share thermoses of coffee and snippets of gossip, and adjust displays.
A new stall I’ve never seen at the festival before catches my eye.
Dr. Hunter Cross, also known as the hot vet—although he probably doesn’t know that—kneels beside his outreach stall, his movements careful as he lets an older woman’s terrier investigate his hand.
He has a photo display of seniors with their pets next to pamphlets that read Keeping Families Together: All Members Welcome.
“We provide basic care for pets belonging to elderly community members,” Hunter explains to the growing crowd. “Everything from routine checkups to dog walking services.”
The terrier has progressed from investigating Hunter’s hand to attempting to climb into his lap, making its owner apologize profusely.
But Hunter just smiles. “This is exactly why we do this work,” he says, scratching behind the dog’s ears.
“Every pet deserves care, and every owner deserves peace of mind.”
I can see why he’s so popular.
With his vivid red hair and bright-green eyes, the man is objectively hot, and who’s not a sucker for a guy who loves animals?
Stone appears through the crowd, looking like he’s stepped directly from a fashion magazine photo shoot into our small-town festival.
“Dr. Cross,” he says, extending his hand and turning his smile to maximum wattage. “Stone Murphy. I’ve heard wonderful things about your work with animals.”
Hunter accepts the handshake. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Murphy. And thank you. It’s easy to do wonderful things when you love what you do.”
“Please, call me Stone,” he says, moving to maintain position in Hunter’s line of sight. “I’m very interested in learning more about your program. How could I do that?”
The suggestion hangs in the air, but it seems the hot vet isn’t catching Stone’s drift. “Our website has comprehensive information about volunteer opportunities,” he says. “All program details are available there.”
“That’s great, but I would love the opportunity to discuss the recent increase in pet adoptions. As they say, pets are for life, not just for Christmas.”
Hunter’s face remains neutral, but the flush rising above his collar tells a different story. He’s a good few inches shorter than Stone, but he’s clearly not easily intimidated.
The touch on my sleeve comes with no warning, but I know it’s him before I turn.
Bastian stands closer than strictly necessary, smelling like Christmas morning.
His eyes carry that particular brightness that always means trouble for me, my resolve, and my careful plans to keep a distance between us.
Without a word, he pulls me toward the back of the main stage, where the equipment storage boxes create a convenient hiding spot.
“How was your little trip?” I ask, leaning against the support beam in a way I hope looks casual, unbothered.
Bastian’s smile grows wider as he steps closer, eliminating what little space I’d managed to maintain between us. “Awww,” he teases, voice dropping to a register that sends heat through my system despite the winter chill. “You missed me.”
I roll my eyes. “Like a drought in summer,” I say, but my heart betrays me by racing when he moves even closer. His cologne makes my head spin slightly.
“Well, I missed you,” he admits quietly. “Thought about you every day I was gone.”
I should step away now, but instead, I sway slightly closer, drawn by the heat of his body and the memory of how perfectly we fit together.
Before I can push him away, his lips find mine. Of course my hands betray me by finding his shoulders, pulling him closer despite all my resolutions.
He tastes like coffee and cinnamon. One of his hands cups my face while the other braces against the wall, boxing me in.
When he pulls back, his eyes are filled with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. “Have dinner with me,” he says. “A real date. Please.”
“I can’t,” I manage, though even I hear the lack of conviction in my voice. My hands still rest on his shoulders, contradicting words with actions in a way that’s becoming a familiar pattern between us.
“Why not?” His thumb traces my bottom lip, a gesture so intimate it makes my breath catch. “Give me one good reason why we can’t explore this properly, other than your silly idea that I’m somehow going to go somewhere.”
But good reasons seem to evaporate when he’s this close, when I can feel the heat of his body and remember exactly how well we fit together. “Because…” I trail off, distracted by the way his fingers are tracing my jaw.
“Because you’re trying to protect yourself,” he finishes for me, his voice gentler now. “Because you’re scared this is real.” His forehead rests against mine, creating a pocket of shared air between us. “I’m scared too, Tay. But I’m more scared of letting this slip away without trying.”
I close my eyes. My hands grip his coat tighter, ready to give in and say yes to everything he wants.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, reading my silence correctly. “Not this time. Not ever again if you’ll let me stay.” His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Just give me a chance to prove it.”
Part of me wants to believe him, but a larger part remembers that he left for tour buses, packed venues, and a life that exists beyond our small town’s boundaries. “You can’t promise that,” I whisper, though my body betrays me by leaning into his touch.
“Watch me,” he challenges, then kisses me again before I can argue further.
This kiss carries a different energy. Less gentle exploration, more determined claiming.
His body presses mine against the support beam while his hands tangle in my hair, drawing a sound from my throat that would embarrass me if I had any capacity left for shame.
When we break apart this time, we’re both breathing harder.
“Think about it,” he says finally.
“I’ll think about it,” I concede, knowing it’s the best I can offer right now.
He brushes a final kiss across my lips before stepping fully away. “That’s all I’m asking,” he says, though we both know he’s asking for much more than a simple dinner date. “Now come with me. I want to win a plushy for you.”
I laugh. “How fantastically cliché.”
The carnival section of the festival is all flashing lights and barker calls designed to draw people in. I follow Bastian past the game booths. He stops so suddenly that I almost run into him, his attention caught by the ring toss booth that looks like every other tourist trap along our path.
Bastian hands over the cash and grins at me with the confidence of someone who’s been winning these games for a long time.
“Three rings for the gentleman,” the attendant announces.
Bastian weighs the first ring in his hand. I want to tell him it’s rigged, that no one actually wins these games, that he’s wasting time and money on an impossible task.
But his first throw lands perfectly, the ring settling around the bottle neck. The second follows the same path, and I realize I’m holding my breath. His movements carry the same determination he brings to everything: guitar playing, farming, or kissing me senseless in places we shouldn’t.
The third ring hangs suspended in the air for a moment and then drops into place with its predecessors. The attendant’s professional smile slips slightly. “Well, we have a winner!” he announces.
“Told you I’d win you a plushy.”
Bastian studies the available prize options. When he points to a stuffed goat with ridiculous eyelashes, my heart skips more than a few beats.
“For you,” he says, presenting me with the toy. “Since you don’t have your own pet goat, this one will do.”
Our fingers brush as I accept the offering. The plush toy’s exaggerated features somehow look endearing rather than tacky. I tuck it under my arm, fighting a smile.
Sebastian Hall won a plushy for me. Today, this is a cliché I’m on board with.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to, but I love it.”
“I know,” he replies. “But I wanted to.” His hand finds the small of my back as we move away from the booth. “Like I want a lot of things involving you.”
The admission hangs between us as I clutch the stuffed goat closer. “Bastian…”
“I know,” he says again, gentler now. “You need time. Space. Proof that this is real.” His smile is filled with patience and determination that makes my chest tight. “I can wait. Just don’t make me wait too long, okay?”
Around us, the festival continues. The carnival music competes with holiday songs and the scents of varied foods mixing in the winter air.
But in this moment, everything narrows to the space between us.
His eyes hold mine with perfect focus, and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.
He mirrors it, that devastating grin that makes my stomach flip, and for a moment we’re just standing here like idiots, beaming at each other in the middle of the crowd.
The festival noise increases around us. Then I hear it: “Ten! Nine! Eight!” The countdown ripples through the crowd. “Seven! Six! Five!” Bastian’s hand finds mine, our fingers tangling as anticipation builds. “Four! Three! Two! One!”
The world explodes into light. Thousands of bulbs ignite simultaneously, transforming the festival grounds into a winter wonderland of twinkling white and warm gold.
The crowd erupts in cheers and applause, but I’m watching the lights reflect in Bastian’s eyes.
His thumb strokes across my knuckles as we stand together, bathed in the glow of a thousand tiny stars.
“Yes,” I say suddenly, the decision forming before conscious thought. “I’ll have dinner with you.”
“Yeah?” He steps closer. “You’re sure?”
I nod, and his smile could put the Christmas tree lights to shame.
“I should get back,” I say finally, though leaving feels increasingly difficult lately. “It's the first day, so I want to make sure Eleanor is okay.”
“I’ll see you soon,” he says, squeezing my hand before letting it go.
As I walk away, clutching the ridiculous stuffed goat like a lifeline, I don’t even try to erase the smile from my face.