Chapter 12
Twelve
HOLLY
Coffee Dates and Complications
I paused at my bedroom window, which overlooked the Hayes house, just as I was planning to go to bed, thinking I was seeing things.
But when I turned to peer out, I frowned.
A huge sign in the window opposite mine, surrounded by colorful fairy lights and written on white poster card, was the word COFFEE with a ? at the end.
“What the fuck are you doing, you idiot?” I grit out.
I stared at the ridiculous sign for a full thirty seconds, my brain trying to process what I was looking at.
Declan Hayes—successful Manhattan lawyer, sophisticated adult human being—had apparently created a poster board invitation and hung it in a bedroom window like we were teenagers passing notes in study hall.
The worst part? It was actually kind of adorable.
I grabbed my phone and texted him: Are you twelve years old?
Nothing came back. He was either ignoring me, or his phone was on silent. Or both.
Pursing my lips, I watched as the sign slowly turned around to reveal the word, PLEASE? with a smiley face drawn underneath.
This was insane. We were adults. Adults who had kissed in a storage closet three hours ago and then spent the rest of the afternoon pretending it hadn’t happened while we hung Christmas garlands and lights with perfectly professional efficiency.
Adults who should probably have a mature conversation about what that kiss meant and where we went from here.
Declan’s confessions in the closet were not the go-ahead I needed to trust he wasn’t just having some fun for the holidays.
Smooth-talking men told you what you wanted to hear.
God only knew I fell for it with Derek the Dick.
I should pull the drapes shut and ignore him.
Instead, I found myself digging through my desk drawer for a piece of paper.
YES, I wrote in large letters, adding my own question mark underneath. I held it up to the window.
Peering over the top of it, I saw the PLEASE? disappear, and in its place was a sign with a time and place on it. Tomorrow, 8AM, Nancy’s.
I wrote OK on the back of my paper and turned it over.
This was ridiculous.
But really cute.
When I looked over again, he had drawn a thumbs up, but it looked less like a thumb and more like a different appendage.
I slammed my hand over my mouth to stifle the laugh that burst out of me. The man might’ve been a hotshot lawyer, but he was a terrible artist. I shook my head and pulled the curtains shut before I could get caught up in any more ridiculous window messaging.
But as I got ready for bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened in that storage room.
The way Declan had looked at me, the things he’d said about wanting something real.
The way his hands had felt when he touched my face, like I was something precious instead of someone who’d had her life dismantled by a lying ex-boyfriend.
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe that someone like Declan Hayes—successful, gorgeous, apparently capable of making me forget my own name with a single kiss—could actually be interested in more than a holiday fling with the hometown failure.
But wanting something and trusting it were two very different things.
I’d thought Derek wanted something real too. I’d thought his sweet words and grand gestures meant he saw a future with me. Right up until I discovered he’d been systematically cleaning out our joint accounts while screwing his assistant and planning his exit strategy.
The coffee invitation was sweet. The window signs were adorable in a way that made my chest tight with something that felt dangerously close to hope. But Derek had been sweet, too, in the beginning. Charming and attentive and full of promises about the life we’d build together.
With a sigh, I crawled into my narrow single bed and sighed. One coffee wouldn’t hurt. Not if I went in with low expectations. Maybe he wants to have a fling. Maybe I could, too.
I spent approximately forty-seven minutes the next morning choosing an outfit that was casual but not too casual. The result was a green sweater and jeans. That seemed to be uniform at the moment.
Declan was already waiting at Nancy’s when I arrived, sitting at a corner table with enough pastries to feed a small army and two large cups of coffee that were steaming invitingly in the December morning air.
“Good morning,” he said, standing when he saw me approach, and there was something in his smile—warm and slightly possessive—that made my stomach do a little flip of awareness.
“Morning,” I said, trying to sound casual despite the fact that seeing him again after yesterday’s storage room revelations was making me feel like a teenager again. “Looks like you’ve prepared for a significant planning session.”
“I may have gotten carried away at the pastry case,” Declan admitted, gesturing to the impressive spread he’d assembled. “But I figured after yesterday’s intensive collaboration, we might need some extra fuel for today’s coordination efforts.”
The euphemism was delivered with just enough emphasis to make it clear he was referencing our storage room confession rather than any actual festival planning, and I couldn’t help laughing at his determination to maintain professional language even when discussing our decidedly unprofessional romantic developments.
“Very thoughtful,” I said, sliding into the chair across from him and surveying the pastry selection with genuine appreciation. “Though this seems like enough food for six people.”
“I wasn’t sure what you preferred,” Declan said, and there was something slightly uncertain in his voice that suggested he’d put actual thought into this breakfast selection. “So, I got a variety.”
The variety in question included chocolate croissants, blueberry scones, cinnamon rolls that were still warm from the oven, and what appeared to be some kind of fruit Danish that looked absolutely decadent.
It was the kind of indulgent breakfast spread that would have sent most of my friends, ex-friends, into complicated discussions about calories and gym time, but looking at it just made me happy.
“Declan, this is perfect,” I said, reaching for one of the chocolate croissants without hesitation. “I love that you didn’t assume I’d want the smallest, least interesting option.”
“Why would I assume that?” he asked, looking genuinely confused.
“Because most people assume that about...” I gestured vaguely at myself, then realized I was about to launch into a discussion of societal expectations about women’s eating habits that was definitely too heavy for morning coffee. “Never mind. Thank you for the pastries.”
But Declan was looking at me with the kind of focused attention that suggested he wasn’t going to let my half-finished comment slide.
“Most people assume what about you?” he asked gently.
I took a bite of a chocolate croissant to buy myself time, because explaining the complexities of being a curvy woman in a world that constantly policed women’s food choices seemed like a lot for a morning coffee date.
“Just... you know how it is,” I said finally.
“People make assumptions about what women should or shouldn’t eat based on how they look.
It’s refreshing to sit down to breakfast with someone who doesn’t immediately start talking about carbs or calories or whether I ‘should’ be eating a chocolate croissant at nine in the morning. ”
Declan was quiet for a moment, and when I looked up from my pastry, he was watching me with an expression that was equal parts understanding and something that looked like anger on my behalf.
“Holly,” he said carefully, “has someone actually said something to you about what you should or shouldn’t eat?”
“Not recently,” I said quickly, because the last thing I wanted was for Declan to think I was fishing for reassurance or carrying around major food issues.
“That’s ridiculous,” Declan said firmly. “You’re a beautiful grown woman who can eat whatever she wants for breakfast without commentary from random people.”
“I know,” I said, surprised by how good it felt to hear him say that so matter-of-factly. “I’ve always known that. It’s just nice to have breakfast with someone who also knows that.”
Declan’s smile was warm and slightly fierce. “I brought chocolate croissants because I wanted to see you enjoy them. Watching you eat something delicious that makes you happy is significantly more attractive than watching someone pick at a sad salad while complaining about carbohydrates.”
The direct way he said it, like my enjoyment of food was genuinely appealing to him rather than something to be tolerated or overlooked, made something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Well, in that case,” I said, taking another deliberately enthusiastic bite of chocolate croissant, “you’re going to find this very attractive.”
Declan laughed, and the sound was rich and genuine. “I already do.”
As if to prove his point, he reached for one of the cinnamon rolls with the kind of obvious enjoyment that suggested he also had no interest in treating breakfast like a moral battlefield.
“So,” I said, settling into my chair with my coffee and trying to steer the conversation back toward safer territory, “what’s our agenda for today’s festival coordination?”
“Vendor confirmation calls, setup logistics, and coordination with Mrs. Peterson about volunteer scheduling,” Declan said, consulting the notes he’d apparently prepared before my arrival.
“Plus, we need to do a walkthrough of the vendor booth placement to make sure everything will work with the electrical requirements.”
“Sounds good and busy,” I said.
“I’m attempting to maintain some semblance of professional focus,” Declan said with a slight smile. “Though I’ll admit it’s more challenging than I anticipated.”
“Because of the vendor logistics?” I asked innocently.
“Holly!” Mrs. Brooks’s voice interrupted whatever he might have said next, and I looked up to see her approaching our table with the kind of beaming expression that suggested she’d noticed exactly what kind of energy was radiating from our corner booth, despite neither of us seeming to have much clue.
“Mrs. Brooks,” I said, trying to sound like someone who was definitely having a professional planning meeting and not someone who was basking in attention from the man she’d kissed in a storage closet less than twenty-four hours earlier.
“Declan, dear,” Mrs. Brooks said warmly, “how lovely to see you two here.”
“Just going over today’s plans,” Declan said diplomatically.
“Of course,” Mrs. Brooks agreed with the kind of knowing smile that suggested she wasn’t fooled for a second. “And how are the plans developing?”
“Very well,” I said quickly. “Everything’s right on schedule.”
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Brooks said, her smile widening. “You two work so well together. Don’t forget we have a vendor meeting at two this afternoon.”
After she left, Declan and I sat in silence for a moment, processing that drop-in.
As we spent the rest of our coffee date discussing vendor coordination and volunteer scheduling, I realized that whatever complications this relationship was going to bring, I was looking forward to navigating them with someone who brought me chocolate croissants and told me I was beautiful like he absolutely meant it.