Chapter 17
Seventeen
DECLAN
Public Declaration
The town square looked like something from a Christmas card that had been designed by someone with an unlimited budget and a serious addiction to holiday decorations.
Snow was falling in fat, lazy flakes that caught the light from about seventeen thousand twinkling bulbs, and the massive evergreen tree stood ready for its grand illumination like a forty-foot Christmas diva waiting for her spotlight moment.
The entire population of Everdale Falls seemed to have turned out for the tree lighting ceremony, bundled in coats and scarves and the kind of enthusiastic holiday spirit that made grown adults sing carols in public without embarrassment.
Mrs. Peterson was directing a group of children in some kind of choreographed candy cane dance, and the hot chocolate station was doing business that would have made Starbucks jealous.
And then I saw Holly, and suddenly the rest of the winter wonderland faded into background noise.
She was wearing a red dress and matching coat that should have been illegal in at least twelve states.
Not because it was revealing—it was actually quite modest, hitting just below her knees.
But the way it fit her curves, the way the color made her skin glow in the Christmas lights, the way she moved through the crowd with confident grace while snowflakes caught in her dark hair—it was enough to make a man forget his own name, let alone his commitment to keeping things friendly and not ravage her with my thick cock kind of hot.
“Fuck, she’s gorgeous,” I muttered under my breath, then immediately looked around to make sure no children had overheard me expressing inappropriate thoughts about the festival coordinator at a family-friendly community event.
“Language, young man,” Mrs. Henderson said cheerfully as she passed by with a thermos of something that smelled suspiciously like spiked cider. “Though I have to say, Holly does look absolutely stunning tonight.”
“She does,” I agreed, watching Holly greet neighbors and check on vendors with the kind of easy confidence that made it obvious she belonged here, that this community valued and appreciated her in ways her ex-boyfriend, and ex-job, clearly never had.
The thought of Derek—of what Matt had told me about the disgusting financial betrayal, the emotional manipulation, the way he’d left Holly questioning her own worth—made something dark and protective rise in my chest. Because watching Holly now, seeing her natural grace and genuine care for the people around her, it was impossible to understand how anyone could treat her as anything less than precious.
“Declan!” Holly called, waving me over to where she was standing near the hot chocolate station. “Can you help me with the mistletoe situation?”
The mistletoe situation. Right. Mrs. Hall’s strategic placement plan, which I’d somehow managed to forget about despite the fact that it was written in my planning notes in Holly’s distinctive handwriting.
“What kind of help do you need?” I asked, approaching carefully and trying not to notice how the Christmas lights made Holly’s eyes sparkle like something out of a holiday romance movie.
“Mrs. Hall’s grandson is supposed to be hanging the mistletoe, but he’s twelve and apparently afraid of heights,” Holly explained, gesturing toward a ladder that was currently being eyed with suspicion by a kid who looked like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.
“We need someone taller and less likely to fall off a ladder in front of three hundred people.”
“I can handle ladder duty,” I said, though I was acutely aware that hanging mistletoe with Holly felt like tempting fate in ways that we were not equipped to handle.
“Great,” Holly said with relief. “Mrs. Hall has very specific placement requirements, so I’ll spot you and make sure everything goes in the right locations.”
Spotting me. Which meant Holly would be standing close to the ladder, looking up at me while I hung romantic vegetation in strategic locations designed to encourage kissing. This was either the universe’s idea of a romantic setup or its idea of a cruel joke.
The first few mistletoe installations went smoothly.
Holly directed me to hang sprigs above the hot chocolate station, near the carol singing area, and by the donation box for the children’s charity drive.
Each location was chosen for maximum community interaction, and Mrs. Hall’s strategy was already working—I could see couples being steered under the mistletoe by helpful neighbors and friends, resulting in good-natured laughter and holiday kisses.
“One more,” Holly said, consulting her list as snow continued to fall around us. “Mrs. Hall wants one by the tree itself, right under the main light display.”
The tree was positioned in the center of the square, surrounded by the largest crowd and most holiday activity. Hanging mistletoe there would be like installing it in the middle of a Christmas-themed fishbowl, visible to absolutely everyone in attendance.
“That’s a very public location for mistletoe,” I pointed out as we moved the ladder into position.
“Mrs. Hall believes in the power of community witness,” Holly said with a grin. “She says public declarations of affection are good for town morale.”
Public declarations. As if Mrs. Hall was explicitly trying to create situations where people would end up kissing in front of the entire community. Which, knowing Mrs. Hall, was probably exactly what she was trying to do.
I climbed the ladder with the final sprig of mistletoe, acutely aware that Holly was standing directly below me, that half the town was watching our coordination efforts, and that hanging romantic vegetation while fighting my attraction to my beautiful co-chair was possibly the most complicated festival duty I’d ever volunteered for.
“Higher,” Holly called up. “It needs to be visible from all angles.”
I reached up to hang the mistletoe from a branch that put it directly in the center of the tree’s light display, ensuring it would be impossible to miss. As I worked to secure the sprig properly, a gust of winter wind shook the ladder, and I had to grab the tree trunk to steady myself.
“Careful!” Holly said, her hands flying to the ladder to help stabilize it. “Don’t you dare fall and break something days before the festival.”
“I’m fine,” I assured her, though the wind was picking up and the ladder was definitely less stable than it had been five minutes ago. “Just need to get this secured properly.”
Another gust of wind hit just as I was reaching to adjust the mistletoe placement, and this time the ladder swayed enough that Holly’s grip on it wasn’t sufficient to keep it steady.
“Declan, come down,” Holly called, genuine worry in her voice. “We can finish this when the wind dies down.”
But as I started to climb down, a particularly strong gust caught the ladder at exactly the wrong moment.
I felt it tip, reached instinctively for the tree trunk, and managed to get myself down safely but not gracefully.
In fact, I ended up stumbling directly into Holly, who caught me with surprising strength but couldn’t quite keep both of us upright in the snow.
We ended up in a tangle of limbs and winter coats, Holly beneath me in the snow, both of us laughing with the kind of relief that comes from avoiding actual injury.
Her cheeks were flushed from cold and laughter, snowflakes were caught in her dark hair, and she was looking up at me with bright eyes and a smile that made my chest tight with want.
“That was graceful,” Holly said, still laughing. “Very professional ladder management.”
“I prefer to think of it as a dramatic mistletoe installation,” I said, suddenly aware that I was lying on top of Holly in the snow, in the middle of the town square, with approximately three hundred people watching our every move.
“Speaking of mistletoe,” Holly said softly, and her gaze flicked upward.
I followed her look and realized that my graceless dismount from the ladder had left us directly beneath the mistletoe I’d just hung. The same mistletoe that was now perfectly positioned above us, surrounded by Christmas lights and witnessed by the entire population of Everdale Falls.
“Holly,” I said quietly, but there was a warning in my voice. Warning about the public location, about the boundaries we’d agreed to maintain, about all the reasons this was complicated.
But Holly’s eyes were dark and focused on my mouth, and she was looking at me like she’d forgotten about all of those complications entirely.
“It’s mistletoe,” she said, as if that explained everything.
“It is,” I agreed, and despite every logical reason I should help her up and step away from the romantic vegetation, I found myself leaning closer instead.
The kiss happened like a moment of temporary insanity brought on by Christmas lights and snowflakes and the way Holly was looking at me like I was something worth risking her carefully maintained emotional walls for.
Her lips were soft and cold from the winter air, and she tasted like hot chocolate and possibility.
For a moment, lying in the snow beneath the mistletoe with the entire town watching, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to be kissing Holly Winters.
The cold melted away, replaced by the warmth of her body pressed against mine, her winter-cold lips softening under mine.
The complications and the fact that she was Matt’s little sister who’d once trailed after us with scraped knees and pigtails—all dissolved like snowflakes on skin.
None of it mattered compared to the way she fit perfectly against me, the subtle vanilla scent of her perfume mingling with the pine-sharp air, and the way her gloved hand fisted in my coat, fingers digging into the wool like she didn’t want to let me go.
Then the crowd erupted in cheers and applause, and reality came crashing back.
We broke apart, both of us breathing hard, and I became acutely aware that we’d just provided the evening’s entertainment for three hundred people who were now clapping and wolf-whistling like they’d just witnessed the grand finale of a romantic comedy.
“Oh god,” Holly whispered, her cheeks going even redder as she realized the magnitude of our public display. “Everyone’s watching.”
“Everyone’s definitely watching,” I agreed, though I made no immediate move to get off her or put distance between us.
Mrs. Peterson was beaming at us like we’d just fulfilled her personal Christmas wish.
Mrs. Hall looked smugly satisfied, as if strategic mistletoe placement had worked exactly as she’d planned.
And approximately fifty people were using their phones to document what was clearly going to be the most talked-about moment of the entire festival season.
“We should probably get up,” Holly said, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced.
“Probably,” I agreed, though what I was actually thinking was that kissing Holly in front of the entire community had felt like making a public claim, like announcing to everyone that she was mine to protect and care for.
Which was exactly the kind of possessive, territorial thinking that professional boundaries were supposed to prevent.
I helped Holly to her feet, both of us brushing snow off our coats while trying to ignore the continued applause and commentary from our audience.
“Nice work, you two!” called Mrs. Watkins. “That’s what I call effective mistletoe deployment!”
“Very romantic!” added Mrs. Johnson. “Just like in the movies!”
Holly was smiling and waving at the crowd, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her confidence was wavering now that the moment was over, and the implications were starting to sink in.
“Holly,” I said quietly, trying to catch her attention without being overheard by the dozens of people who were still watching us with obvious interest.
“We should probably finish the ceremony,” she said briskly, avoiding my eyes as she straightened her coat and checked her hair. “The tree lighting is supposed to happen in ten minutes, and we still need to test the countdown system.”
The sudden return to festival logistics felt like a defense mechanism, a way of putting distance between us even though we’d just kissed in front of half the county.
“Right,” I said, though what I wanted to say was that kissing her had felt like the most right thing I’d done in months, public audience or not. “The tree lighting.”
As Holly moved through the crowd, coordinating final details with the kind of focused efficiency that suggested she was deliberately avoiding personal conversation, I realized that our mistletoe kiss had complicated things in exactly the way we were trying to prevent.
Because now everyone in Everdale Falls was going to assume we were together.
Now Matt was going to hear about this from approximately seventeen different sources before we had a chance to explain what had happened.
And now I was going to have to figure out how to navigate festival coordination with a woman I’d just kissed in public while she was clearly regretting the entire situation, very publicly.
The tree lighting ceremony went off without a hitch—the countdown echoed through the square as children bounced on their tiptoes and adults clutched steaming cups of cocoa with anticipation.
When we hit zero, the massive pine erupted with thousands of twinkling lights in gold and silver and red, transforming from a dark silhouette into a beacon that cast a warm glow across every upturned face.
The crowd gasped in unison before breaking into applause and cheers, their breath visible in the cold air as parents hoisted small children onto shoulders for a better view of the spectacle that made all the planning, all the ladder accidents, all the complications worthwhile.
But I spent the entire ceremony watching Holly work the crowd with professional charm while carefully avoiding any interaction with me that might be construed as personal, and I realized that our moment of mistletoe-induced temporary insanity might have set us back further than our stupid, fucking boundaries conversation had.
Some public declarations, apparently, were more complicated than others. Especially when they involved beautiful women who were scared of trusting their own judgment and men who were falling in love faster than they knew how to handle.
The festival was in a few days, and I had less than a week to figure out whether Holly’s retreat was about the public nature of our kiss or about the kiss itself.
Either way, Mrs. Hall’s strategic mistletoe placement had been devastatingly effective. The question now was whether it had brought us closer together or driven us further apart.