Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
HOLLY
Storm Warning
I woke up at five AM to the sound of something that might have been wind, or possibly the apocalypse, rattling my bedroom windows with the enthusiasm of a freight train trying to break down the door.
The Everdale Falls Christmas Festival was officially starting in six hours. My video interview with Hartwell & Associates was in two days. And based on the howling outside, Mother Nature had apparently decided that December 21st was the perfect day to remind Vermont who was actually in charge.
I stumbled to the window and peered through the frost-covered glass to see snow falling sideways in sheets so thick I couldn’t see the Hayes house next door. The kind of snow that turned festival coordination into an extreme sport and made video interviews feel like the least of my problems.
My phone buzzed with a text from Declan:
Weather update: we’re officially in “character-building” territory. Festival supply shed check at 7 AM?
Character-building. That was one way to describe trying to help set up the outdoor vendor booths in what appeared to be a legitimate blizzard.
I was typing back a response when my phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize but somehow made my stomach clench with dread.
“Holly, thank god you picked up,” came Derek’s voice, smooth and confident like he hadn’t broken my heart and made me homeless only a few weeks ago. “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”
I sat down hard on my bed, staring at the snow whipping past my window and trying to process why my lying, cheating ex-boyfriend was calling me at five in the morning four days before Christmas.
“Derek,” I said, my voice sounding steadier than I felt. “Why are you calling me?”
“I miss you,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I made a mistake, Holly. A huge mistake.”
Huge mistake? Is that what he called stealing from me and cheating on me?
“You should have done a lot of things differently,” I said, surprising myself with how calm I sounded. “But that’s not really my problem anymore.”
“But we were so good together. We can be again,” Derek continued, his voice taking on the persuasive tone that had once made me believe he actually cared about me. “I’m starting my own PR firm, Holly. I want you to be my partner.”
Partner.
“Would this be with my money? Hmm?” I spat out and then shook my head. Don’t do this. Not now.
“Holly, you know I’ll pay you back. I just need some start-up cash.” His tone riled me up more than the fact that he stole from me. “Just think about it over Christmas.”
“We were never good together,” I said, standing up and walking to my window where I could now see the Hayes’ house through the swirling snow. “You were good at using me, and I was good at pretending that was the same thing.”
“Holly—”
“I have to go,” I interrupted. “I have things to do that don’t involve talking to loser slimeballs.”
“Loser?” Derek laughed, and the sound made my skin crawl. “That’s rich.”
And there he was. The asshole I could definitely live without.
“I assume you need more cash, or Ellie dumped you, or whatever. I don’t give a flying fuck. Never call me again. Goodbye, Derek.”
I ended the call and immediately blocked his number, but the conversation left me feeling unsettled in ways that had nothing to do with weather complications or festival logistics. Derek’s call was a reminder of everything I’d thought I wanted before my life imploded.
I was still staring at my phone when it buzzed with another text from Declan:
Meeting at coffee shop moved to 6:30. Storm strategy session over coffee and croissants.
Storm strategy session. Because apparently coordinating an outdoor Christmas festival during a blizzard required military-level tactical planning and enough caffeine to power a small city.
I pulled on my warmest jeans, my waterproof boots, and three layers under my heaviest coat, then headed downstairs to find my parents in full crisis management mode.
“The power’s been flickering,” my mother announced, bustling around the kitchen with the kind of energetic anxiety that meant she’d been awake for hours. “And the Hendersons’ tree came down across Maple Street, but the road crew is already working on it.”
“The festival will be fine,” my father said reassuringly, though he was checking the weather radar on his tablet with the focused intensity of a NASA engineer. “Vermont weather builds character.”
Apparently, that was the official town motto for dealing with meteorological disasters.
“Matt texted from Boston,” my mother continued, refilling her coffee cup for what was probably the fourth time. “He’s leaving early to beat the worst of the storm, should be here by afternoon if the roads don’t get too bad.”
“Great,” I said, grabbing a coffee and trying to calculate how to manage festival logistics, family dynamics, and whatever the hell was happening between me and Declan while also preparing for a career-changing interview in two days.
The drive to the coffee shop was an adventure in applied physics—how to maintain forward momentum on icy roads while visibility approached zero and the wind tried to relocate my car to a different zip code. By the time I made it, I felt like I’d survived some kind of meteorological obstacle course.
The coffee shop was packed with festival committee members, town council representatives, and what appeared to be half of Everdale Falls, all clutching coffee cups and discussing contingency plans with the focused intensity of a war room briefing.
I spotted Declan immediately, his dark hair damp from snow and his cheeks flushed from the cold in a way that made my pulse quicken despite my determination to maintain professional boundaries.
He was deep in conversation with Bernie about generator backup plans, gesturing with his hands in the way that meant he was problem-solving, and I had to force myself to look away before someone noticed me staring.
“Holly!” Mrs. Peterson called out, waving me over to a table that had been converted into festival headquarters. “Perfect timing. We need to discuss vendor tent reinforcement and heating options.”
For the next hour, we battled the blizzard with spreadsheets and sticky notes, like generals planning a war against Mother Nature herself.
I suggested triple-anchoring the vendor booths after Mrs. Peterson’s horror story about the Great Craft Fair Disaster of ’09, when three tents became accidental hot air balloons.
Bernie insisted we needed, what he called, tactical warming stations for the carolers whose faces might freeze mid-fa-la-la.
Meanwhile, I was developing an entirely new weather condition: Declan-induced warmth.
Every time he leaned over the table, I caught a whiff of his cologne that somehow made me think less about Christmas trees and more about climbing him like one.
He ran his hand through his snow-damp hair, completely oblivious to what it was doing to my internal temperature.
“The sound system is our Achilles’ heel,” he announced, tapping the festival map with a pen that he’d been absently chewing on. “Unless we want ‘Jingle Bells’ to sound like it’s being performed underwater by angry dolphins.”
“What about moving the music to the community center?” Sandra suggested.
“Too small for the crowds we’re expecting,” I said, studying the weather forecast on my phone. “But we could set up auxiliary heating stations around the perimeter of the square.”
“Good thinking,” Declan said, our eyes meeting across the table for a moment that made my stomach flutter in ways that had nothing to do with coffee consumption or weather anxiety.
We worked together with the kind of seamless coordination that would have been impressive if it wasn’t so obviously charged with unresolved chemistry. Every time we reached for the same document, our hands brushed.
“You two really do make an excellent team,” Margaret observed with obvious satisfaction. “So intuitive about each other’s thoughts.”
Intuitive. That was one way to describe the fact that I was becoming dangerously good at anticipating Declan’s every gesture and expression.
“Days of practice,” Declan said with a smirk, though the look he gave me suggested he was thinking about more recent forms of practice.
By the time we finished planning, the storm had reached the level where stepping outside felt like entering a snow globe being vigorously shaken by an overly enthusiastic child. The festival setup would be an adventure in applied determination and really excellent winter gear.
“All volunteers meet at the town square at ten for final setup,” Mrs. Peterson announced as everyone gathered their things. “Weather gear mandatory, hot chocolate provided.”
“Festival opens at eleven, rain or shine,” Bernie added with a grin. “Though in Vermont, we don’t let a little snow stop us from having a good time.”
A little snow. I looked out the diner window at what could generously be described as a meteorological assault and wondered if Bernie’s definition of “little” was the same as everyone else’s.
Somehow, as we left the coffee shop, I found myself walking to my car next to Declan, both of us bundled up like arctic explorers preparing for a polar expedition.
“So,” Declan said as we reached our vehicles, “think we can pull this off without anyone getting hypothermia?”
“I have faith in Vermont stubbornness,” I said, though what I was thinking was that being around him made me feel warm despite the sub-zero wind chill.
“Good,” he said, stepping closer under the pretense of being heard over the wind. “Because I was starting to worry that festival coordination might actually be more challenging than corporate law.”
Corporate law. A reminder that his real life was in Manhattan, doing important work that had nothing to do with small-town festivals or women who were supposed to be temporary coordination partners.
“Holly,” Declan started, stepping even closer, and I could see in his eyes that he wanted to have the conversation we’d been avoiding.
But before he could continue, my phone buzzed with a text from Matt:
Just hit the Vermont border. Roads are terrible but I should be home in a couple hours. Hope you’re ready for some brotherly interrogation about your life choices.
Brotherly interrogation. I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the snow melt against my eyelashes.
Perfect. Just what I needed—my brother’s arrival adding one more spinning plate to my already precarious balancing act of blizzard logistics, whatever was happening with Declan, and an interview that could change everything.
“Everything okay?” Declan asked, noticing my expression.
“Matt’s almost here,” I said. “He’s driving up from Boston.”
“About time,” Declan muttered, but something in his tone suggested he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the fact that my older brother, his great friend, was returning to spoil our Christmas fun. Or maybe that was me projecting.
“I should get home,” I said. “Help my parents get ready for the prodigal son’s return.”
“Drive carefully,” Declan said, and the concern in his voice made my chest tighten in ways that had nothing to do with weather anxiety.
As I drove home through snow that was falling with dedication, I tried to process the morning’s complications.
Derek’s call had reminded me of everything I was trying to escape—manipulation disguised as partnership, professional success that came at the cost of personal integrity.
But it had also reminded me that I still didn’t have a real plan for my future beyond hoping my Chicago interview went well.
The Chicago interview that was in two days, for which I was a shoo-in.
Everything was temporary, I reminded myself. The festival, the snow, the way Declan looked at me like I was something precious instead of convenient. Better to remember that now, before I made the mistake of thinking any of this could last.
But as I navigated the icy roads toward home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that temporary was starting to feel like the most heartbreaking word in the English language.