Page 50 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
And suddenly, it doesn't seem so bad. Sure, we're being publicly scolded for shadow puppetry we didn't know we were creating. Sure, the entire town is invested in our relationship. Sure, Delia has somehow created a mathematical formula for appropriate levels of winter canoodling.
But Holden's thumb is rubbing circles on my palm, and Giuseppe keeps giving us encouraging thumbs up, and even Delia's fighting a smile as she explains her theory of "thermal necessity versus wanton abandon."
This is my life now. Being lectured about shadows while holding hands with a man. A man who still hasn't explained his past or his too-soft hands or why he looks panicked every time his phone buzzes.
A man who made me forget about Section 3, subsection 2a of our very non-legal, very laminated contract.
"In conclusion," Delia says, reaching slide forty-three, "the committee recommends..."
She pauses for dramatic effect, and the entire room leans forward.
"More discrete blinds," she finishes.
The room erupts in laughter, and even Delia cracks a genuine smile.
"That's it?" I ask incredulously. "We sat through forty-three slides for 'get better blinds'?"
"Also, congratulations on finally acting like an actual couple," she adds, her expression softening. "Very lovely shadows. The loan committee will be impressed."
My stomach drops like I've missed a step. Right. The loan committee. The whole reason this started.
I look at Holden, who's studying the floor with sudden intensity, his hand still in mine but somehow feeling further away.
Because last night wasn't about the loan committee. Last night wasn't about convincing anyone or meeting contract requirements or saving my shop.
Last night was just us. And the way his hand tightens around mine tells me he knows it too—knows we've crossed a line we can't uncross, signed a different contract entirely, one that has nothing to do with lamination or contingency plans.
"Meeting adjourned," Delia announces, but her eyes stay on us, knowing and slightly sad, like she can see the beautiful mess we're about to make of everything.
The crowd disperses with chatter and laughter, but Holden and I stay seated, hands clasped, both afraid to move and break whatever spell we're under.
"We should probably talk," I say finally.
"Probably," he agrees, but neither of us moves.
Because talking means admitting what's happening between us. And admitting what's happening means either breaking the contract or breaking our hearts.
I'm starting to think we're going to do both.
Chapter 10
Holden
Sterling's ringtone sounds like corporate doom set to elevator music. It's been going off every ten minutes for the past three hours, which I know because I've been timing it instead of doing actual work at the garage.
"Your phone's having a seizure again," Finn observes from under a Honda that's older than some countries.
"It'll stop eventually," I say, shoving it deeper into my pocket.
"Will it though?" he asks, sliding out to look at me. "Because it's been going off since you got here looking like someone killed your dog."
"That's specific," I note, pretending to understand what I'm doing with this oil filter.
"Delia's PowerPoints leave a mark," he explains, wiping grease on an already destroyed rag. "Speaking of which, how's Wren handling the aftermath of the shadow puppet incident?"
"She's reorganizing," I tell him.
"Her shop?"
