I haven’t let myself think about how I kissed him back. Not once. I’m not thinking about it now. I’m thinking about ribbons and lanterns and keeping the townsfolk too busy to notice how off balance I am.
The market square is half buried in snow, but the plows finally made it through this morning, and Silverpine’s stubbornness is on full display. Dee’s already out here with her clipboard and her scarf wrapped so many times around her neck she looks like a turtle poking out of a wool shell. She waves me over, her mitten flopping like a fish.
“Clara Wynn, I have been up since dawn and I swear to you, if one more volunteer bails because they don’t want frostbite on their delicate toes, I’m going to hex someone,” she says, shoving the clipboard under my nose.
“Good morning to you too,” I mutter, taking it before she pokes me in the eye.
Her eyes narrow immediately. “You look… twitchy. And don’t give me the usual excuse about coffee, because you’ve had three cups and I can smell the cinnamon creamer from here. Something’s up.”
“Something’s always up, Dee,” I say, flipping through the list. Half the names are crossed out. “And right now it’s the fact that we don’t have enough people to string lanterns along Main before sundown.”
“Mmhm.” She leans in, lowering her voice like she’s about to sell state secrets. “Or maybe it’s that certain orc-shaped storms have been blowing through your personal weather patterns.”
I roll my eyes so hard I might sprain something. “Please stop.”
“I will not stop. You’ve been avoiding his name like it’s poison, and that only means one thing.” She grins wickedly. “You dreamed about him. Or maybe you didn’t just dream.”
I snap the clipboard shut and shove it back at her. “I’m begging you. No orc dreams. No speculation. Just give me the ribbon inventory before I lose my last nerve.”
She cackles, delighted. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m cold,” I snap, though the heat rising in my cheeks has nothing to do with the temperature.
Dee’s not the only one stirring trouble. Pippa drifts by like mischief wrapped in fur trim, her wings shimmering faintly even in daylight. She holds a bundle of mistletoe in both hands, her face lit with glee.
“Look what I charmed,” she sings, darting around me before I can dodge. “Self-directing mistletoe. Perfect for ensuring the right couples end up under it at just the right time.”
“Pippa, no.”
“Pippa, yes.” She claps her hands, and the sprig zips up into the air like it has a mind of its own. It hovers directly above my head.
I glare at her. “Take it down.”
She only laughs, spinning midair. “It likes you. Don’t fight destiny, Clara.”
Dee claps her hands together. “Oh, this is excellent. We’ll just call it enrichment. Orc enrichment.”
I swat at the mistletoe, but it dodges like a smug little bird and reappears above me no matter where I step. By the time I give up, Dee’s doubled over in laughter and Pippa’s glowing like she’s already won.
“Fine,” I grit out. “But if this thing follows me into the bathroom, I’m setting it on fire.”
By the afternoon I’ve nearly forgotten the floating menace because there’s too much to do. Lantern poles to repair, tarps to shake snow off, crates of cider to haul down to the square. My body aches from the effort, but it’s a good ache, the kind that distracts me from the knot in my chest. I almost manage to convince myself I’ve got control again.
Until he shows up.
I’m kneeling by a crate of mugs when the murmurs ripple through the crowd. The shift in air is so palpable I feel it before I even look up. People part, heads turning, and there he is—Dralgor Veyr, tall and imposing in a coat that looks more expensive than the combined budget of this whole festival. He walks like the snow itself moves out of his way, and he’s carrying boxes. Boxes.
I freeze halfway to standing, mug in one hand, heart in my throat.
Dee appears at my side like she’s been summoned by divine mischief. “Would you look at that. Mr. Empire himself, carrying supplies like a volunteer. Clara, darling, are you about to faint or is that just your soul leaving your body?”
“Shut up,” I hiss, setting the mug down before I drop it.
He doesn’t look at me right away. He strides past the gawking townsfolk and sets the boxes down on the table nearest the cider barrels. Only then does he straighten, his gaze cutting through the crowd until it lands on me. For a heartbeat, everything stops. The laughter, the shuffling boots, even the stubborn mistletoe hovering above me. His eyes lock on mine, unreadable, and I feel every ounce of heat from last night flood back through my veins.
I tear my gaze away before anyone notices. My hands shake as I reach for another mug, pretending like nothing’s happening.
Dee nudges me, whispering like she’s narrating a soap opera. “Donations. He brought donations. This is it, Clara, we’re in an enemies-to-lovers arc.”
