“I’ll motion,” he mumbles.
Barbie blinks up at him, lips pursed into a pink, glossy O. The filler makes forming words a little tricky, but hey—those lips are doing their best. And I’m not jealous. Not at all. I’m just…observant.
I’m sure Dylan will explain she needs to actually be a member to motion in a meeting. Or not. Maybe deep conversation isn’t a cornerstone of their relationship.
“I’ll second,” Garrett Reynolds says with a shrug, and that’s all I need.
I close the cover over my iPad and collect myself before addressing the room. “Thanks again, everyone. I appreciate the time and energy you put into making this festival special. If anything goes off the rails, don’t hesitate to reach out. You all have my number.”
“Pretty sure I don’t,” Dylan tosses out with a smug little grin.
Before I can respond, Penn’s hand slides over mine, still resting on his thigh beneath the table. He gives it a squeeze. Steady. Protective. Possessive in a way that feels… really, really good.
“Fine,” I mutter, rattling off my number. Dylan types it into his phone like he’s just won something, and I stand with full intent to walk away from his smug little face forever. Or at least until our next meeting.
“Ready to get out of here?” I ask Penn.
He stands, leans in and nuzzles my neck, playful and warm, and even though I know it’s all for show, it sends a jolt straight through my body. “Been dying to get you all to myself,” he murmurs, loud enough for Dylan to hear, of course.
We step outside together, and the clouds have rolled in, painting the sky with deep charcoal shadows. The air smells like snow. The kind that cancels school and makes you crave hot chocolate and fuzzy socks.
“I hope it doesn’t dump on us,” I say, glancing up. “I don’t want the weather interfering with the festival.”
Penn reaches down and laces his fingers through mine.
There’s no one watching.
No crowd. No cameras. No Dylan.
Just us.
And yet… he holds on.
And I don’t let go.
We walk hand in hand down Main Street, where wreaths sparkle from every lamppost and the shop windows glow with warm light. The whole town looks like it’s been professionally gift-wrapped, and I feel that deep, old-school kind of Christmas magic settling into my bones.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Starving,” he says. “But I’ve had enough peopling for one day.”
I laugh. “Same. Let’s order in.”
“And maybe shower off the Dylan exposure.”
“Definitely.”
We head back to the inn, our hands still intertwined. And even though the fake engagement is barely 24 hours old, my brain’s already skipping ahead to tomorrow night—family dinner. The moment when I have to tell the people who raised me that I’m engaged to Penn Radford.
“They’re going to have questions,” I say, chewing my lip. “We need a good back story.”
Penn nods without hesitation. “We met on an app.”
“During my time in Boston,” I add. “Whirlwind romance. I came home, we tried long-distance, but it didn’t work. But when we saw each other again at the inn...”
“I dropped to one knee. You said yes. Cue fireworks. No time for a ring.”
“Boom. Sold.” I glance at him. “You’re disturbingly good at this.”