Page 34 of Held-

Aunt Jillian's knitting needles pause mid-stitch. “And?”

“And nothing. I apologized and took her home.”

She stares at me like I've just told her I'm giving up motorcycles for competitive ballroom dancing. “You apologized? For kissing her?”

“Yeah,” I shift uncomfortably. “It was too soon.”

“Says who?”

“Says common sense. Says the fact that her life is complicated enough without adding me to the mix.”

The needles start clicking again, faster now. “Did she kiss you back?”

“Yeah,” I finally admit. “She did.” I can still feel the way her fingers curled into my shirt, the soft gasp against my mouth.

“Well then.” Her smile is triumphant, like she's just won an argument I didn't know we were having. “Maybe you should let her decide what's too soon for her, instead of making that choice yourself.”

The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background as I consider her words. Uncle Harold stirs slightly in his sleep,mumbling something unintelligible before settling back into stillness.

“It's not that simple.”

“Love rarely is.” She sets her knitting aside and leans forward to take my hand in hers. Her skin is paper-thin now, blue veins visible beneath the surface, but her grip is still surprisingly strong. “But that doesn't mean it's not worth the trouble.”

“Who said anything about love?”

“Nobody needed to, dear.”

I'm saved from having to respond by a soft knock at the door. A nurse pokes her head in, her smile professional but her eyes wary when they land on me.

“Just checking vitals,” she says, moving to Uncle Harold's bedside.

I stand up, grateful for the interruption. “I should get going anyway. Got some things to take care of.”

She releases my hand with a sigh. “You're running away again.”

“I'm not running,” I protest, but the excuse sounds weak even to my ears. “I've got club business to handle.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She gives me that look again, the one that sees through my bullshit. “Well, before you go running off to your very important club business, you might want to know that the town tree lighting festival is tonight.”

“And I care about that because…”

“It’s Cece’s favorite town holiday tradition. Just thought you’d like to know that.”

“Since when do you keep track of Cece's favorite anything?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, please. I've known that girl since she was in diapers. Her mother used to help me with the church bazaar before she passed. Cecelia loves Christmas more than anyone I know. Thattree lighting is the one thing she never misses—not even the year she had mono in high school.”

“Tree lighting,” I repeat, as though I’m committing it to memory. I actually am, even though I’m pretending I don’t care. “What time?”

Aunt Jillian’s smile is so smug I want to roll my eyes. “Seven o’clock sharp in the town square. They do the countdown, light the big tree, then everyone sings carols and drinks hot chocolate. Very Norman Rockwell.”

“Sounds miserable.”

“For you, maybe. Forher, it’s magic.” She picks up her knitting again, the needles clicking in a steady rhythm. “Though I suppose a tough biker such as yourself wouldn’t be drawn to anything so wholesome.”

I recognize the manipulation tactic for what it is. “I didn't say I wasn't interested.”

“So you'll go?”