Chapter 1
Holden
I glance at my watch, frustrated. Barely on time.
I’m meeting a client near Peak Sweets to discuss a small ranch build, but I didn’t anticipate the holiday traffic being as sticky as this. I had to park two blocks over and wedge between a dually and what looks to be an old-time farm truck. The paint gleams in bright red, the vintage truck bed overfilled with Christmas trees.
I’m barely able to back in my F-150. Thank gawd for backup cameras.
I step out of the truck, and an honest-to-goodness Santa walks toward me, red suit, full beard, jolly cheeks and all. When he doesn’t step out of my way to let me by, I accidentally nudge his shoulder. I mumble, “Sorry,” and attempt to pass.
He doesn’t budge, his black boots rooted in the sidewalk. “Holden Carmichael. Still on the naughty list, I see.”
I step back, a little taken aback. My picture’s on a billboard heading into town, so maybe he knows me from that. I own an architecture from in the tri-county area. I don’t have time for this shit, so I hold out my hand.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
He doesn’t take it. His piercing blue eyes stare at me from behind round spectacles, his arms crossing over his large red coat. “Are you now?”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“Cutting in line at Perfect Brews because your time is more valuable than the others waiting? Reporting your elderly neighbor to the HOA for inflatable yard decorations?”
“I don’t have time to explain myself to you. Nor do I have to.” I turn to leave.
“Voting against funding the town’s holiday festival because it would increase traffic near your office? These aren’t the actions of a sorry person, Mr. Carmichael.”
I swing around, the Montana snow crunching under my boots. “Hey, votes are supposed to be secret!” How did he know that?
“Not one ounce of remorse, Holden. What happened to the little kid who dreamed of helping communities thrive by building structures that become part of a town’s story? Is it all about the money now?”
What the actual hell?
Then, fake Santa’s voice booms, a gloved hand pointing in my face. “Holden Carmichael, I hereby curse you to a year of bad luck unless you perform three good deeds by Christmas Eve.”
I bust out laughing and point to the guy, his cotton-white beard and rosy cheeks completely serious. “You. Curse me. To a year of bad luck?”
This guy. I thought Santas were supposed to be all nice and stuff. I wave him off, just about late for my appointment with my new client, a lawyer in the next county over who is building his wife her dream home. I have to admit, though, the town did really good in hiring this guy as this year’s santa. He looks like the real deal.
I squeeze by the guy, focused on meeting my new client. In the last ten years, my firm Big Sky Architecture and Design has steadily grown in business to the point where I either need to hire more people or turn away business. It’s a good problem to have.
I wasn’t raised in Hope Peak. I was raised two counties over, but back when I graduated from college, I had stars in my eyes and thought Hope Peak would be a great place to settle in, meet someone, and raise a family. My parents are still happily married.
But then I hired Atlanta.
Atlanta Creekmore is the reason I look forward to work every day. She’s smart, has an incredible eye for design, with long red hair and a curvaceous body that begs to be touched. She’s a junior designer at Big Sky and wears so many hats I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s been wanting to be promoted to lead designer for a while now, but I just can’t do it. She’s too valuable where she is.
Does that make me an asshole? Maybe. But it’s the truth.
She would have her own agenda, her own set of responsibilities, and less day-to-day contact with me as she would be leading her own team. She could also leave, which my other designer did, and that would gut me. Atlanta is better off right where she is.
My watch pings as I weave through the holiday shoppers. It’s from my client.
“I’m sorry to give you such short notice, but my wife and I have decided to go a different direction. Thank you for your time.”
That’s weird. He and I spent a lot of time on the phone talking about his vision. Just yesterday he was really looking forward to meeting with me and seeing what we could come up with.
That was at 4:30. How did he have time to come up with something different?
