He shrugs. “I couldn’t let the guy build the wrong thing.”
“Yes, but you didn’t have to search videos to ensure he had just the right one.” I brushes an invisible piece of lint off his shoulder. “You’re a good person, Holden.”
“Would a good person turn in the Millers for inflatable decorations?”
“You’re spending your Saturday building them something better.” I pull out a sheet of plywood that works, standing it up for inspection. “That’s the difference between you and most people. You’re fixing your mistakes.”
He nods at the wood, agreeing to more. “Only because Santa cursed me.”
A middle-aged woman approaches us, a warm smile on her face. “Sorry, but I overheard you a minute ago. My porch is sagging. Can that wait until spring?”
As he answers, I can’t help but smile. This curse might be the best thing that’s ever happened to Holden Carmichael.
Chapter 9
Holden
I am absolutely not cut out for customer service. There’s a reason why Carter handles that side of Big Sky Architecture. He’s a ham. I’m just a piece of leftover turkey.
I adjust the folding table for the third time, making sure the “Ask an Architect” sign is visible from the main aisle. The hardware store manager, Ryan, clapped me on the shoulder twenty minutes ago and told me not to worry and that I’d probably get a handful of questions at most.
He was wrong.
There’s a line. An actual line of people holding blueprints, sketches on napkins, and phones with Pinterest fails pulled up. I count at least seven deep, and more keep joining.
“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath.
When I pitched this idea to Ryan six days ago, I half-expected him to laugh me out of the store. Instead, he practically jumped at it. “Community outreach,” he’d said. “Gets people in the door, shows we care about more than just selling hammers. That’s theHope Peak way.” He offered me the corner spot near the lumber section from ten to noon.
The yard art for the Millers had turned out gorgeous. That was all Atlanta. They were so happy they invited their grandkids to come see it as soon as it was up. I decided then and there that I wanted to help other people with builds as my second good deed.
Atlanta helped me put together handouts: simple guides on permits, load-bearing walls, and when to call a professional. The office remediation won’t finish until after the new year, so Carter and I rented some portable office buildings and set them up on Carter’s land until the office is ready.
Even though we have office space now, she showed up at my place Tuesday night with her laptop and a bottle of wine, spread everything out on my kitchen island, and worked until midnight getting the materials just right. Every time our hands brushed reaching for the same document, I felt it low in my gut.
But I kept it professional. Carter’s words are dancing around on repeat inside my brain. Now she’s here with me, standing off to the side with a stack of those handouts, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Hi, there,” I say to a woman in her sixties who approaches with a rolled-up set of plans.
“My son-in-law says this wall isn’t load-bearing, but I think he’s wrong.”
I unroll the plans, study them for maybe thirty seconds, and point to the header. “You’re right. That’s absolutely load-bearing. See this? You’d need a steel beam here if you want to remove it.”
Her face floods with relief. “I knew it. Thank you so much.” We discuss the benefits of hiring a contractor for this portion of their renovation, and as she walks away, Atlanta hands her one of our guides and catches my eye. Something warm passes between us before the next person steps up.
An hour in, we’ve hit our rhythm. I answer building questions while Atlanta discusses design, occasionally jumping in with suggestions I hadn’t thought of. When a young couple asks about converting their garage, she’s the one who mentions checking local zoning for ADU regulations.
“You two make a great team,” Ryan says, appearing with bottles of water for us both. “Folks are really responding to this.”
His words hit deeper than they should. You two make a great team.
After he walks away, Atlanta leans in close enough that I catch her vanilla scent. “You’re in your element.”
“I forgot how much I like just… helping people. No contracts. No billing hours.”
She smiles, and it does dangerous things to my chest.
By the time we wrap up at noon, I’ve answered maybe forty questions, handed out all our guides, and actually enjoyed myself. The adrenaline is still pumping as we load the leftover materials into my truck.
