Chapter 1
Willow
Snow drifts lazily past my office window, the kind of soft, powdery flakes that promise a postcard-perfect December. Hope Peak doesn’t ease into the holidays. We dive headfirst, bells jingling, garland flying, like a town determined to out-twinkle the North Pole.
I sip lukewarm coffee and scan the growing list of tasks taped to my desk, each one written in my handwriting and underlined twice. Christmas parade permits. Vendor approvals for the holiday market. Final safety inspection for the tree-lighting stage. And somewhere in the middle of all of that … the item I’ve been avoiding:
Meeting with Graham Sinclair – Developer Proposal Review - Wednesday, 10 a.m.
Just seeing the name makes my teeth clench. Hope Peak has survived a lot over the years. We’ve endured winters that closed the mountain roads for days. The town has had its fairshare of tourism slumps too. One of the saddest events, in my opinion, has been witnessing the slow decline of Hearthstone Lodge. The town’s people are resilient and we always pull together. Living in the Montana mountains, we grew up stubborn and scrappy, protecting what makes this place feel like home.
What we don’t need?A billionaire swooping in with glossy renderings and corporate investors, deciding he knows best. My office door cracks open without a knock. There’s only one person in this Hope Peak who does that. Avery slips inside carrying a small bouquet and a soft, knowing smile.
“You’re drowning,” she says, placing the flowers gently on my desk. “I thought you could use these.”
“Drowning is an understatement,” I mutter. “Is it that obvious?”
She shrugs, brushing a snowflake off her coat sleeve. “You only get that line between your eyebrows when you’re worried about something you can’t control.”
I smooth the line automatically. “It’s the parade. And the market. Also, Hearthstone.” I hesitate. “And Mr. Sinclair.”
Avery’s eyes brighten with interest. “Ah. The developer.”
“Don’t say it like he’s a movie villain.”
“You’re the one who sounds like he is.”
I open my mouth, then close it with a groan. “Fine. Maybe I’ve been stressed.”
Avery laughs softly. “Willow, you’ve been town manager for three years. You can wrangle a council meeting in your sleep, talk down an angry business owner, and organize a holiday season that people write about in travel magazines. You’ll handle him.”
“You say that like you’ve met him.”
“I haven’t. But I’ve met you.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Besides, the rumors on Main Street are thathe arrived at Snowy Summit last night. Maybe he’ll appreciate Hope Peak more when he spends a little time here.”
Somehow, I doubt that. People like Graham Sinclair don’t see towns. They see potential profit margins. Still, I force a smile and thank her. When she leaves, I gather my things, tug on my wool coat, and step outside into air crisp enough to sting my cheeks. But I need this air to clear my head. It’s Christmas and I want to feel inspired or “in the spirit” as they say.
It’s like there’s this unknown element calling to me … itching beneath my skin. I don’t know what to name it or how to get rid of it. It’s just … there. Somehow, I feel this new developer is part of it. I’ve never dreaded anything so much in my life. I guess I’m carrying the worry on my face.
Downtown Hope Peak is alive with movement. Peak Sweets has a new window display with Rosalie’s homemade candy canes hanging from twinkling gold branches. Strings of white lights drape from storefront to lamppost, and wreaths with red velvet bows brighten every door. The scent of cinnamon rolls wafts from Hope Peak Bakehouse, turning heads as tourists stroll by.
This is my town. My home. My responsibility.
As I head back toward City Hall, Spencer Sullivan is hauling lumber out of his truck in front of Peak Construction.
“Morning, Willow,” he calls, shifting the boards onto his shoulder.
“Morning, Spencer. How’s the railing replacement going?”
“Should be done today. Just in time for your tree-lighting crowd.” His expression shifts slightly. “Heard the big tycoon developer’s in town.”
Of course he’s heard. Spencer knows everything.
I nod. “Meeting him Wednesday.”
“You give him hell.”
I laugh. “Professional hell. But yes.”
