She backs down, knowing I’m dead serious. Because whatever this is … it’s nowhere near finished.
Chapter 9
Willow
The vendors are long gone for the night, but their half-constructed stalls line Main Street like little wooden lanterns waiting to be lit. Strings of white bulbs hang overhead, glowing faintly against the soft swirl of falling snow. The whole square feels hushed, peaceful, like Hope Peak is holding its breath for December to fully arrive.
I should feel calm here. This is my domain … my work and comfort. Instead, my heartbeat has been misfiring all day. Obviously, I blame Graham Sinclair.
I move down the vendor row, checking measurements, jotting notes, trying to make sense of the chaos in my brain. That’s when I hear footsteps behind me. My stomach flips. I turn, and he’s there. Graham stands at the end of the row, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders dusted with snow. The vendor lights reflect in his eyes, turning them darker, warmer.
“Working late?” he asks.
“Always,” I say. “Town doesn’t run itself.”
He walks closer, footsteps muffled by fresh snowfall. “I brought the updated sketches. Atlanta’s been working on them all day. Want to see?”
I blink. “Tonight?”
He shrugs. “No time like the present.”
“You could’ve emailed.”
“I could have,” he agrees. “But you would’ve ignored it until morning.”
Damn him for being right.
“I thought I’d bring it myself,” he adds quietly, “since this matters to you.”
There it is again … that softness beneath all the steel. It disarms me every single time.
“Let me see them,” I say, but my voice is not as steady as I want it to be. He steps closer. Too close. Close enough that I can smell winter on him. Crisp air, cedar, something exotic underneath. He hands me a folder. I flip it open, scanning quickly. My breath catches.
“You cut the retail space by nearly a third,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“And you added…” I trail off. “Graham, these are community rooms.”
“Multipurpose,” he says. “Workshops, events. The town can use them. Or the lodge can rent them out. Flexible.”
He pauses, searching my face. “I realized I’d been looking at the wrong heart of the project.”
My excitement begins to build inside. “You didn’t have to do this,” I say.
“I know.”
His voice is lower now. Warmer.
“And you didn’t do it for the council,” I add.
“No,” he says simply. “I didn’t.”
We stand there, snow drifting in soft, enchanted spirals, and something between us tightens. It’s subtle, yet magnetic, and impossible to ignore. I try to step back, but my boot catches on a stray cord. He moves instantly, steady hands catching my waist. His hands anchor me.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
I’m not careful. I’m not anything. I’m gravity spiraling straight into him.
