Spencer grins and returns to work. Inside City Hall, it feels much more cheerful than the usual drab interior. There’s something about string lights around doorframes that makes you want to step inside. Before I enter, I hear the familiar murmur of people preparing for the holidays. Avery Blackwood waves from behind the front desk, her earrings shaped like tiny gingerbread men.
“I updated your packet for Wednesday,” she chirps, sliding a folder toward me. “Also, I added sticky notes so you can color-code the areas of concern.”
I flip open the first page. There are numerous sticky notes.
“Avery, you’re a lifesaver.”
Her cheeks flush. “Please convince him not to turn us into Aspen.”
“Trust me,” I say. “I’ll do everything in my power.”
But when I reach my office again, a cold gust rattles the window, and in the silence that follows, an unwelcome truth presents itself. Graham Sinclair isn’t just bringing money or plans. He’s bringing change. And Hope Peak – my Hope Peak – is not built to bend easily.
Staring again, I sit at my desk and lean back in the chair. In the distance, the outline of the abandoned Hearthstone Lodge is visible through the trees. That building is practically a monument with all its memories. It deserves more than demolition or reinvention for profit. Hearthstone Lodge shaped so many childhood winters, including my own.
My phone buzzes. A calendar reminder lights the screen:
Meeting with Graham Sinclair – 2 days
I straighten, square my shoulders, and whisper to myself, “All right, Mr. Sinclair. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Chapter 2
Graham
Snow I can handle. Silence, too. But the combination of the two is like observing a beautiful slumber. Heavy snowfall blankets the mountains as if the world has paused. It hits me harder than I expect as I step out onto the balcony of my suite at Snowy Summit Retreat.
Montana is remote, cold, and uncomplicated. At least, that was my assumption. Below me, Hope Peak is strung with enough Christmas lights that glow in the daylight. It’s picturesque, quaint, and charming in a way small towns usually aren’t for me. I’m not here for charm. I’m here for a project that, if handled correctly, will be the crown jewel of my portfolio.
If not, it will become the failure my father predicted. My jaw tightens at the thought.
I’ve built resorts on four continents, revived properties other developers abandoned, survived markets that should’ve drowned me. But Hearthstone Lodge – the long-forgotten,wood-and-stone skeleton tucked into the mountainside has teeth and potential. And a town that’s ready to fight me for it. A text buzzes on my phone.
Holden Carmichael:
We’re set. Will bring structural notes. Atlanta has sketches.
Good,I text back.
That sounds like some progress from the architectural team. I tuck the phone into my coat and head downstairs to the lobby. The scent of pine garland mixes with roasted coffee from the café. The staff are busy decorating a twelve-foot Christmas tree beside the fireplace. Snowy Summit is efficient, upscale, and polished. It’s my kind of environment. Hearthstone could be this. Better than this.
I’m reviewing the week’s schedule on my phone when the registration desk bell rings. I don’t look up right away, although I feel tempted. Then I hear it … her voice, low but firm.
“Hi, Avery called ahead. I’m meeting Mr. Sinclair.”
I turn. She stands at the lobby desk, her wool coat dusted with snow. Auburn hair catches the firelight. She’s beautiful in a way that hits instantly and effortlessly. This is Willow Grant, the Town Manager. Her eyes are sharp enough to slice through every polished layer I wear.
I continue my gaze as she removes the coat. Curves, beautiful curves.But there's something else too. It’s a conviction, propped up by a spine of steel beneath soft knits and winter blush tones.
This is the gatekeeper to the project I’m here to transform. She’s the woman I expected to challenge me … not the woman I expected to make my pulse jump. She spots me and lifts her chin in a way that feels like a dare. “Mr. Sinclair?”
I nod once, controlled. “Ms. Grant.”
Her gaze takes in my appearance. My tailored coat, Italian leather shoes, the kind of presence I’ve spent my life honing. But she’s not intimidated. If anything, she stands taller.
“Welcome to Hope Peak,” she says, though there isn’t an ounce of welcome in her tone.
“I appreciate you meeting tonight,” I reply. “Thought a preliminary discussion might save time before Wednesday.”
