“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, delight shining to the rafters, “you absolutely did not just develop an opinion about that developer.”
“I have lots of opinions,” I insist.
“Mm-hm. And do any of them involve how good he looks?”
My cheeks blaze. “Rosie!”
She laughs, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m just saying, Hope Peak hasn’t had this much excitement since the blizzard of ’18.”
Before I can defend myself, the bell above the door jingles again. I turn and time stumbles over itself. Graham Sinclair is standing there in his long wool, expensive-ass coat that absolutely does not belong in a candy shop. His collar is open, dark hair perfectly wind tossed. Graham’s gaze sweeps the shop once, then lands on me with an intensity that steals air from my lungs.
Rosie’s grin widens, and she promptly becomes the embodiment of mischief. “Well, if it isn’t the man making Main Street talk.”
Graham blinks, clearly caught off guard. “That … wasn’t my intention.”
Rosie pats his arm. “It never is, dear.”
I wish the floor would swallow me. He turns his attention fully to me, and there it is again … that spark that started the moment he said my name in the lodge lobby.
“Ms. Grant.”
“Mr. Sinclair.”
He takes a step forward, his voice lower than it should be. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“This is my comfort stop,” I say, then immediately regret how revealing that sounds.
He smiles – just a small one – but enough to warm something deep inside me. “I can see why.” He glances around, then back to me. “I was told this was one of the places to understand the heart of Hope Peak.”
Rosie fans herself dramatically with a candy scoop. Graham pretends not to notice. I try to pretend I’m not overheating. He picks up a piece of toffee from the counter, examining it like it’s a puzzle. “What do you recommend?”
“Not that,” I blurt. “It sticks to your teeth.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Noted.”
I scramble to recover. “Try the almond caramel clusters. They’re … safer.”
“Safer,” he repeats slowly, and something in the way he says it feels anything but.
Graham chooses one, tastes it, and lets out a low, approving sound that does terrible, fluttery things to my insides. He turns back to me, softer now. “About the meeting … I know we disagreed. Strongly.”
“That’s putting it lightly.”
“But I meant what I said,” he continues. “I’m not here to bulldoze Hope Peak. I’m here to create something that lasts.”
Something in his tone softens, melting the sharp edge of the debate we had earlier. For a moment, the world goes quiet. Snow falls outside, children laugh somewhere on the street, and Graham Sinclair – my adversary, my irritation, my problem – looks at me like he genuinely wants to understand. It is wildly inconvenient.
He steps back slightly but not enough to break the invisible pull between us. “I’ll revise the design and proposal,” he says. “Not because you demanded it. Because your arguments were compelling.”
Compelling. Not wrong or emotional … just compelling. No one ever calls me compelling. Bossy? Yes. Unyielding? Often. But compelling? Heat climbs the back of my neck. Before I can respond, Rosie clears her throat loudly. “If you two are done pretending this conversation is strictly professional…”
“Rosie,” I warn.
She waves a hand. “I’ll be over here. Rearranging candy. Definitely not eavesdropping.”
Graham just barely hides a smile. He nods to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Grant.”
I nod back. “Drive safely.”
