Holly
The barista calls out my order, and I actually do a little hop-step toward the counter.
First peppermint mocha of the season. I've been waiting since August for this moment—literally circled the second Friday in November on my calendar like some kind of caffeinated advent celebration. The cup is warm in my hands, the scent is perfect, and I'm about to have the best ninety seconds of my morning before I walk into the Bellamy Foundation and try not to spontaneously combust from nervousness.
I turn toward the pickup counter and nearly collide with a man reaching for his own to-go cup. He glances down at mine—at the whipped cream piled high and the crushed peppermint candy sprinkled on top like edible confetti—and his expression does something complicated.
“They started serving that again.” Not a question. A statement of disappointment in humanity.
I pull the cup closer, protective. “It's the first day.”
“It's pure sugar with artificial peppermint flavoring.”
Who hurt this man? “It's delicious with natural peppermint joy.”
“If you enjoy drinking liquefied candy canes.” He adjusts his perfectly knotted tie—silk, probably costs more than my grocery budget for the month. Everything about him screams expensive: the tailored charcoal suit, the light brown hair with ginger highlights that didn't come from a box, the blue eyes currently judging my life choices.
“I absolutely do enjoy it, and frankly, your coffee snobbery is ruining my seasonal happiness.” I take a deliberately long sip, maintaining eye contact. “Mmm. So artificially delicious.”
His mouth does something that might be trying to become a smile but forgot how. “Enjoy your diabetes in a cup.”
“Enjoy your joyless existence.”
A tiny smirk—there and gone so fast I almost miss it—and then he's heading for the door with his black coffee and his expensive problems.
I claim a stool at the narrow counter ledge that faces the sidewalk, letting my shoulders drop for the first time this morning. Some people just hate happiness. Probably drinks his coffee black and thinks suffering makes him sophisticated.
Screw anyone who doesn't understand the magic of peppermint-mocha season.
Through the window, the city moves at its usual relentless pace. Yellow cabs honk, people hurry past with their heads down, the first real cold of the season nipping at their shoulders. I sip my mocha and let the warmth spread through my chest. This elixir is my sister Emma's fault—she got me hooked on them during winter break my sophomore year of college. We'd get them every morning and walk around our tiny downtown back home, where you could see all six blocks of Main Street from the coffee shop window.
Very different from this view.
The Bellamy Foundation building is just around the corner. I can see the top floors from here—all glass and steel, the kind of architecture that says, “We're very important and also intimidating.” It's so different from the community centers and hotel ballrooms I'm used to. Just a few years ago, I was planning a gala in a refurbished barn that still smelled faintly of hay. Now I'm getting referrals from foundation boards and clients who ask for things like Yappy Hour—a dog-rescue fundraiser—with straight faces, which I thought was absurd until it out-fundraised their previous gala by more than double. Apparently this is what climbing the ladder looks like—saying yes to Yappy Hour and discovering that rich people’s weird ideas sometimes work.
But this? This is different. The Bellamy Foundation would be my biggest client yet, and they co-sponsor events with The Durst Group. Getting this close to The Durst Group—even just being in rooms where their board members notice my work—that's the dream. Six-figure contracts. Multiple galas a year. The kind of steady work that means I could stop eating ramen twice a week and maybe, just maybe, prove to everyone back home that leaving Pinewood Falls wasn't a mistake.
I check the time. Fifteen minutes early, which is perfect. I'm always early—too many things can go wrong, but being on time is something I can control.
I drain the last of my mocha, toss the cup, and head out into the cold.
* * *
The foundation’s lobby is all marble and modern art and a ceiling so high my voice would echo if I dared to speak above a whisper. The receptionist has impeccable posture and looks like she's never been flustered in her life.
“Holly Bennett for Mr. Bellamy,” I say, trying to sound like I belong here.
“Twenty-eighth floor. You're early—he's not quite ready yet. Feel free to wait in the lobby area up there.”
I take the elevator, watch the numbers climb, and give myself a quick pep talk in the reflection of the polished doors. Okay, Bennett. You've earned this. Stop waiting for someone to figure out you don't belong here.
The elevator dings.
I step out and spot an event being set up in a conference room down the hall; it looks like a baby shower, all pastels and balloon garlands. Someone's struggling with an enormous diaper cake, trying to position it on a table while also holding a tray of what looks like fancy hors d'oeuvres.
My feet move before my brain catches up.
“Here, let me help.” I set my tablet down and take the tray, freeing her hands.
