Chapter 9
Holden
I am absolutely not cut out for customer service. There’s a reason why Carter handles that side of Big Sky Architecture. He’s a ham. I’m just a piece of leftover turkey.
I adjust the folding table for the third time, making sure the “Ask an Architect” sign is visible from the main aisle. The hardware store manager, Ryan, clapped me on the shoulder twenty minutes ago and told me not to worry and that I’d probably get a handful of questions at most.
He was wrong.
There’s a line. An actual line of people holding blueprints, sketches on napkins, and phones with Pinterest fails pulled up. I count at least seven deep, and more keep joining.
“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath.
When I pitched this idea to Ryan six days ago, I half-expected him to laugh me out of the store.
Instead, he practically jumped at it. “Community outreach,” he’d said.
“Gets people in the door, shows we care about more than just selling hammers. That’s the Hope Peak way.
” He offered me the corner spot near the lumber section from ten to noon.
The yard art for the Millers had turned out gorgeous. That was all Atlanta. They were so happy they invited their grandkids to come see it as soon as it was up. I decided then and there that I wanted to help other people with builds as my second good deed.
Atlanta helped me put together handouts: simple guides on permits, load-bearing walls, and when to call a professional. The office remediation won’t finish until after the new year, so Carter and I rented some portable office buildings and set them up on Carter’s land until the office is ready.
Even though we have office space now, she showed up at my place Tuesday night with her laptop and a bottle of wine, spread everything out on my kitchen island, and worked until midnight getting the materials just right.
Every time our hands brushed reaching for the same document, I felt it low in my gut.
But I kept it professional. Carter’s words are dancing around on repeat inside my brain. Now she’s here with me, standing off to the side with a stack of those handouts, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Hi, there,” I say to a woman in her sixties who approaches with a rolled-up set of plans.
“My son-in-law says this wall isn’t load-bearing, but I think he’s wrong.”
I unroll the plans, study them for maybe thirty seconds, and point to the header. “You’re right. That’s absolutely load-bearing. See this? You’d need a steel beam here if you want to remove it.”
Her face floods with relief. “I knew it. Thank you so much.” We discuss the benefits of hiring a contractor for this portion of their renovation, and as she walks away, Atlanta hands her one of our guides and catches my eye. Something warm passes between us before the next person steps up.
An hour in, we’ve hit our rhythm. I answer building questions while Atlanta discusses design, occasionally jumping in with suggestions I hadn’t thought of. When a young couple asks about converting their garage, she’s the one who mentions checking local zoning for ADU regulations.
“You two make a great team,” Ryan says, appearing with bottles of water for us both. “Folks are really responding to this.”
His words hit deeper than they should. You two make a great team.
After he walks away, Atlanta leans in close enough that I catch her vanilla scent. “You’re in your element.”
“I forgot how much I like just… helping people. No contracts. No billing hours.”
She smiles, and it does dangerous things to my chest.
By the time we wrap up at noon, I’ve answered maybe forty questions, handed out all our guides, and actually enjoyed myself. The adrenaline is still pumping as we load the leftover materials into my truck.
“That was amazing,” Atlanta says, her hazel eyes bright. “Did you see how grateful everyone was?”
“I couldn’t have done it without you.” I slam the tailgate closed. “Seriously. You were perfect.”
She bites her lip, and I track the movement like my life depends on it.
“Want to grab lunch?” I ask. “Celebrate? I have sandwich stuff at my place.”
“Sounds great.”
We set our plates on the kitchen counter, and head to the living room. Atlanta settles onto my couch, kicking off her boots, and I pour us each two fingers of Woodford Reserve.
“To curse number two,” she says, raising her glass.
“To you,” I counter. “For making it actually work.”
We drink, and the warmth spreads through my chest. Or maybe that’s just from watching her curl up on my couch like she belongs there.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says. “You could expand this. Maybe offer it quarterly, or even monthly. You and the other architects could rotate.”
“You’ve enjoyed Operation Christmas Curse.”
“I’m into seeing you happy.” She sets down her glass. “You’ve been miserable lately, Holden. Pushing everyone away. Today you were… you.”
The honesty in her voice strips something away. I set my own glass down and shift closer to her on the couch.
“You are so beautiful, Atlanta.” I reach out, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “Inside and out.”
“Holden.” My name comes out breathless.
“You’re amazing and work so hard and aren’t afraid of standing up for what’s right. Even if it makes me mad.” I lean close so that my lips are a breath away from hers, the December wind howling outside the window. “And I’m so tired of pretending I don’t want you.”
When my lips touch hers, something in my chest unlocks. She tastes like whiskey and something sweet, and when she opens for me, I’m lost.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer. I shift, guiding her back against the couch cushions as the kiss deepens. My hand slides down her side, feeling every curve, and she arches into me with a sound that makes my brain short-circuit.
“God, Atlanta.” I kiss along her jaw, down her neck, and she tilts her head back to give me access. “Tell me to stop.” I pull back enough to look at her, my hand splayed across her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
Instead, she pulls me back down, kissing me hard enough that I forget my own name. I slide my hand under her sweater, feeling warm skin, and she makes a sexy mewl that’s going to haunt me forever as the firelight flickers a few feet away.
Her leg hooks around mine, the couch shifting beneath us as she pulls me closer. I press against her delicious curves, both of us breathing hard while the wind claws at the eaves outside. My hand moves higher, cupping her breast through her bra as my mouth devours hers.
Her hands slide to my shoulders, and I pull her onto my lap, shifting the throw blanket over, because there’s no universe where she isn’t exactly where she belongs. Her pussy settles against me, making my control detonate as she rubs against me, her breath hot on my neck.
My fingers lace through her hair, and she arches into me, her hands raking my back beneath my shirt.
She gasps when I kiss a spot just below her ear, and the sound lights me up from the inside.
I want to take it slow, to savor every second, but we’ve both spent too long holding back, and restraint isn’t even a rumor in the room.
Then I do something I’ll regret forever.
Between kisses, I say, “I’ll get HR started on your promotion paperwork Monday,” I murmur against her throat, because my brain is mush and I’m trying to show her I mean everything. “You’re going to make an incredible lead designer, Atlanta.”
The lights flicker on and off, and she goes still. Not sexy still. Not breathless still. Frozen. Like I just poured ice water over both of us.
Her body trembles once, barely, and then she slides off my lap, fast, like she’s escaping a fire. Her eyes won’t meet mine as she grabs her coat from the rack by the door.
“Atlanta—wait. I didn’t mean—“
“I know.”
“You deserve the promotion.”
“Yes. I do.” She swallows hard, her eyes brimming with tears. “But you’re giving me what you think you owe me.”
My heart drops into my stomach. She moves for the door, and when I reach for her arm, she steps away.
“I can’t do this, Holden.” Her eyes shine, but she won’t look at me. “Not like this. Not because of some curse. Not because you need something from me. I needed you to want me from your heart. To believe in me on your own.”
My chest cracks open.
“That’s not fair,” I breathe. “I do believe in you.”
“It’s completely fair.” She opens the door, cold wind sweeping in around her. “And deep down inside, you know it.”
Then she’s gone. Leaving me standing in my living room with the taste of her still on my lips and the sinking realization that I just fucked everything up.