Chapter Two #2
"You never show my face clearly in any posts.
Keep me out of frame, shoot from behind, creative angles—however you need to do it.
And don't tag me or use my name in your content.
Call it an 'anonymous local benefactor' if you need to reference me at all.
" I held her gaze. "I came to Hope Peak to get away from attention.
I'm not looking to trend on social media, even for a good cause.
You can film yourself doing charity work, promote the program, share family stories with permission, ask for volunteers and donations.
But I stay in the background. That's the deal. "
She was quiet, processing.
"And if I do this—help you promote the program, keep you out of frame, make it successful—you drop the lawsuit? Permanently?"
"Permanently. The video can stay up, you get your followers, your comeback. You help me make Christmas Wishes the best it can be, and you respect my privacy."
"Can I..." She hesitated, color rising in her cheeks. "Can I film you? From the neck down, I mean? If that's what gets engagement, if that's what makes people pay attention to what we’re doing?"
My skin crawled at the idea of being objectified again. "So I get to be exploited for charity. Wonderful."
But if it helped families... if it meant kids got presents and struggling parents got groceries and coats...
"If it's necessary to boost engagement and get donations or volunteers, fine. Neck down only. Creative angles to keep me anonymous. Can you do that?"
"Yes." Her response was immediate, and she met my gaze with confidence that made me respect her despite myself. "That's literally what I do. I can make it work."
I observed her, searching for signs she'd agree to anything now and violate things later. But she seemed focused, determined.
"Tomorrow morning, nine AM. About twenty minutes outside town.
You'll work daily through Christmas Eve delivery, help coordinate everything, and follow my instructions.
I'm matching all community donations dollar for dollar, so we'll need to set that up.
Volunteers for wrapping and delivery. Can you handle it? "
"Yes. I can handle it." She was already organizing her thoughts, I could see it in her expression. The shift from panicked mess to competent professional caught me off guard.
"My name's Bart, by the way." I took out my phone again. "What's your number? I'll text you the address."
She rattled it off. I entered it and sent her a message immediately: 9 AM tomorrow. Followed by a location pin.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced at it, then back at me. "Got it."
"Good. We have a lot of work to do."
"I'll be there. I promise. And thank you. For not suing me. For giving me a chance to make this right."
I moved toward the door, needing to leave before this got more complicated. She followed, and I was acutely aware of her presence in the cramped space.
I paused at the threshold, turned back. She was standing in the middle of all that holiday chaos, mascara smudged but looking visibly relieved.
"Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the full scope of what you've agreed to. And if you post my face or identify me online—the deal's off and the lawsuit is back on. Clear?"
"Clear. I won't let you down."
I left before I could say anything else, walking out into the cold December night. The frigid air was a relief after the overheated cottage.
The drive back took about twenty minutes. I spent every one questioning whether I'd just made a brilliant move or a terrible mistake.
I'd put my privacy in the hands of someone who'd already proven she couldn't be trusted with it.
But I'd also found the solution to Christmas Wishes' biggest problem. Someone who could reach every family who needed help.
Someone who owed me enough to cooperate.
Someone who was also young and beautiful and making this significantly more complicated than it needed to be.
I reached my property, sat in the truck for a moment. The land was dark except for porch lights, pristine snow covering everything, mountains rising in the distance the same way they had when I'd bought this place eighteen months ago.
My phone buzzed. A text from the number I'd just added.
Thank you again. I know you don't trust me, but I'm going to prove you can. See you tomorrow at 9 AM. - Candi
I texted back: Don't be late.
Then I walked into my workshop, flipped on the lights, and stood there surrounded by sawdust and wood and tools. The walnut dining table sat half-finished on my workbench—smooth and solid, joints fitting perfectly, a reminder that good things took time and careful work.
The charity deserved the same attention. The same patience. The same commitment to getting it right.
Even if it meant working with someone who'd destroyed my peace in thirty seconds with a smartphone camera.
I ran my hand over the wood grain, feeling the smooth surface, the craftsmanship that came from years of practice.
Just over two weeks until Christmas. Just over two weeks to find out if Candi Reed would honor our agreement or sell out the first chance she got.
Just over two weeks of working in close proximity to a beautiful young woman who was going to test every ounce of control I'd built my life on.
I'd survived worse. I'd built a billion-dollar company from nothing. I'd rebuilt my entire life in a place where no one knew me.
I could handle two weeks with an influencer if it meant giving struggling families the holiday they deserved.
Even if that influencer made me acutely aware that three years of celibacy might be affecting my judgment.