Chapter Four #2
We worked together stringing them, reaching around each other, hands brushing. She told me about her dad's annual disasters trying to assemble theirs—apparently one year he put it together upside down and didn't realize until all the ornaments were on.
"How do you put a tree together upside down?" I asked.
"That's what we all said! He insisted it was supposed to be that way until Mom showed him the box."
We hung ornaments, easy and comfortable. At the end, she held up the silver star.
"You should do it," she said.
"It's your star."
"But it's yours. Ours." She pressed it into my hand.
I climbed up, placed the star on top. When I stepped back, it glowed—slightly lopsided but somehow right. The room felt warmer, lived-in.
She stood back to admire it, and I found myself watching her instead.
"It's beautiful," she said.
"Yeah," I agreed, not looking at the tree.
"I'M MAKING YOU DINNER," she suddenly announced. "To thank you for the second chance. And for getting a tree."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." She opened my fridge and peered inside. "Okay, so you've got... beer, condiments, and what I think used to be Chinese food?"
I grimaced. "I eat out a lot."
"Clearly." She closed the fridge. "We need to go shopping. Come on."
Twenty minutes later, we were back from Peak Provisions with pasta, sauce ingredients, and garlic bread. She unpacked while I refilled our wine glasses from the bottle we'd opened earlier.
"Can I help?"
"You can stay out of my way."
"It's my kitchen."
"And when's the last time you actually used it?"
"Fair point."
She let me chop garlic—under strict supervision—and I only nearly cut myself once. When I reached for the salt, she intercepted.
"How much were you about to use?"
"Enough to salt the water?"
"That's half the container!"
"You said salt the water!"
"A tablespoon, not a cup!" She was laughing, taking it from me. "Have you really never cooked before?"
"Not since I was a kid helping my mom."
"New rule. You're banned from all seasonings."
"I can follow instructions."
"Can you though?"
We moved around each other in the limited space, hips bumping, reaching for the same utensil. She let me taste the sauce, and I watched her work—comfortable and confident in my kitchen in a way I'd never been.
Over dinner at my rarely-used dining table, the conversation flowed easily.
She asked about furniture making, about the walnut dining table commission I was working on.
I asked about her analytics work, and she lit up talking about engagement patterns and marketing strategy in a way that made it clear she genuinely loved that side of things.
"Drew always made me feel dumb," she admitted over her second glass of wine. "Like I was just the pretty face and he was the brains. But I was the one tracking all our metrics, planning our content calendar, managing partnerships."
"He was intimidated by you," I said. "Guys like that need their partners smaller so they feel bigger."
She studied me across the table. "You're not like that."
"I'm forty-two. I'm past the age where I need to diminish someone else to feel good about myself."
"How old were you when you got married?"
"I was thirty-two. Sutton was twenty-nine." I swirled the wine in my glass. "I thought the age gap made me more mature. Turns out it just meant I ignored red flags because I was flattered by the attention."
"What were the red flags?"
"She cared more about what make of car I drove than what I was actually building.
Wanted me to go to parties and events instead of working.
Got angry when I chose the company over her social calendar.
" I set down my glass. "I should have seen it.
But I was too focused on building Pinnacle to notice my marriage was falling apart. "
I'd said too much. Candi's brow furrowed.
"Pinnacle?"
And there it was. The moment of truth.
I stood, moving to the fireplace. The tree lights twinkled in the corner of my vision. "There's something you should know about me. About who I really am."
She held very still, waiting.
"My full name is Bartholomew Kane. I co-founded a tech company called Pinnacle Systems when I was twenty-eight.
" I kept my back to her, watching flames dance.
"Built it from nothing over eleven years into a three-billion-dollar company.
Married Sutton Harrington when I was thirty-two—she came from money, old family wealth, wanted the Silicon Valley lifestyle. The parties, the press, the status."
She gasped.
"We wanted different things. I wanted to build something meaningful. She wanted the lifestyle being married to a tech founder provided. When I couldn't give her enough attention, couldn't be the husband she wanted while running a multi-billion dollar company, she found someone who would."
"Bart—"
"She cheated with my business partner. Also my best friend since college." The words came out bitter. "The divorce was messy. Public. Tech tabloids called it 'Tech's Nastiest Split.' Every detail dragged through the press—her affairs, my workaholic tendencies, how much we were worth, who got what."
I finally turned to face her. "I sold my shares eighteen months ago for eight hundred and forty-seven million dollars. Bought this property under an LLC—Kane Holdings—so no one would connect it to me. I moved here to disappear. To get away from people who only saw my bank account."
She sat motionless at the table, wine glass halfway to her lips.
"When you filmed me without permission and posted it online, you made me vulnerable again. Exposed. Visible. That's why I was so furious. It was exactly what I'd escaped Silicon Valley to avoid."
Silence stretched between us. Her processing, me waiting for the inevitable shift. The calculation. The realization that I was worth nearly a billion dollars.
Then she set down her glass and stood. "I don't care about your money, Bart."
"Everyone cares about the money."
"I see you." She moved closer. "Not your bank account.
Not your company. You. The man who helps those in need because he remembers what it was like to go without.
Who makes furniture with his hands even though he doesn't need the income.
Who got a Christmas tree because I asked even though it made him uncomfortable. "
Fear and longing tangled in my chest.
"Candi—"
"My sister Bridget has a perfect life." Her voice wavered.
"Married to Isaac, they have baby Ivy, she has a real career as a pediatric nurse.
My parents are so proud of her. When I told them I was becoming an influencer, they were.
.. polite. Supportive in that way parents are when they think you're making a mistake but don't want to say it. "
I held still, letting her talk.
"After Drew broke up with me, Bridget offered to get me a job at Isaac's firm.
Marketing coordinator, benefits, salary, the whole thing.
Respectable." Tears slid down her cheeks.
"And I couldn't do it. I couldn't go home and admit that they were right all along.
That I'd wasted three years on something fake.
That I'd built my entire identity on likes and followers and sponsored posts, and it all disappeared the second things got hard. "
She wiped at her face, mascara smudging.
"That's why you came to Hope Peak," I said softly.
"It was my last shot at proving I could make this work.
That I wasn't just someone’s pretty accessory.
That I had actual skills and could build something meaningful on my own.
" She met my gaze. "But I was so desperate to succeed that I violated your privacy.
I used you for content. I became exactly the kind of person I hate.
And somehow you still gave me a chance to make it right. "
"You're not that person, Candi. You made a desperate choice in a desperate moment. What matters is what you've done since—how hard you've worked, how much you care about these people in need, how you've used your platform to actually help others instead of just building your brand."
"You make me want to be better," she whispered. "You make me believe I can be."
The vulnerability in her voice, the honesty—it broke something open in me. We stood there looking at each other, both of us raw and exposed, both of us terrified and drawn to each other in equal measure.
Neither of us moved. The lights from the tree flickered across her face. The fire crackled. My heart hammered against my ribs.
She'd just laid herself bare. Shared her deepest shame, her greatest fear. She was standing in my living room with tears glistening on her cheeks, waiting to see what I'd do with that trust.
I could step back. Keep my distance. Protect myself the way I'd been doing.
Or I could be brave enough to meet her vulnerability with my own.
I crossed the distance slowly, giving her time to change her mind, to step away. But she didn't move. Just watched me with those eyes that saw too much.
I cupped her face in my hands, thumbs brushing away her tears. "I'm falling for you, Candi. Hard. And it terrifies me."
"Me too," she whispered. "I'm falling for you too."
The moment stretched—all that honesty, all that fear, all that wanting.
Then I kissed her.
Not for show this time. Not for anyone but us.
She made a soft sound and melted against me, her hands fisting in my shirt. The kiss was hungry, desperate, all the tension from the past week breaking open between us.
I backed her toward the stairs, lips never leaving hers. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this. I want you."
We made it to my bedroom, barely. Moonlight streamed through the windows, giving the room an otherworldly glow.
I laid her on the bed, taking my time, drinking in the sight of her golden hair spread across my pillows, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths, eyes dark with desire.
"We can stop anytime," I said. "Just say the word."
"Don't you dare stop." She tugged me down for another kiss.