Chapter 3
Willow
By Wednesday morning, Hope Peak is buzzing like a hive dressed in Christmas lights.
The bakery windows glow gold with fresh pastries, and someone has added two tall light-up toy soldiers to the entrance of City Hall.
I would normally love this. But today, my stomach is a knotted garland of nerves.
Avery rushes over as soon as I step through the front doors, clutching my meeting binder.
“You’re early,” she says breathlessly. “Is he already here? Should I bring coffee? Should I …”
“Avery.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “Breathe.”
She inhales sharply, holds it, then lets out a dramatic sigh. “Sorry. Everyone is talking about him.”
“Everyone in this town talks about everything,” I mutter, flipping through the agenda. “Doesn’t make it important.”
She gives me a look. “You saw him, didn’t you?”
I keep walking, refusing to dignify that with a reaction. I won’t tell her that not only did I meet the man, Graham Sinclair has consumed my thoughts … and dreams for the past thirty-six hours.
Avery gasps. “You did. Oh no. Is he …”
“We are not having this conversation,” I say, pushing open the meeting room doors before she can finish. But unfortunately, the conversation is waiting for me anyway. Because Graham Sinclair is already here.
He’s standing at the far end of the table reviewing blueprints with his jacket off, sleeves rolled, and confidence radiating from every perfectly controlled inch of him.
Good God!
I feel the awareness like a physical touch before he even looks up. Then he does and my breath goes the tiniest bit uneven.
“Ms. Grant,” he says, voice smooth but unreadable. “Good morning.”
“Mr. Sinclair.” I nod, hoping my face isn’t betraying anything treasonous. “You’re early.”
“I like to be prepared.”
Spencer Sullivan arrives next, snow still in his beard from some job site. “Morning, Willow. And you must be the developer.”
Graham extends his hand. “Graham Sinclair.”
Spencer shakes it with a grip meant to test a man’s mettle. “Hope you know what you’re getting into up here.”
A flicker of amusement crosses Graham’s face. “I’m beginning to.”
Avery pushes open the door with her elbow, balancing a cardboard drink carrier and a tray of water glasses. The scent of cinnamon latte hits the room a second before she does.
“Coffee for everyone,” she announces, though her voice wobbles when her eyes land on Graham. “And water, in case … anyone needs it.”
Spencer grabs a mug with a grateful grunt.
Graham accepts a black coffee with a polite nod, and something about his quiet “Thank you” nearly sends Avery into orbit.
She shoots me a panicked, wide-eyed look as she retreats.
I pretend not to see it, but the mood of the room shifts.
The meeting suddenly feels very, very real.
Next comes Holden Carmichael and his junior designer, Atlanta Sutton. Atlanta is practically vibrating with excitement, clutching her sketch tablet.
“I’ve been studying the original Hearthstone floor plans,” she gushes. “It’s fascinating. The beams, the symmetry, the way the light used to hit the great room …”
“Atlanta,” Holden cuts in gently, “let’s take our seats.”
She flushes crimson but beams at Graham as if he hung the moon. I want to dislike her for that. I don’t. She’s too earnest, too genuinely charmed by the lodge’s history. We all settle into our seats at the table and the room quiets. And then the clash begins.
Graham slides a polished presentation packet forward. “My team prepared a restoration-forward approach with updated structural supports, infrastructure replacements, and long-term revenue viability.”
Revenue viability. Translation: the part the town is going to hate.
I skim the first page again, even though I’ve already memorized every square inch.
“The retail expansion,” I say carefully, “is far larger than we discussed.”
“It’s necessary,” he replies. “A luxury lodge won’t sustain itself on nostalgia.”
“Nostalgia,” I repeat slowly, “is not what kept Hearthstone alive for fifty years.”
His eyes lock on mine, steady and unnervingly warm despite the sharpness of the conversation.
“Willow,” he says my first name, spoken too gently for a room full of people. “The lodge needs more than sentimental value. It needs a business model.”
Heat flares low in my stomach. I sit straighter. “And that’s not the only overreach,” I say, flipping to the next section. “Your exterior redesign…”
“What about it?” he interrupts.
“You think the Hearthstone Lodge should be a tiny bit original and the rest steel and glass like a skyscraper built into a mountain? This town’s identity is not negotiable, Mr. Sinclair. The Hearthstone Lodge should be an historic property renovation that reflects Hope Peak.”
Spencer mutters a quiet, “Damn,” but no one intervenes.
Graham rests one palm flat on the table. He looks controlled and strong. “I’m assuming it needs to evolve.”
“And I’m telling you evolution is not the same as erasure. That’s what we want to avoid.”
Silence. Even Holden’s brows rise a fraction.
Graham doesn’t flinch. “You want preservation. I want sustainability. The goal should be finding where those meet.”
“It should be,” I agree, “but your proposal doesn’t show much interest in meeting in the middle.”
That’s when I see it – the first crack of frustration in his eyes. It’s … ridiculously attractive. Focus, Willow.
Atlanta breaks in with quiet enthusiasm. “I actually think there’s potential for blending both. Hearthstone’s original architecture is gorgeous. It deserves to anchor any new design.”
Graham nods, measured. “Which is why I kept the central structure intact.”
Intact doesn’t matter if everything surrounding it feels like an airport terminal. I push back. “And added an entire steel complex around it.”
“A necessary one.”
“A disruptive one.”
We hold each other’s stare, the room dissolving around us. Holden clears his throat. “Perhaps we can revisit the density requirements.”
Spencer leans back, crossing his arms. “Or scrap the design altogether.”
Graham ignores both and looks directly at me. It’s a challenge … and a warning. It’s a question he doesn’t want to ask out loud, but I hear it almost telepathically. Are you going to be the obstacle … or the partner?
I swallow hard. “We’ll need revisions before anything moves forward.”
He nods once, slow. “Then revisions you’ll have.”
But the way he says it makes me curious. It’s like a promise or a dare. Graham’s tone unsettles me far more than the debate ever could. Because for the first time since he walked into this town, I realize something feels very risky.
Graham Sinclair isn’t simply trying to change Hope Peak.
He’s already changing something in me. He’s like the blue-eyed devil with his charisma and expensive cologne.
Despite the fact that I will go to war with him …
there’s a tiny part of me that would like to know what it would feel like if we could come to a truce. A truce or a surrender?