Chapter 4
Willow
By the time I leave City Hall, my pulse has almost returned to normal – almost. Snow crunches beneath my boots as I cross Main Street, the wind carrying the rich scent of caramel and peppermint from Peak Sweets.
Christmas music plays softly from a speaker tucked under the eaves.
Something instrumental and festive. Exactly the kind of thing that would calm me any other day.
But today? All I can hear is Graham Sinclair’s voice echoing in my head.
You want preservation. I want sustainability.
The man might be infuriating, but he’s not stupid. And he’s not heartless, either. That’s the problem. If he were a slick corporate nightmare with no regard for Hope Peak, I could fight him cleanly. But he listens. He watches. And he rattles me.
Peak Sweets’ door jingles the second I push it open, the warmth inside hitting my face like sugared velvet.
“Willow Grant,” Rosie calls from behind the counter, hands deep in a tray of peppermint bark. “You look like a woman in need of chocolate therapy.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She snorts. “I’ve seen polar bears lie with more conviction. Come here.”
I step closer and she hands me a piece of dark chocolate dipped in crushed peppermint. I bite into it, the sweetness grounding me in a way few things can.
Rosie studies me, eyes narrowing. “Your meeting went well, I take it?”
I choke slightly. “What makes you think that?”
“Because you get that specific grim expression when bureaucracy frustrates you.” She pauses, leans in. “But this grim expression is different. Sharper … more intense.”
I should walk out or laugh this off. Instead I groan softly. “Can we not?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, delight shining to the rafters, “you absolutely did not just develop an opinion about that developer.”
“I have lots of opinions,” I insist.
“Mm-hm. And do any of them involve how good he looks?”
My cheeks blaze. “Rosie!”
She laughs, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m just saying, Hope Peak hasn’t had this much excitement since the blizzard of ’18.”
Before I can defend myself, the bell above the door jingles again.
I turn and time stumbles over itself. Graham Sinclair is standing there in his long wool, expensive-ass coat that absolutely does not belong in a candy shop.
His collar is open, dark hair perfectly wind tossed.
Graham’s gaze sweeps the shop once, then lands on me with an intensity that steals air from my lungs.
Rosie’s grin widens, and she promptly becomes the embodiment of mischief. “Well, if it isn’t the man making Main Street talk.”
Graham blinks, clearly caught off guard. “That … wasn’t my intention.”
Rosie pats his arm. “It never is, dear.”
I wish the floor would swallow me. He turns his attention fully to me, and there it is again … that spark that started the moment he said my name in the lodge lobby.
“Ms. Grant.”
“Mr. Sinclair.”
He takes a step forward, his voice lower than it should be. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“This is my comfort stop,” I say, then immediately regret how revealing that sounds.
He smiles – just a small one – but enough to warm something deep inside me. “I can see why.” He glances around, then back to me. “I was told this was one of the places to understand the heart of Hope Peak.”
Rosie fans herself dramatically with a candy scoop. Graham pretends not to notice. I try to pretend I’m not overheating. He picks up a piece of toffee from the counter, examining it like it’s a puzzle. “What do you recommend?”
“Not that,” I blurt. “It sticks to your teeth.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Noted.”
I scramble to recover. “Try the almond caramel clusters. They’re … safer.”
“Safer,” he repeats slowly, and something in the way he says it feels anything but.
Graham chooses one, tastes it, and lets out a low, approving sound that does terrible, fluttery things to my insides. He turns back to me, softer now. “About the meeting … I know we disagreed. Strongly.”
“That’s putting it lightly.”
“But I meant what I said,” he continues. “I’m not here to bulldoze Hope Peak. I’m here to create something that lasts.”
Something in his tone softens, melting the sharp edge of the debate we had earlier.
For a moment, the world goes quiet. Snow falls outside, children laugh somewhere on the street, and Graham Sinclair – my adversary, my irritation, my problem – looks at me like he genuinely wants to understand. It is wildly inconvenient.
He steps back slightly but not enough to break the invisible pull between us. “I’ll revise the design and proposal,” he says. “Not because you demanded it. Because your arguments were compelling.”
Compelling. Not wrong or emotional … just compelling. No one ever calls me compelling. Bossy? Yes. Unyielding? Often. But compelling? Heat climbs the back of my neck. Before I can respond, Rosie clears her throat loudly. “If you two are done pretending this conversation is strictly professional…”
“Rosie,” I warn.
She waves a hand. “I’ll be over here. Rearranging candy. Definitely not eavesdropping.”
Graham just barely hides a smile. He nods to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Grant.”
I nod back. “Drive safely.”
He hesitates as if he wants to say something more, but thinks better of it. Then he’s gone, disappearing into the soft swirl of snow outside. I exhale shakily.
Rosie appears at my elbow almost instantly. “So … you were saying you don’t have feelings about him?”
“I don’t,” I say weakly.
“Mm-hm,” she muses, handing me another chocolate. “Keep telling yourself that, dear.”