Chapter 11
Willow
By the time I drive back into town, my lips are still warm.
My pulse hasn’t recovered. And my thoughts are an absolute riot.
I kissed Graham Sinclair. Twice. No, he kissed me.
And I kissed him back like I was trying to rewrite every story I’d ever believed about developers, outsiders, or men who blow into town and “fix” things without caring about the aftermath.
Except he does care. That’s what scares me.
I’m still coasting on that terrifying warmth when I step into City Hall. Avery looks up from the front desk, eyes widening. “You’re glowing.”
“I’m cold,” I lie.
“You’re sweaty,” she whispers. “Cold people don’t sweat.”
I scrub a hand across my forehead. “It’s been a long morning.”
Before she can pry, Spencer walks in, stomping snow off his boots. “There you are,” he says. “Need you to sign off on the vendor power routing. We’ve got two load issues.”
“Sure,” I say, grateful for the interruption. “Let me grab my …”
Spencer stops, studying me with narrowed eyes. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I say too quickly.
He grunts. “Sure,” but doesn’t push.
We head into the conference room. I’m expecting a quick briefing, a map, maybe a cup of coffee if someone remembered to brew a fresh pot.
What I’m not expecting is the speakerphone sitting in the center of the table.
The little red light blinking. And Holden pacing the far side of the room, shoulders tight.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Holden exhales in that resigned way he gets when he’s stuck delivering bad news. “Atlanta got overexcited. She looped in two of Graham’s investors directly.”
My stomach drops. “Why?”
“She thought showing the revised designs early would impress them.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It did not.”
A voice crackles through the speaker:
“We didn’t approve those cuts.”
My blood goes cold. Holden winces. “They’re still on the line.”
I step back instinctively. Too late as a second voice speaks, clipped and irritated:
“If Sinclair thinks he can gut the revenue projections because some small-town official batted her eyes at him …”
My blood pressure spikes and I physically flinch. Spencer swears under his breath. Holden lunges forward and hits mute, face pale. “I’m sorry. They never should have said that. And Atlanta should not have sent the plans. And you should not have heard any of it.”
But I did. I heard every syllable. “Batting my eyes?” I whisper.
“Willow …”
“Is that what they think this is? That I’m manipulating him?”
“No,” Holden says quickly, “it’s the opposite. They’re worried he’s being influenced.”
Influenced? Like my concerns aren’t valid. Like my history with the lodge is leverage. Like my connection with him is a liability. My throat tightens. I grip the back of a chair to steady myself.
The investors continue arguing faintly beneath the mute light, their muffled voices sharp and dismissive. Holden winces again. “We can’t hang up. They’ll notice. But we turned off the mic. They can’t hear us.”
“Perfect,” I say softly. “Because I don’t want them to hear a thing I have to say.”
Avery slips in with a file, freezes when she sees my expression, and backs out silently.
Spencer shakes his head. “Those suits don’t know a damn thing about this town.”
“No,” I say. “They don’t. But Graham should have ...”
Holden rubs his face. “He didn’t know Atlanta sent the designs. He’s going to be furious.”
“Good,” I snap before I can stop myself.
Because suddenly the kiss and the trust starting to grow between us feels fragile and suspect. Like I was foolish to believe him when he said: This isn’t casual for me.
I swallow hard. “I need some air.”
“Willow … wait,” Spencer says.
I shake my head. “I can’t, not right now.”
I grab my coat and walk straight out of City Hall into the sharp bite of winter air.
???
I walk without knowing where I’m going. Down Main Street. Past Peak Sweets. Past the square, where crews finish building the vendor stalls I walked through last night.
Last night! God. Graham’s mouth on mine. His hands in my hair. His body braced against mine in the great room today. None of it felt like strategy. None of it felt like a man who needed something from me.
But what if the investors are right? What if I’ve made myself look naive? What if he regrets all of it?
I stop under the arch of twinkling lights at the end of the street and press a hand to my forehead.
What hurts isn’t the insult. What hurts is the possibility that the investors weren’t being cruel. What hurts is the possibility they were being honest.
I take a shaky breath. I can’t avoid him forever. But if he shows up right now – in this moment – if he touches me, or says my name in that voice, I will break. So I do the only thing that feels safe. I go home alone, lock the door, and turn off my phone.