Fake Christmas Vows (Return to Starlight Bay #28)

Chapter 1

Charlie

The word ‘failure’ tastes like ash on my tongue as I stare at the disappointed faces around the conference table. My "Holiday Wonderland’ pitch is still frozen on the screen, mocking the hours of work I've poured into it.

"It's just not hitting the mark, Charlotte," says Miranda, my supervisor, not even bothering to look up from her tablet.

‘The Harborlight Resort account needs something revolutionary, not.

.." she waves a manicured hand dismissively at the screen, ".

..reindeer and snowflakes. The same tired holiday tropes we see every year. "

I swallow hard. "The market research shows that traditional Christmas themes resonate with our target demographic...”

"The market research isn't going to save this account," Miranda cuts in, finally meeting my eyes with a chilly gaze. "And if we lose the Harborlight Resort account, I don't need to tell you what that means for your team."

The threat hangs in the air. I feel a cold sweat break across my shoulder blades beneath my tailored blazer.

Miranda rises from her chair, signaling the end of the meeting. "You have until the end of next week to come up with something that will actually move the needle. Otherwise, I'll have to reassign the account to Evans' team." She pauses at the door. "And Charlotte? Don't disappoint me again."

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me alone in the sterile conference room.

"Fuck," I mutter, gathering my notes with trembling hands.

The Harborlight Resort is the newest boutique hotel from Sinclair Hospitality Group, and its winter bookings are abysmal. My ‘Holiday Wonderland’ marketing campaign was supposed to be the miracle that would fill those empty rooms. Now it's just another failure to add to my growing pile.

By nine that night, I'm still hunched over my desk, crumpled coffee cups creating a barricade around my keyboard. My eyes burn from staring at the screen, and nothing, absolutely nothing, is coming to me.

A text from Mireille lights up my phone: Going to Harbor Arts for candle-pouring night. Join me? You need a break!!!

I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I should stay and work. I should order in another coffee. I should...

What time? I text back.

Twenty minutes later, I push open the door to the Harbor Arts Collective, a renovated warehouse that now serves as a community arts center. The scent of pine and cinnamon hits me immediately, Marigold's holiday wreaths are hung throughout the space, perfuming the air with Christmas.

"Charlie!" Mireille calls, waving from a table near the back. Her auburn hair is escaping its ponytail as usual, and she has somehow already managed to get wax on the sleeve of her festive sweater.

"Hey," I say, unwinding my scarf as I make my way over. "Sorry I'm late."

"You're just in time. We're about to start." Mireille pushes a glass of mulled wine into my hand. "Drink. Relax. Let the creative juices flow."

For the next hour, I lose myself in the simple pleasure of pouring layers of colored wax into glass jars, adding drops of essential oils, and watching as my creations take shape.

The tension in my shoulders begins to ease, and for the first time all day, I'm not thinking about the Harborlight Resort account.

"You look better already," Mireille observes, gently nudging me with her elbow. "I told you this would help."

I smile, surprised to find it genuine. "You were right. I needed this."

"Any progress on the campaign?" Mireille asks, carefully placing a wick in her candle.

My smile fades. "No. And if I don't come up with something miraculous by next Friday, Miranda's giving the account to Evans."

"That pompous ass?" Mireille wrinkles her nose. "He couldn't sell ice in a heat wave."

I laugh despite myself. "Yeah, well, apparently my winter wonderland idea is worse than that."

The door to the Collective swings open, letting in a blast of cold air and a tall figure in an impeccably tailored coat. My laughter dies in my throat.

Sebastian "Bash" Sinclair, CEO of Sinclair Hospitality Group, is standing in the doorway, surveying the room with a critical eye. His dark hair is touched with silver at the temples, and his posture radiates confidence and control.

"Holy shit," Mireille whispers. "What's he doing here?"

I shake my head mutely, instinctively shrinking in my seat. This is the last place I'd expected to see my client, the very one whose account I'm on the verge of losing.

Bash moves through the space with purpose, occasionally stopping to make notes on his phone. A harried-looking woman in a pantsuit trails after him, clutching a tablet to her chest.

"Looks like he's scouting the place," Mireille murmurs. "Probably for some corporate thing."

I watch as Bash runs his fingers along one of Marigold's wreaths, frowning slightly as he inspects it. Something about his dismissive gesture irritates me.

"He looks like he's calculating its ROI rather than appreciating the craft," I mutter.

Before Mireille can respond, Bash turns in our direction. His eyes, a piercing shade of gray, land on me, and a flicker of recognition passes across his features. He says something to his assistant and then strides directly toward our table.

My heart hammers against my ribs. Has he recognized me from the Sinclair Hospitality Group pitch meetings? Is he about to confront me about the failing campaign?

"Good evening," he says, his voice deep and smooth. "I apologize for interrupting."

"Not at all," Mireille says, her voice an octave higher than usual.

Bash's attention, however, is fixed on me. "You're an event planner, correct?"

I blink. He doesn't recognize me from the agency. "I'm...”

"I couldn't help but overhear you discussing event spaces earlier," he continues, not waiting for my answer.

"I'm looking for a venue for a corporate retreat.

Something unique, with a bit of local flavor.

My assistant tells me this place does...

arts and crafts?" He glances at the candle-making setup with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.

I open my mouth to correct him but hesitate.

If I tell him who I really am, the marketing director currently failing to save his hotel's winter season, this conversation will take a very different turn.

And something about his slightly condescending tone when he said "arts and crafts" makes me want to defend the Collective.

"It's a community arts workspace," I find myself saying, gesturing to the various stations around the room. "Pottery, glassblowing, candle-making, painting, it's all available here. They also host events."

Bash raises an eyebrow. "And is it any good for a high-end corporate function? I need to impress some VIPs."

I straighten my shoulders. "It depends on what you mean by 'high-end.' If you're looking for another sterile hotel conference room with stale pastries, then no. But if you want something memorable that will actually foster genuine connection and creativity? Then yes, it's excellent."

Mireille makes a small choking sound beside me, but I keep my eyes on Bash, whose expression is now one of interest rather than condescension.

"You speak passionately about the place," he observes. "Do you work here?"

"No, I'm just a supporter," I say, which isn't a lie. "But I've seen what happens when corporations engage with the actual community instead of just using it as a backdrop for photo ops."

A smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "That sounds like a criticism."

"Just an observation," I reply, meeting his gaze steadily. "Tell me, Mr. Sinclair, what kind of impression are you trying to make with this retreat? Are you trying to show off wealth, or are you trying to build something genuine with your team?"

His eyes widen slightly at the use of his name, but he recovers quickly. "You know who I am."

"Your face was on the cover of Business Monthly last quarter," I say with a shrug, not about to admit I've studied his bio extensively for the Harborlight Resort pitch.

Bash studies me for a moment, then pulls out a chair and sits down at our table. "Tell me more about how you'd use this space for a corporate event."

I feel a surge of unexpected confidence. Here, surrounded by the warmth and creativity of the Harbor Arts Collective, I'm not the failing marketing director, I'm just someone with ideas. And ideas, I have plenty of.

"The glass-blowing studio makes for an incredible team-building activity," I say, pointing to the hot shop in the corner.

"Nothing builds trust like helping someone shape molten glass.

And the resulting pieces make meaningful keepsakes, not just another branded mug that ends up in the back of a cabinet. "

Bash nods slowly, his eyes never leaving my face. "Go on."

"The main space can be transformed for dining. Imagine farm tables set up here, with Marigold's wreaths and candles as centerpieces. Local catering from Bayfront Beans or Big Chowder. It would be an authentic Starlight Bay experience, not just another corporate dinner."

Bash leans forward, and I catch the scent of his cologne, something woodsy and expensive. "And how would you measure the success of such an event? How do I know it's worth the investment?"

I raise an eyebrow. "If you're only measuring ROI in dollars and cents, Mr. Sinclair, you're missing the point. The value is in the connections made, the loyalty built, the stories your team will tell about the experience."

"Stories don't fill hotel rooms," he counters.

"Actually, they do," I say, warming to my topic. "Word of mouth is the most powerful marketing tool in the hospitality industry. One genuine, shareworthy experience is worth a thousand generic advertisements."

Something shifts in Bash's expression, a flash of respect, perhaps. "You know your stuff for an event planner."

"I never said I was an event planner," I remind him with a small smile.

Before Bash can respond, his assistant appears at his side. "Mr. Sinclair, we're running late for dinner with the investors."

Bash nods, not taking his eyes off me. "I'll be right there, Rebecca." He pulls a business card from his pocket and slides it across the table. "I'd like to continue this conversation. Call me tomorrow?"

I take the card, my fingers brushing against his. A spark of electricity shoots up my arm at the contact. "I'll think about it," I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

Bash stands, his lips quirking into a half-smile. "I look forward to it." He turns to leave, then pauses. "I didn't catch your name."

"Charlie," I offer. "Charlie Davis."

Recognition finally dawns in his eyes, but before he can speak, Mireille accidentally knocks over a bottle of fragrance oil, creating a small commotion as she scrambles to clean it up.

"I should help her," I say quickly. "Good night, Mr. Sinclair."

Bash hesitates, then nods. "Good night, Charlie Davis. I'll be waiting for your call."

As soon as he's out the door, Mireille grips my arm. "What just happened? Why didn't you tell him who you really are?"

I stare at the business card in my hand, an idea taking shape in my mind. "Because I think I just found my miracle."

Later that night, I pace my apartment, Bash's business card between my fingers. The encounter at the Harbor Arts Collective has sparked something, a wild, desperate idea that I can't shake.

What if I approach the Harborlight Resort campaign from a completely different angle? Not as a faceless corporation trying to lure in tourists, but as a genuine part of the community. A place with heart, with connections, with...

"What if we were married?" I murmur to myself, remembering the throwaway comment I'd made to Bash during our verbal sparring. The idea has been floating at the edge of my consciousness all evening, and now it crystallizes into something more concrete.

A fake marriage. A publicity stunt. A local business owner ‘falling in love’ with the CEO of Sinclair Hospitality Group, culminating in a whirlwind holiday wedding at the Harborlight Resort.

The human-interest angle would be irresistible, and it would put the hotel at the center of an authentic Starlight Bay Christmas story.

It's insane. It's professionally risky. It's probably crossing all kinds of ethical boundaries.

I open my laptop and begin to type ‘marriage laws Starlight Bay’ into the search bar. By morning, I'll have a proposal ready, not the matrimonial kind, but one that might just save my career.

And if it means spending more time with Sebastian Sinclair? Well, that's just a professional sacrifice I'll have to make.